# Punch/Volume 148/Issue 3854

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CHARIVARIA.
"Those who would saddle the Kaiser with the responsibility for the War," says a German paper, "forget that he kept the peace of Europe for twenty-six years." No, they don't. They fully appreciate the fact that he took all that time to get ready to fight.
Says the Deutsche Tageszeitung:—"People of Germany, prepare to face one enemy the more. From the caves of the Abruzzi, from the marshes of Sicily and Sardinia, from the forests of Calabria, from the courts and alleys of Chidi and Margelina, an army of vagabonds, convicts, ruffians and mandolin-players is about to march against you." Astonishing how they have deteriorated since they were active members of the Triple Alliance.
Meanwhile it certainly looks as if Germany's Professors of Hate are in for an unusually strenuous time, and we shall not be surprised if some of them break down from over-work.
Serious-minded Germans, by the way, are furious with us for not even hesitating to make fun of such a holy feeling as Hate.
A Turkish gentleman, residing in the vicinity of the Dardanelles, who has been suffering from a series of bad headaches lately, writes to ask how it is that the British Navy came to be known as "The Silent Service."
The average Briton is slow to anger, but there are signs that he is being roused. For example, according to The Mail, a resident of Southend whose lawn had been injured by a bomb was overheard to say, "I solumnly sear I'll never play tennis with a German again!"
We were franly surprised to learn how many German burchers there were in London. Evidently the typical German is born that way.
One really cannot be too careful not to pass hasty judgment on the conduct of any individual or body. For example, the Southgate Urban District Council was criticised adversely because it would not allow the local Volunteer corps to drill on the recreation ground. It now appears that such drilling, if permitted, would spoil the cricket and football pitches.
Mr. Theodore H. Price of New York, the editor of Commerce and Finance, declared that prosperity and not poverty will be the aftermath of the great war. For all that, it seems a regrettable method of ensuring a trade boom.
"In these hard times," says the Tägliche Rundschau, "we must turn our hearts to steel, so that we may forget that we have any feeling." Tommy Atkins would like it known that, if they are ready to turn their hearts to it, he is always ready to supply the steel.
It is thought that the exaggerated ideas of the extent of inebriety in our midst are due in part to the fashion prevalent among women to-day of wearing their hats at all sorts of absurd angles.
The Lord Chamberlain's warning to the theatrical and music-hall world on the subject of scanty dress has evoked a good deal of indignant comment among the members of the profression, who declare that they were merely endeavouring to economise, and it is considered that the cause of national thrift has received a distinct set-back.
Meanwhile in these days when we all have to be economical we are not surprised to see that in many of the new dresses now being worn there is no waist at all.
Tommy (home of leave, to ex-soldier who is giving his theories). "Garn! Yer talking through yet chapeau."
   "Cato, the Greek, on observing that statues were being set up in honour of many remarked—'I would rather people would ask, why is there not a statue to Cato, than why there is.'"
   Glasgow News.
We well remember that a Roman gentleman of the same name enunciated similar sentiment.
   "The action of the people in attacking Germans, though quite explicable, was unreasoning, and if the Government policy was to be adopted, he hoped they would not intern one single person whom they did not believe they could safely leave alone."—"The Times" Parliamentary Report.
If the orator's remarks have been correctly reported, his attitude does not appear to differ much from that of the "unreasoning" public.
Testimonial to a gout specific:—
   "I am grateful for your good remedy as I am keeping well since I left it off and am able to walk freely."
   "I believe I am right in saying that the first Ottoman Turk since the last Crusade received an Anglo-Saxon bayonet in him at 5 minutes after 5 a.m. on April 25."
   Special Correspondent.
We do not quarrel with the writer's smart timing of this event, but as the last Crusade ended in 1272 and the bayonet was not invented till circa 1650 the above statement is not so dashing as it seems.
   "The din and roar of sound, which can best be described as that of 10,000 different noises blended into one confusion, are almost a grandiose but, at the same time, appalling spectacle."—Daily Telegraph.
Thanks to the writer's keen eye for noises one hears the spectacle distinctly.
   "THE ƎASTERN FRONT."
   Sunday Times.
We compliment the leading unit of the "Ǝastern" Front on facing West on so resolutely.
TO BELGIUM IN EXILE.
Lines dedicated to one of her priests, by whose words they were prompted.
UNUSUAL BUSINESS IN THE COPSE.
Sir,—It would appear that some irregular occurrence is disturbing the ordinary course of events, destroying habits and annihilating old associations. But we get so little news of the outside world in our rural retreat that I have not yet learnt what is taking place.
For as many years as I can remember, on my return to take up my residence in Littledown Copse each April, I have found a pleasant-looking gentleman awaiting me among the dead leaves in an attitude of expectancy, with his hand to his ear. No matter how early in the month I have come, or whether the day has been wet or fine, this amiable and homely individual has been there, and at my first call of greeting he has rubbed his hands together with glee, looked at his watch and made notes in his pocketbook. I understand that it has been his further custom to confide to his friends, through the columns of the principal London newspapers, that I have returned to my Spring residence, dignifying what is after all a simple event in a manner most gratifying to myself.
This year, to my great disappointment, my friend was not awaiting me at Littledown Copse, and in reply to my calls there was not so much as a rustle of the leaves. I looked for him in vain until May 1st, when he arrived in the company of another. His companion was an ordinary person who had little of the appearance of a nature-lover, and my friend himself had altered; his beard was trimmed, and he looked almost muscular. Both were attired strangely in grey-green clothing, with a band of bright red on the left arm stamped with the initials "G. R." which, with its colour, gave it the appearance of a letter-box. I was glad to see my old friend, and gave a cry of welcome.
"Hark! the cuckoo!" said his companion.
"Keep down, you fool," said my old friend crossly; "that's no cuckoo. I bet you a shilling it's one of their scouts giving warning that we've been heard among these confounded rustling leaves."
As they fell on their faces behind some bushes I saw to my alarm that each of them was armed with a rifle. I deemed it advisable therefore to hold my peace. But I cannot shake off the conviction that there are strange influences at work.
Your obedient Harbinger.
DIFFICILIS DESCENSUS.
Scene.—A London suburb in the quiet of early morning. After a very foggy night a disabled Zeppelin drops down into the middle of a deserted side-street. The Commander and crew alight and hoist white flag.
Commander (to crew). Fellow-heroes and victims of harsh circumstance, there is nothing left us but to surrender to brutal and superior force.
[A milk-boy, on his early round, comes up and looks on with interest.]
Commander. Boy, we are Germans; our brave ship is wrecked; we are cold and hungry and wish to surrender.
Boy (grinning). Garn! Who'r' yer gittin' at?
[Local Policeman, on beat-duty, appears on scene.]
Policeman. Now then, move along there.
Commander. Unhappily, Herr Policeman, so to do we are not able; our brave craft is destroyed; we are Germans; we are cold and hungry and wish to surrender.
Policeman (doubtfully). How am I to know you're Germans? You'll have to prove it. We've heard these yarns before.
Commander. Herr Gott! How can we prove it? Look at the mark of our craft—"Z 199."
Policeman. Oh, those motor-car numbers are easily faked.
Commander. Donnerwetter! How can I make you understand that we are Germans, Germans with bombs? We want to surrender. We are cold and hungry and thirsty.
Policeman. I ain't a relieving-officer, and, anyhow, you're not allowed to beg in this neighbourhood. You'd better move on.
Commander (in despair). Where are the barracks? Where is the office of the military staff? Where is the bureau of the high-aircraft-over-commandant?
Policeman. There ain't no such things hereabouts.
Commander. Himmel! what a country! In Germany there is no difficulty about being arrested.
Policeman. But what am I to arrest you for? There's no one to give you in charge. I can't arrest you unless you're charged. You'd better go and see the Sergeant at the police-station—second to right, third to left and straight on.
[Commander and crew prepare to depart, leaving wreck of Zeppelin in road.]
Policeman. Hi! you can't leave that thing here; you must move it or you'll be run in for obstructing traffic in a public street.
Commander (joyfully). Then, thank God, that is what we will do. We gladly refuse to remove it. We will obstruct the traffic. Now you must arrest us.
Policeman. That's all right! You come along with me to the station. Why didn't you say what yer little game was before?
[Exeunt all, well pleased with themselves.]
Ragtime on the Church Organ.
   "The party made their way to the vestry for the remaining formalities, to the accompaniment of the strains of Mendelssohn's Wedding March from the organ, intersected by the Military Overture in C by the same master."—Stoke Newington Recorder.
   "Assistant-Mistress required immediately for duration of the war, for Singing, Drill and general Form work. Salary £100, rising by annual increments of £10 to a maximum of £140."—Advertisement in "The Spectator."
Applicants for this post should be warned that the prospect of reaching the maximum is decidedly precarious.
HAMLET U.S.A.
Scene: The Ramparts of the White House.
President Wilson. "'THE TIME IS OUT OF JOINT: O CURSED SPITE, THAT EVER I WAS BORN TO SET IT RIGHT!'"
Voice of Col. Roosevelt (off). "THAT'S SO!"
CRICKET AIDS JUSTICE.
Cross-examining Counsel. "Now, my lad, be very careful. You have stated that you saw the hay-rick on fire, and that, five minutes afterwards, you saw 'Beefy' Saunders riding his bicycle along the Petersfield Road. Now, there are two brothers Saunders, Harry and Alfred, aged 17 and 16 respectively. When you say 'Beefy Saunders,' which of the Brothers Saunders do you mean?"
Witness. "'Im wiv a ghastly break from the orf."
THE WATCH DOGS.
XVIII.
My dear Charles,—It is now 2 A.M., an hour which I hope never to meet again when this business is ended; the rifles have quieted down, and both sides have abandoned, temporarily, the bellicose for the comatose attitude. I have just been leaning over the parapet contemplating in the moonlight that turnip field which separates us from our learned friends opposite, and is, in solid fact, an integral part of that thick black line of your newspaper maps, always so important-looking but so "approximate only." If turnip fields were capable of emotion this one would be filled with pride at the moment. For generations it has been unnoticed and insignificant; its own tenant farmer may have been aware of its existence, but no one else probably knew or cared anything about it. And now there are some thousands of us whose whole attention, anxiety, enthusiasms, hopes and fears are concentrated on nothing else. It is sacred ground, on no account to be trodden on and hardly to be looked at by day, and even in the dead of night only to be crept over with the utmost diffidence and respect. We have sat on our respective edges of it for weeks, never taking our periscopes off it and reporting, as a matter of suspicion, the growth of every plant in it; and at the broken down old cart which stands in the middle of it we have shot a hundred times (and so, no doubt, have they) as at a bold but crafty assailant. Yesterday afternoon the field resumed, for minute, some of its natural use. It was the after-lunch siesta; things were as peaceful as things can be in war; the sun shone and no sounds were heard except the casting of tinned-meat tins over the parapet—a form of untidiness, Charles, which Headquarter Staffs may rail against but are unable to check personally. Suddenly the air was rent by the splutter of "three rounds rapid" from the English trench on our left. From my dug-out I heard, with grave anxiety, the firing being taken up by our own company; I was out and at the parapet just in time to see the solitary hare fall to the rifles of the company on our right. The man who has just slipped over into the forbidden area and recovered the corpse, is, I take it, some retriever.
Our predominant feeling is intense curiosity as to what exactly is happening behind those black-and-white sandbags over the way. Are the Germans at this moment paraded there, being harangued by their officers before the attack, or are ninety per cent. of them asleep and the other ten per cent. unmistakably yawning? Does the spiral of blue smoke ascending to heaven indicate a deadly gas manufacture or the warming up of a meat and vegetable ration? Are there ten thousand Germans there or ten? Are there, we ask ourselves testily after the long periods of inactivity which sometimes occur, are there any Germans there at all? One of my men writes naïvely to his sweetheart: "There's millions of Germans here but they's all behind bags." On the other hand, Lieut. Tolley, whose dashing spirits demand an attack, contends that the whole line opposing us has been deserted by the soldiery and is now held by a caretaker and his wife, the caretaker doing the occasional shooting, while his wife sends up the flare lights.
I write spasmodically between my rounds; I have just been questioning a sentry as to the formalities of his job. For instance, it is of the first importance that he should say, on the approach of the Brigadier, "No. 1 Post. All ​correct." Even so, he will no doubt get into trouble for something or other, but that remark, genially uttered, will help. I ask my sentry what he has to do. "Look out," he answers. "But suppose anybody comes?" I continue. "Look out," he says. "But," I press him, "if the Brigadier himself comes in to your bay and stands by you without saying anything, what will you do then? "Look out," he repeated with feeling.
I take him next on a matter of less urgency. "Suppose you see the enemy o advancing from his trenches in great numbers, what will you do?" "Shoot," says he. I explain that two hundred rifles are perhaps more useful than one and ask him how he will give the alarm. The correct call is "Stand to arms!" His, however, was nearly as good. "I should shout, 'They'm coomin'!'" said he.
They are now starting this artillery business at night, which is really rather tiresome of them. You may imagine how, in an artillery duel, one lot of guns, not knowing where the other lot is, gets tired of looking. But there is always the day's ration of shells to be got through. I have no doubt it is the same with the Germans as with ourselves; what with certificates, reports and returns, it is much less tiring to shoot away all the darned stuff than to keep any by you unexpended. And so the gunners look, after a while, for their customary target, its whereabouts fixed and known. Churches, houses, windmills and the like are everywhere limited, and here they have all been used up long ago; but there is one target always there, always vulnerable and always ready to rebuild itself when hit. Yes, Charles, from the German gunners' point of view that target is Us, and so over come the shells with a slittering, genial whistle, as if to say, "Do just come out of your hole and watch the burst." We have lost fifteen new-laid eggs, a dozen mineral water and a farmhouse clock in yesterday's encounter; and, after it was all over, no doubt those infernal gunners of ours, who had started the row, retired to their dug-outs away back behind the line, and had an omelette lunch.
The topic reminds me of our industrious but incompetent mess waiter, Private Blackwell. If ever a man in this world meant well but missed it he does. You have only to whisper his name and he bursts into the mess hut like a whirlwind, dropping knives and forks, tripping over chairs, sweeping crockery off the table, in his uncontrolled enthusiasm. To enable himself to get through more work he leaves the table with just twice what any man could carry, and drops it all before he gets to the door. This dropping has become a fixed habit with him; he drops everything, however heavy or light, fragile or valuable, but through accidents and abuse he maintains his cheery deportment of impulse and impetus.
A week ago we were all of us sitting round the mess table at midnight, having just returned from a period in the trenches—a moment when we suffer a little from the want of sleep and the reaction after the nervous tension. Suddenly the door flung wildly open, and in burst the ecstatic Blackwell, carrying ("Heaven defend us!" shouted the Adjutant) an enormous shell. "But, of course," we reassured each other, "it is only the empty case." "No, Sir," declared the bearer, hustling over all obstacles to the C.O. at the far end of the room, "it fell by Trench Headquarters just before we left, and hasn't burst yet." Never in my life shall I forget the sensation caused by that "yet"!
For the rest, "Cheer-oh!" (as one of my platoon writes), "we'll learn them German chaps to keep on their own doorstep."
Yours, Henry.
Suggestive back view gives short-sighted Special the thrill of his life (but it was merely a chauffeur preparing to enjoy an extra fine banana).
UNDESIRABLE POSES.
[Several of our photographic newspapers recently had a picture of the Chancellor of the Exchequer resting on the heather at Walton Heath after a round of golf. A medical correspondent wrote to The Daily Mail criticising the Chancellor's rashness. "He was risking an attack of lumbago, rheumatism, loss of voice, or even some much more serious consequence of sudden chilling of the heated body. To lie on the grass at this time of year in the case of a man over forty is a very risky proceeding."]
We feel that it is time that expert criticism was directed towards other pictures in our illustrated newspapers, and we print one or two comments we have received in reply to instructions issued to our own corps of specialists.
"The photograph of that charming actress, Miss Cissie Cinnamon, in The Daily Blotch, exhibits a recklessness which in after years this lady is likely to deplore. The highest dental authorities agree that, while it is necessary that the teeth should be exposed occasionally to prevent them from turning yellow, the chemically tainted atmosphere of a photographer's studio is most harmful to both ivory and porcelain."
"No wonder the recent poems of Mr. Alvasour Annalane have shown a falling off. The reason is to be seen in a portrait of this gentleman which is printed in The Daily Snatch. He is posed with his hand against his face, his forefinger pressing against his temple. Pressure in this place cannot fail to interfere with the proper operation of an important artery whose duty it is to feed the brain, and its obstruction must result in an impoverishment of thought."
"The full-length portrait of the popular young composer of 'We'll make the Kaiser sit up in the morning!' which appears in The Morning View, reveals that this young man is not aware of the rudiments of a correct military posture (for we assume from his work that he has the military instinct). The heels should be together and in line, the feet turned out at an angle of about forty-five degrees; the knees should be straight; the body should be erect, the arms hanging easily from the shoulders with the thumbs immediately behind the seams of the trousers, the hands being partially closed. The head should be steady, the eyes looking their own height and straight to the front."
Carter (having indulged in terrific language which has been listened to with benevolent toleration by policeman). "Judging by the way you be'ave, I should take you for a German!"
Policeman. "Now then—now then! We can't 'ave no bad language 'ere!"
MORE TEA-TIME GOSSIP.
(With apologies to the "Star.")
Since it is notorious that no one at tea-time ever talks of anything but the stage—what plays and revues are on and what plays and revues are coming on—it follows that the conversation over this meal is always alluring and bright and worth reporting. For what is more important to England, especially at this time, than the stage—legitimate or variety—unless possibly it is racing.
When I met Mr. Gully Buttran yesterday he was full of his plans for beating the Umpire and the Hoppodrome and the Palaceum at their own game. The public, he said, cannot have too many revues; and his project was to have three every night—one at eight, one at nine and one at ten. The first was to be called Who said Rats? The second, Wait till the Train stops; and the third, This Way Out. The costumes, he said, were to be most carefully arranged to come just within the safety revue limit laid down by the Lord Chamberlain's Office. "But how do you know what that is?" I asked. "We test it," he replied. "The Lord Chamberlain always threatens three or four times before he strikes, and that gives us our chance."
Passing on to the next theatrical magnate, Mr. Batten Wing, I found that he, too, was meditating a revue. Between his cups of souchong he told me that it seemed to him that what the country most needed at the present moment was a strong lead from the male choruses. "The oftener," he said, "that recruiting songs can be sung by active and vigorous young men on the stage the better must the results be." But when I asked him to specify the results he begged to be excused. "The stage," he added, "has a sacred duty to perform, and it is rising to the occasion. Nothing could be finer than our male chorus singing in unison that splendid song, You're wanted at the Front."
"Yes," said Miss Rip Topping, "it is true that I have just signed a contract for £500 a week to dance my famous negligée dance in London. I have refused many offers in my time, but when it was made quite clear to me by my manager that men home from the Front, either wounded or on leave, wanted to see me, I gave way at once, although my price is really five hundred guineas. I think that there is no sacrifice too great to be made by artists, to give pleasure to these brave fellows." And I agree with her. Brave little lady, I wish you all luck!
"THE FEEBLE-MINDED. Official Proposes to Reduce His Own Salary."
Wolverhampton Evening News.
A hopeless case, we fear.
In view of the amount of barbed wire that our troops have to negociate, our Boy Scout suggests that it would be advisable to reinforce our troops by an army of "little nippers."
Another Infant in Arms.
   "WILLIAMS.—In this city, on April the 14th, to the wife of Sapper W. Williams, a daughter, now serving in the trenches in France."—Montreal Star.
Tact.
Extract from letter to an East Coast resident, after the recent raid:—
   "I sincerely hope the Germans won't send any more bombs your way, as they don't seem very successful, do they?"
BLANCHE'S LETTERS.
Park Lane.
The War Spirit.
Dearest Daphne,—The season, if one must call it so, seems by way of resolving itself into a series of Matinées (with an object), and of restaurant dinners and suppers, and theatre-parties. People are too serious for anything more this summer. And yet, in certain quarters, there've been most unkind comments on "Gorgonzola's and "Kickshaw's" being crammed for dinner and supper every night, and the stalls and boxes of the "Sans Souci," being always full of people laughing à gorge déployée at the delicious absurdity of Harry Capers and Evy de Colty, in Garn! You're Kidding! These silly critics don't realise that all this is because we're too serious for any private entertaining, or for much racing, or any of the usual functions.
Lady Manoeuverer is at her wits' end. "Here am I," she said to me to-day, "with two girls still on my hands. I meant to bring Rosemary out in London this year, and now there's virtually no London to bring her out in! Mary St. Neots was saying yesterday that this is a cruel War for the mothers of sons—it's crueller, if possible, for the mothers of daughters! I really see nothing for me and the girls, Blanche, except to go and be benevolent somewhere. Isn't it a frightful ending to all my hopes and plans for the poor darlings?"
Mais, que voulez-vous? Everyone's got to suffer in some way. There's Lala Middleshire, for instance. The worry and anxiety of her husband's being in the Anti-Aircraft Corps has tried her so that she found it quite imposs to live a quiet, home life. Sir William Kiddem was called in, said it was a complicated case, and agreed that Lala's own remedy for herself—coming out as a stage performer―might prove the very nerve tonic she needed. She's always had a wonderful talent for turning cart-wheels—no acrobat could do it much better—and has been constantly asked, at private and semi-private parties, to show her skill. (It was at a party at Dunstable House, years ago, after she'd surpassed herself in turning cart-wheels, that Middleshire asked her to dire le grand oui.) Well, and so, when it got known that her state of nervous tension during her husband's hours of duty made it necessary she should take a stage engagement, she'd plenty of offers from managers. She accepted the best one, and "The Duchess of Middleshire will Turn Cart-Wheels" was put in as an extra attraction in the Pantechnicon revue, Absolutely Top-notch. We all went to see her the first night, and, after she'd cart-wheeled right across the stage and back again we fairly rose at her, and in a minute she was up to her knees in flowers. Her engagement at the Pantechnicon is over now, but the state of her nerves, though improved, yet made quietness dangerous, so she's going the round of the suburban halls; and, if she's not all right after that, Sir William Kiddem says he gives her permission to tour the provinces.
How differently troubles affect people of different birth, my Daphne! A woman of long descent like Lala (she was a Montilol, you know, and they boast the blood of Plantagenet, and have an old, hereditary right to stand in the presence of the Sovereign with their arms akimbo) has such a high-strung organisation and such a delicate poise that any worry and anxiety make it imperative she should be got out of herself. On the other hand, Lady Exborough, who was a Miss Nobody of Nowhere, and whose husband is at the Front, shuts herself up and is never seen at restaurant dinners or suppers or at the theatre or anywhere. One would think quietness and seclusion would be insupportable to her in the circumstances, but ces autres have blunt feelings, I believe.
Apart from the great subject, perhaps the most burning question at present is, How long ought the war-wisp to be? (The war-wisp, dearest, is the lock of hair now worn in front of each ear.) Myself I hold that it should steal gently down past the ear, just trespass unobtrusively on the cheek, and then stop. With these war-wisps it's correct to wear a faraway look, faintly touched with anxiety. The idea is that one's thinking of somebody in Flanders, or the Dardanelles, or the North Sea. Some people, however, overdo everything. For instance, Peggy Preston's war-wisps reach nearly to the corners of her mouth, and, though she's no personal worry about the war, she overdoes the faraway frown to such extent that the other night, when she came into "Gorgonzola's" with a party for supper, I heard a man at a table say to his friend, "My hat! Here's a woman going mad while you wait!" I thought it only kind to tell her, later, what I'd heard.
Dear Professor Dinsdale is working day and night at some marvellous experiments that may end the war quite suddenly and prevent all future wars. Isn't that lovely? Of course everything's being kept very secret, but I may tell you this, he's discovered a drug of tremendous strength (not cruel or painful in its effects—he wouldn't do such a thing!). It's a narcotic of undreamt of power, and the idea is for aeroplanes to fly over the enemy's army and drop this down in a liquid form (it only acts when dropped from above, so the airmen would be safe). It takes effect on those below while it's still a long way up in the air, and half a pint of it, scattered in drops, is enough to put a whole army corps into a deep sleep. So there it is, Daphne! When the enemy's whole army is in profound slumber, it will only remain for us to find their Commander-in-Chief, wake him, and dictate terms of peace! The waking will be done with an antidote the Professor's now at work on. The laboratory is guarded day and night, and the dear Professor himself wears a bullet-and-dagger-proof waistcoat and his soft felt hat has been fitted with a steel lining.
A story is being whispered about an escapade of Beryl Clarges'. She was week-ending with some people at a Place on the Coast. Off this Place on the Coast was lying a certain British Warship, which one afternoon gave a thé dansant to which Beryl and the others went. You know what she is—nothing would satisfy her but to be shown just what they do when going into action. She insisted on knowing how the guns were trained and loaded and all that; teased and coaxed them to show her exactly what was done when a broadside was to be fired, and kept on urging them to show her a little more and a little more—till at last things went too far—and a real broadside was fired! All the windows of a Place on the Coast were broken; all the natives thought their last hour had struck; the little pier and parade became only a memory, and Beryl clapped her hands and yelled for joy! And now Somebody's been severely reprimanded and has lost five years' seniority, while the real culprit goes on her way rejoicing. Certainly, there's this to be said—it would be no punishment to poor, dear Beryl to lose five years' seniority!
Ever thine, Blanche.
From the Front.
All battalions were recently warned to keep a careful watch for any contrivances which the Germans might use with the object of producing poisonous gases. Shortly afterwards a certain regiment on taking over some trenches, found an old bag-pipe left in the lines. At once the Colonel (a southron) sent the following message to Brigade Headquarters:—A weird instrument has just been discovered in my trenches; it is believed to be used for producing asphyxiating noises."
THE EGOIST.
"No, I've not done anything as yet—but, 'pon me soul, I've 'alf a mind to join one of these Self-Defence Corps."
LACTAQUEOUS LISPINGS.
Recognising the need of a wholesome antidote to the harassing influence of a diet exclusively composed of War news, one of Mr. Punch's literary staff has compiled the following brief anthology of cheerful and sedative sentiments extracted from the poems of Mrs. Ada Stanleyette Stookey, the famous American poetess. The poems, we may add, are not copyright, and may be sung or danced to anywhere in public with impunity or at least without payment of a fine:—
Knowledge True and False.
True Heroism.
The Better Way.
Il faut se borner.
Her Epitaph.
The Poet's Ideal.
The Mighty Monosyllable.
The Thing that Matters.
Some idea of the crisis in Italy may be gathered from the following poignant message sent from Rome to The Morning Post:—"The German Embassy has ordered its washerwoman to send back its linen instantly." No doubt to have it washed in public at home.
Proud Mother (taking her first walk with her son since he put his uniform on). "You seem to have made quite a nice lot of new friends already, my boy."
A COMMON ENEMY.
Uncle Henry is such a bloodthirsty person when properly roused that it seems a pity he is too old for service. However, rumours of German spies in our neighbourhood set him bristling.
"I expect they are after my maps," he said. "I hope so. If I catch one I'll kill him. I neither give quarter nor expect it." I have great confidence in Uncle Henry, and his words made me feel much safer.
This morning I was arranging the flowers in the drawing-room, when all at once I heard sounds of a scuffle from the library where a few minutes ago I had left Uncle quietly reading the paper. The library window slammed to, so did the door, there were thumps on the wall, heavy footsteps stamping, staggering, slipping round the polished floor.
My heart stood still, and I went and hid behind the window curtains. Then came a crash, the sound of breaking glass, a groan in Uncle's voice, more struggling, furniture overturned, heavy fall and a sickening series of thuds.
A few minutes' deathly silence followed; then the drawing-room door burst open, and there stood Uncle, pale, panting, dishevelled, his coat half off, a hard, cruel glint in his eyes and blood on his hands.
"I've killed him," he panted. "He put up a good fight, but I killed him."
"Oh!" I gasped. "What has happened?"
"He came in at the window—didn't see me—went straight over to the big map on the wall. I ought to have got him there, only I missed—but I stuck to it—nearly wrecked the room before I finished him."
"Oh, Uncle," I cried, "shall I telephone for the police?"
"What for?" he said.
I shuddered.
"To—to—take the body."
He gave a savage laugh.
"There's nothing of him left, only a smear on the carpet."
"But his clothes, Uncle. They must still be there."
"He wasn't wearing any," he replied.
I gasped.
"Then ho did you know he was a German?"
"He wasn't a German. He was English—an enemy to his own country—a common poisoner—a plague spot—a traitor of the most insidious sort!"
"Oh, Uncle Henry," I cried, "what have you don? Who is it you have killed?"
"A fly," he said, simply.
Honesty its own reward.
   "Lost, Lady's Gold Watch in Wristlet, in vicinity of Drumcondra Road, Botanic Road and Richmond Road. Finder rewarded by bringing same to 10, Drumcondra Road."
   Dublin Evening Mail.
From a notice of an impending route-march:—
   "The far-famed village of Moulton, as termed by Whyte-Melville, lies 2,875 miles due north of Northampton from St. Matthew's, and can be reached by the 'softest' pedestrian without the penalty of blistered heels or stiff joints."
   Northampton Daily Chronicle.
This is a high tribute to the excellence of the local manufactures.
   "A guard of honour of officers, with crossed swords, was drawn up at the church. The bride was driven away by the commanding officer of the 17th Royal Fusiliers."
   Southern Daily Mail.
We are glad to say that the lady refused to be daunted by this unchivalrous behaviour on the part of the C.O., and that after a counter-attack the marriage duly took place.
WILFUL MURDER.
The Kaiser. "TO THE DAY———"
Death. "———OF RECKONING!"
ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.
(Extracted from the Diary of Toby, M.P.)
House of Commons, Monday, 10th of May.—The civilised world ablaze with horror and anger at latest example of German Kultur. Reasonable to suppose House of Commons, epitome and representative of British nation, would reassemble to-day in state of turbulent indignation. House of Commons is an odd place, unique in its characteristics. Looking round the benches, noting tone and purport of inquiries addressed to First Lord of Admiralty, one might well suppose that nothing particular had happened since it adjourned last Thursday. Questions numerous; all of practical character. Unemotional as if they referred to outrages by newly-discovered tribe of fiends in human shape peopling Mars or Saturn. First Lord, equally undemonstrative, announced that Board of Trade have ordered inquiry into circumstances attending loss of Lusitania. Pending result, it would be premature to discuss the matter.
This way of looking at it struck some listeners as the sublimation of officialism and national phlegm. Hero is a British passenger ship homeward bound across Atlantic. Within sight of land she is feloniously struck without warning by a torpedo launched by a German submarine. Out of a total of 1,906 souls, passengers and crew, 772 survive.
These are bare facts beyond dispute. But, as First Lord says, we must have enquiry into the matter. It will take days to complete, maybe weeks. Meanwhile we must say nothing about it.
Continued absence of Speaker an incident illustrating universality of influence of the War. Mr. Lowther's son was wounded when gallantly fighting at the Front. The Speaker, "leaving the Chair' without putting the usual question, has gone out to succour and cheer him in his hospital bed. He carries with him the sympathy and good wishes of the whole House. These extended to the Prime Minister who also has a son stricken down on the battlefield.
Notable to-day how, with exception here and there of a touch of khaki, majority of Members are in mourning. Doubtless partly in sign of sympathy with relatives of the victims of the wholesale murder on the sea off Kinsale. Has for some time been the token of abiding sorrow among Members of both Houses, which have, perhaps in exceptional proportion, been hardly hit.
Business done.—Bill dealing with control of Drink traffic in munition areas read a second time.
THE SUPER-STATESMAN.
The Majesty of the Law (to Anti-German rioter). "You are charged with a very grave offence. What have you to say for yourself?"
Prisoner. "Well, me lud, I don't want to boast, but they do say as I've give the Government a lead."
Tuesday.—"Save me from my friends!"
'Twas the voice of the Chancellor of the Exchequer. I knew he'd complain. And with good reason. In charge of Bill of declared and admitted urgency. Designed to withstand malign influence diminishing supply of munitions of war, hampering splendid efforts of army in the field, imperilling safety of the country, at least lengthening duration of War with its daily holocaust. Limited to single operative clause it proposes that, wherever it appears expedient for successful prosecution of the war, supply and sale of intoxicating liquor shall be controlled by the State in any munitions, transport or camp area.
Temperance party, whilst approving bestowal upon Government of supreme control of supply of liquor, object to their undertaking its sale. Visions of Lord Chancellor with apron conveniently tucked up over his portly figure handing tankards of four-half across the counter to perennially thirsty workmen, the Chancellor of the Exchequer trotting out at midday with the dinner ale, crossed their mind.
Attorney-General pointed out that it is essential part of scheme that Government may supply liquor as well as food to workmen in areas where public-houses are closed against them. By-Your-Leif-Jones led little band of teetotalers armed with amendments. In vain Chancellor of the Exchequer pleaded that if carried they would destroy object of legislation.
"Insert them," he said, "and the Bill is practically dead. We must be authorised to make provision for adequate reasonable refreshment for the men in these districts or we may as well withdraw the Bill. The situation is a grave one. Any man who does anything to hinder the output of the munitions of war or the transport of ships and materials accepts a responsibility I should be sorry to share with him."
Argument fell on deaf ears. With or without your leave Jones and his friends insisted on pressing their amendments.
At this stage, Leaders of Opposition came to rescue. Time was when sign of revolt in any section of multiform Ministerial majority would have been studiously fostered. In this hour of peril patriotism stands before party. Austen Chamberlain and Leader of Opposition in succession rose to support Ministers. Amendment and others of similar purport finally withdrawn. Bill passed through Committee; by consent was carried through Report Stage.
Business done.—A Couple of War Emergency Bills hurried forward.
THE GOVERNMENT BAR.
"Visions of Lord Chancellor with apron conveniently tucked up over his portly figure, handing tankards of four-half across the counter to perennially thirsty workmen."
Thursday.—Amid poignant personal sorrow pervading House under shadow of war, ​there is grief for the untimely cutting off of one of the Liberal Whips. William Jones was much too good for human nature's daily food as it is earned in the Whips' Room of House of Commons. A scholar, a poet, an orator of rare loftiness of tone and beauty of style, he was among the most modest, the least self-seeking of men. One can imagine how embarrassed he must have been when he woke up one morning to find himself a Junior Lord of the Treasury with a salary of £1,200 a year and appointed to the work of a Whip.
No one envied him his good fortune. On the contrary it was universally applauded. Still, under chorus of approval there was note of regret that the trammels of subordinate office would rob the House of one of its chiefest ornaments in debate.
William Jones rarely addressed the House. Whenever he did he commanded its instant and held its entranced attention. Among his chief admirers was Prince Arthur, himself an expert in the art of speech. Gifted with a beautiful voice, attuned to the intonation of his native tongue, his contributions to Parliamentary debate were things apart. Equally successful on the platform, he swayed mixed multitudes in fashion that surprised and to some extent alarmed him.
A self-made man, he found his way to the front without pushing. Perhaps the one-time country schoolmaster more highly prized his tutorship at Oxford than his Parliamentary honours. His scholarship was as unobtrusive as were his other qualities. The Member for Sark recalls an occasion when it unexpectedly flashed forth. At a small, intimate dinner-party, whereat William Jones sat opposite the then Lord Advocate, now Lord Dunedin, chance reference was made to a topic in Greek literature. Forthwith the two involuntarily, apparently unconsciously, dropped into colloquial Greek and continued the conversation in that tongue.
Business done.—Premier announced drastic procedure in respect to enemy aliens. There are 40,000 Germans and Austrians still at large. Of the men all who are of military age will be interned. Above that age they will be packed off to Fatherland. Women and children are also liable to be repatriated, but cases will be considered upon their merits, with object of avoiding unjustifiable hardship. Proposals greeted with general approval. Only regret that found expression was that they were not enforced nine months ago.
AN ECHO FROM NEW ZEALAND.
"I hear the doctor wouldn't pass your boy for the reinforcements, Sir."
"No. Poor lad's as mad as a hatter."
"Dear me, Sir! Is that the trouble? I thought it was his heart."
   "Sir,—On February 2nd I drew attention to the fact that there existed a remedy for the vermin which are so unpleasant a feature of life at the front through the medium of the London Press. Large quantities of this have been sent out and have proved entirely successful."—Letter to "Scotsman."
It would be interesting to know the names of the journals that have proved so effective.
In a review of John Wesley's "Journal" The Daily News gave as one of the causes for his excellent health "constant punching, particularly at five in the morning—one of the healthiest exercises in the world." The pleasing picture thus conjured up of the famous revivalist keeping in condition "by apostolic blows and knocks" was spoiled by the conscientious reviewer, who wrote next day to say that the word should have been "preaching."
Sergeant. "What did you mean by telling me you was accustomed to 'orses? What kind of 'orses was it?"
Recruit. "Wooden 'osses. I was workin' the hengine wot drove the roundabout."
THE PERFECT LETTER-WRITER.
Sometimes it happens that illiteracy can get there as quickly and surely as the highest culture, though by a different route, as in the following instance.
Once upon a time there was a Little Tailor in a little shop in Soho. Not a tailor in the ordinary sense of the word, but a ladies' tailor. He was never seen out of shirt sleeves which might have been whiter, and he came from one of the foreign lands where the youths seem to be under conscription for this trade. What land it was I cannot say for certain, but I should guess one of the Polands—German probably, but called Russian by him.
Once upon a time—in fact, at the same time—there was also a lady connected with the stage, and as her theatre was contiguous to the Little Tailor's place of business, it was only natural that when one of her gowns was suddenly torn her dresser should hasten to him to have it put right. But the charge was so disproportionate to the slight work done that the dresser deferred payment, and deferred it so long that the Little Tailor had to lay down the shears and take the pen in their place. And this is what he wrote:—
"Dear Miss,—I don't feel like exactly to quarrel with somebody. But it is the first time in my life happens to me a thing like that. And therefore I am not going to let it go. I was just keeping quiet to see what you would do. But what I can see you think I have forgotten about it. But I may tell you this much. It is not the few shillings but it is the impudence to come in while I am away to ask the girl to do it as a special, and then to come in and take it away, and then tell the girl you would come in to-morrow to see me. And this is six weeks already and you have not come yet. The only thing I can say now, Miss, if you will kindly send the money by return, because I tell you candidly. I will not be had by you in this manner. Should you not send the money I shall try to get to know you personally, and will have something to say about it."
If the art of letter-writing is to state clearly one's own position, that is as good a letter as any written. Every word expresses not only the intention of the writer but his state of mind. Not even—shall we say?—Mr. Landfear Lucas could improve upon it except in inessentials.
Baby Mine!
   "Fenning—May 6, 1915, at 3 Wood quay, Dublin, the wife of Thos. J. Fonning of a Goldfields."—Irish Independent.
Comforting Experts.
   "Travelling at sea is dangerous always. It is not made more so by the submarine..."
   "The Times" Naval Correspondent.
   "She usually enveloped herself in a large, stiff, white apron. It was her sinecure of office, as the curé's shabby black cassock was his."—Everyman.
Thus carelessly clad they were, no doubt, the "sinecure" of every eye.
   "This crow outside Biffi's café, in the famous Galleria Vittorio Emanuele, was not thirsting for German blood. It was merely good-humouredly encouraging some German visitors to catch the next train to that haven of German refugees, Lugano."—Daily Mail.
As Hamlet (another wearer of sable) remarked:—"Report me and my caws aright."
From an article by "A. G. G." on the Kaiser in the Daily News:
   "He has never laughed at himself. He has never seen himself, in Falstaff's phrase, 'like a forked radish carved out of cheese-parings after supper.'"
No, we are sure the Kaiser has never seen himself like that. We rather like this method of telescoping two quotations into one.
   "As Cook-General, now; age 30; good wages; deaf; stamp reply."—The Times.
Just the person required to go with the dumb-waiter.
ON THE SPY TRAIL.
V.
Jimmy never knew his bloodhound Faithful was such a good swimmer until a man showed him. The man was fishing for roach in a canal, and when the roach took the dough off his hook they nudged the float for more. Jimmy says the roach were very good nudgers. The man told Jimmy that he put aniseed in the dough to give it a relish. He had about a pound of it on the ground beside him and a small piece which he kept rolling between his finger and thumb to make it look darker. Jimmy's bloodhound Faithful ate the big lump of dough and then sat down to enjoy the fishing. Faithful loves anything with a relish to it, Jimmy says, and it made him smack his lips.
Faithful liked watching the float bob, and every time it bobbed Faithful bobbed. Jimmy says it is like when you watch a boy kick a goal at Rugby football and you lift your leg out of sympathy and kick the boy standing in front of you, except that you have to fight the boy afterwards to show it was an accident.
Jimmy says Faithful was very anxious to get to the float to see how it did it, but there was too much water in the canal, and Faithful hadn't room for it all. Jimmy says the aniseed kept egging Faithful on to drink up the canal till he got a hiccough over it.
Jimmy says the man had never heard a bloodhound hiccough so much and he was surprised.
When the man had used up the last bit of the dark dough he looked everywhere for the rest of it. Jimmy says Faithful never said a word, he just went on hiccoughing quietly to himself. Jimmy says the man must have had his suspicions, because he sent Faithful spinning through the air right into the middle of the canal. Before he went away he told another man about it; he said the roach were just beginning to bite real lusty as you might say. The other man stopped to admire Faithful's breast stroke. He showed Jimmy how to train Faithful to fetch things out of the water. Jimmy says you do it by throwing your walking stick into the middle of the canal and saying "Good dog" quickly. Jimmy says it was a nice walking stick, much better than the ordinary ones because it was made of ebony and sank.
Faithful liked to see the man get into the water after his stick. Jimmy says Faithful got very excited when the man dived under the water, and he tried to take the man's shirt to him. Jimmy says the man laughed when he came to the surface and saw Faithful in the water; he said "What has he got in his mouth?"—just like that, you know. The man swam after Faithful and pulled it out of his mouth. He said it was—bless me, a dirty old shirt, and threw it away from him, because he said you never knew what tramp had been wearing it, and he might have had fever or what not.
The man showed Jimmy how to do the trudgeon stroke. Faithful liked to see the man do this stroke; he was lying on the man's vest, guarding it till he came back. Bloodhounds are very good at that, Jimmy says.
Whilst the man was doing the trudgeon stroke Jimmy noticed he had something tattooed on his arm. You see Jimmy knows all about tattooing; you do it with a pen nib and copying ink pencil, and if the other boy goes too deep you wait till you do it on him, and then you can't do it for laughing. You'd never guess what it was on the man's arm. Jimmy saw it when the man was drying himself with his pocket handkerchief—it was an eagle Jimmy says, and then he knew that his bloodhound Faithful had been tracking another spy down all the time. Jimmy says the man noticed that his vest was all hairy where Faithful had guarded it; he sang Faithful a little hymn of hate about it as he was putting it on. He said so much about it that Jimmy crawled through to the other side of the hedge ready for the time when he missed his shirt. Jimmy says he could hear the man wondering where his shirt was as he was crawling through. Jiminy says when the man remembered where he'd seen it last he wanted to catch Faithful and hold his head under the water for a very long time, but Faithful thought he was playing cross-tick with him, and wouldn't let the man catch him. Jiminy says Faithful is a good cross-ticker.
When the man got his shirt again Jimmy saw that Faithful's toe-nails wanted cutting, as you could see where they had caught in the shirt when he was swimming with it.
Jimmy says the man dressed very quickly, and said he was going home to catch his death of cold. He promised to meet Faithful again. Jimmy found out where the man lived, and told a policeman about the German eagle.
Jimmy says the policeman soon found the man; he did it by going up to the man's house and knocking at the door.
He said the man was very rude to him, very, very rude, the policeman said; you wouldn't believe it unless you were in the force, he said.
The policeman said that when he asked the man to take off his shirt the man invited him to come into the back yard where they would have more room.
Jimmy says the policeman told him he took down three pages of evidence which might have been used against the man, but it was all wasted because it wasn't a German eagle after all; it was a love bird, and they are different.
Jimmy says the very best bloodhounds make mistakes sometimes, and it must have been the aniseed in the dough that put him off the scent.
FROM HOME TO THE TRENCHES.
A Mixed Bag.
   "The following is a copy of a wire received at a certain R.I.C. station quite recently from a farmer—'Grey motor passed here. Killed a heifer containing four gentlemen and two greyhounds, one of which was a clergyman.'"—Belfast Evening Telegraph.
"THE DARDANELLES OPERATIONS Prime Minister's Cheering Report More British Vessels Sunk."
Glasgow Herald.
Although Mr. Asquith has declared himself an optimist, and quite rightly, we cannot think that these headlines accurately represent his attitude.
ROYAL ACADEMY—SECOND DEPRESSIONS.
UNWRITTEN LETTERS TO THE KAISER.
No. XXII.
(From the President of the United States of America.)
Sir,—The Imperial German Government will shortly receive through the usual channels a document in which are expressed the sentiments of the Government of the United States with regard to the grave questions involved in the sinking of unarmed merchant vessels by German submarines, and particularly with regard to the sinking of the Lusitania and the consequent death of many American citizens. These sentiments are necessarily expressed in diplomatic form, though I trust you will not mistake their restraint for weakness or imagine that because the terms are courteous there is any lack of determination on the part of this Government to obtain not merely reparation, but an assurance that such outrages shall not be repeated. Still there may be such a danger, and I am therefore impelled to write this private letter which I beg you will read into the gentler language of the Secretary of State. In that way, perhaps, all future misunderstandings between your Government and that of the United States will be avoided, and to secure this object I shall use all the frankness which the occasion demands.
Let me tell you, first, that I cannot find words in which to state adequately the feelings of horror, indignation and loathing which have been aroused in the minds and hearts of the American people, by the dastardly and inhuman outrage of which the Lusitania with her passengers and her crew was a victim. No warning was given. Death appeared suddenly at your orders, and more than a thousand innocent men, women and children were hurried to their doom. Their only fault was that they were going about their lawful avocations, and that in so doing they offended, forsooth, against your claim to omnipotence and terror. You had determined to shut the gates of mercy on mankind, unless mankind was willing to tremble before your sword and to do obeisance before your jack-boots. Mankind, I can assure you, will not admit that claim and American mankind as little as any other. They will recoil from you in scorn and detestation, seeing in you not the honourable warrior whose chivalry, while not impairing his strength, adds lustre to his deeds, but rather the skulking assassin who deals a felon's blow in the dark and gloats in his hiding place over the innocent blood he has shed. Hundreds of years hence this dreadful murder will still stain the escutcheon of Germany. Nothing will ever efface it or mitigate its shame, and the world, whatever may be the result of this terrible conflict, will continue to wonder how men can have planned and executed such an atrocity. On you and on no other rests the ultimate responsibility for the crime, and you will be known to distant ages as the Lusitanian Emperor.
Already I perceive that your German newspapers are singing their inspired and accustomed strain. They have been told to weep a tear or two, and, lo, in a moment they are all turned into crocodiles. They weep perfunctorily over the loss of life, but they point out, as their master commands them, that the fault is with those who are dead and with England who lured them to their fate and who still presumes to affront Germany by fighting against her on land and sea. Cæsar Borgia was a frequent and a merciless assassin in his time, but I do not think he used hypocrisy of this stamp to gloss over his crimes. Nor was he known in private life as one who made broad his phylacteries and claimed for himself and his crew of bravoes the special favour of Almighty God.
You have chosen your course, and I suppose you will endeavour to abide by it. Humanity may, perhaps, protest in vain against your arrogance and your vanity and the hideous misdeeds in which you delight. But there will come a day of retribution, when even the German nation whose chief misfortune it is to be ruled by you will see you for what you are and will shrink from the sight. And in the meantime, while I contemplate your actions with disgust and horror, I do not envy you your dreams.
Woodrow Wilson.
SHORT AND SWEET.
Before the War I had tried and tried again, and each time I had failed. Diana is so disarming. Several times I had ventured on the preliminary cough, followed by a husky "Diana, I———"
But Diana is very clever. Her invariable reply was, "What a nice boy young So-and-so is," young So-and-so being a different boy each time.
Then at the beginning of August last there came a time when for three whole days I never once thought of Diana. I was more concerned with the measurement of my chest, the soundness of my heart and the difficulty of purchasing a sword.
With the assumption of my uniform I wakened to the realisation of things. "By George," I said, "in these clothes I ought to stand a chance. I ought to be able to propose at least." I was wrong.
My first day's leave saw me in her drawing-room. "Dick," she said, "I often wonder how you manage on parade."
I stiffened. "How do you mean?"
"Well, you've such a gentle voice."
I walked to the fireplace, picked up the tongs and handed them to Diana.
"Fall in, please," I said, "and we'll show you."
Diana fell in. I cleared my throat threateningly and began———
"Diana—At-ten-tion!" (This is how it appears in the Manuals.)
"Oh, good!" she exclaimed.
"Silence in the ranks!".
I cleared my throat again. Then an idea came to me. Diana, I knew, would not talk again; she is like that.
""Stand—a—tease," I bellowed. "Diana———" She waited for the "'shun." It never came.
"I—" I began; and then I realised it was unsporting to take advantage of her enforced silence. "I—I—Eyes—right," I finished brilliantly.
"Dick, you dear," said Diana, and I felt pleased with myself.
The pleased feeling had worn off a long time when some months later we were moved to Aldershot. I wondered hopelessly if Diana would change at the last minute. We expected of course to proceed frontwards from Aldershot, and this Diana knew; so I was just a little more confident when the time came. But I got no further than the preliminary cough, for at that moment Diana's father entered, shook me warmly by the hand and presented me with some milk tabloids.
A trench is an uncomfortable place to write in, and there are distractions. I had got as far as a P.S. beginning "Diana, I———" when something hit me; and a sporting companion, finding the addressed envelope and the unfinished letter, sealed it up and despatched it. But it was sufficient. The reply came by wire to the hospital—"So do I, dear. Diana."
I abandoned the idea of confirming my communication with a complete proposal, and wired back something rather snappy—"Darling," I think it was.
Lady. "I heard that your boy has left his last place, and I thought he might come to us as a gardener."
Cottager. "Well, mum there's bin 'alf a dozen after 'im this morning. But I shall be very 'appy to put you on the waiting list."
OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
(By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks.)
It may not seem very probable that a world-renowned inventor should be so seized with hatred for the restraints of ordinary existence that he should suddenly leap from a motor car, somewhere in the New Forest, without even asking the driver to stop; but, granted that he did so, it becomes entirely natural that he should thereupon crack his crown, be picked up by gipsies camping near and (granted further that it is the way of gipsy girls to be as sweetly attractive as Mary James) should proceed to fall in love with one of them during the period of recovery. That even Miss E. S. Stevens finds it a little difficult to account for the behaviour of the hero of Allward (Mills and Boon) is proved by the fact that she feels under an obligation to sketch in an elaborately unhappy past for the purpose of explaining him; but really it does not matter a bit; for so likeable is the world into which he projects himself and us that honestly we would rather not be bothered with too many reasons for our introduction there. It is a world that is alive with the spirit which the forest lover feels stirring in the sway of the bushes, the patter of raindrops and the shimmer of blue distances, and Mary is the visible incarnation of that spirit. Her lover calls her his little "shushy," recognising a sort of kinship between her and the earth-grubby, earth-happy rabbit. When you have read this charming story, simpler and stronger than any the author has given us before, I think you will agree that those of Lyddon's friends who lived in houses and pronounced their aspirates were wrong in trying to break off the romance, and you will add your blessing when the nomad and his gipsy bride wander northward, southward, eastward, westward in fact, Allward.
Chapman's Wares (Mills and Boon) is the agreeable title that Mr. H. B. Marriott Watson has given to a collection of short stories. The wares comprise one rather lengthy and dullish tale called "Elaine" and a number of others which, if they might justly be called pot-boilers, contrive a pleasant sparkle in the process. I do not think you will care over much for "Elaine," which is about a man who brought a wife home from India, and found (or would have found had he been less obtuse) that his sister's betrothed was the only man that the lady had ever loved. So of course there were ructions. People were introduced, and after a sufficient pause said "How do you do?" quite naturally, as they do just before the curtain drops on the first Act of a problem play. Indeed I would take a modest bet with any lady or gentleman that Mr. Watson has at one time or other considered a dramatic medium for his story. If so, I am glad he thought better of it. The other tales, as I say, are better company. There is one, "The Wayside Inn," as improbable and genuinely thrilling as you need wish. I fancy, though I may be wrong, that I recall meeting it in a Christmas Number; indeed many of the stories will bring you memories of those mid-autumn shillingsworths. The best of the bunch, I think, because its probability, though subjected to a severe strain, never quite reaches snapping-point, is "The Room at the Dolphin." What happens therein you might find out on your next railway journey.
I see that one of Mr. Jeffrey Farnol's tales is advertised by his publishers as the sweetest story ever told; no doubt, however, this criticism was penned before they had read his latest, The Chronicles of the Imp (Sampson Low), which must otherwise have made a bold bid for the superlative. Whether sweetest stories appeal to you or not is of course a matter of constitution. For myself I can only regretfully confess to a habit somewhat too gouty for their assimilation. The fact is that Mr. Farnol's world affects me as adulation did the Duke in Patience. Here, in the present book, you shall find it in full luxuriance. It is a world where it is always afternoon, and mostly midsummer; where never wind blows loudly; where attractive heroines wander through landscapes as comfortably picturesque as those that hang in pairs upon the walls of lodging-houses; where, above all, infant phenomena are constructed with engaging lisps and a passion for unconscious match-making that inevitably lands the heroine in the hero's arms at the last chapter. I find that without intending it I have told you all about The Chronicles of the Imp. I do not know that we need go much further into detail. Lisbeth was the heroine and Uncle Dick was the hero, and almost the last illustration (very pleasant these illustrations) depicts the heroine reassuring the hero, who with incredible simplicity had imagined that she was going to marry somebody else. As if there had been the remotest chance of such an ending! Well, well, Mr. Farnol counts his public by the tens of thousands. He has even achieved the high guerdon of "an appreciation of the author and his work by Clement K. Shorter," printed here as a preface, and read by me with the sympathetic interest that a tale of hardships overcome must always command. It made me glad that a book which I personally could not like was so certain of its success.
Miss Winifred Holt in an introduction to her life of Henry Fawcett, A Beacon for the Blind (Constable), is careful to tell us that her book has no pretensions; but, as in many ways—and those the most essential—she is an admirable biographer, no such disclaimer was needed. Without undue insistence upon the gallant spirit of the man who refused to accept blindness as a fatal impediment to his life's work, she leaves us with a picture of a very real hero. Uncompromising honesty of purpose, intense sympathy with the afflicted and oppressed, and a never-failing courage were the qualities that won for Fawcett not only the love of his personal friends, but also the respect and admiration of those political opponents to whom some of his advanced ideas were extremely distasteful. Miss Holt's work—a labour of love—appears at a moment when help and sympathy are sorely needed for those who have lost their sight while fighting for their country, and I can imagine no book that should bring to them a more heartening message of hope and comfort.
The Sword of Youth (Macmillan), the story of a young recruit in the Confederate Army of the war of North and South, is dedicated by James Lane Allen to "the Soldier-youth of England." Joseph Sumner goes to the war to follow a father and four brothers, all dead on those terrible fratricidal fields. He takes the call of duty in a great-hearted way; faces staunchly the ordeal of parting from his beloved and from the mother who refuses her consent and blessing to his enterprise, and sends him forth with bitter words. Then, coming near death in loneliness, she sends for him to ask his forgiveness. And on the eve of battle, tragically conscious of the shame of his desertion, he leaves his comrades only to arrive too late, makes his way back again to the army, and has his pardon from Lee himself on that fateful evening before the Appomattox surrender. It is Mr. Allen's method to take but a few incidents, to embroider them delicately, and to inspire the whole with that passionate love of his dear Kentucky which colours all his work. The Sword of Youth has these good qualities, along with a simple and romantic idealism particularly refreshing in this day of the ultra-realists.
A considerable chastening awaited me when I held a roll-call of "Katherine Tynan's" books and discovered that of the splendid muster standing to her credit some sixty-three were still unread. No excuse can cover such a colossal omission; but were I compelled to offer a timid explanation it would be that Mrs. Hinkson writes rather for women than for men, and as evidence of this I should bring forward The House of the Foxes (Smith, Elder). In a sense nothing could be more attractive than the tale of the curse hanging over the house of Turloughmore and of the way in which it is removed by the sweetest of delightful maidens. If you can enjoy a simple Irish story in which the course of true love is but little disturbed, here is your book; but if your pleasure is in problems and psychology I advise you to seek it elsewhere. Small beer, perhaps, but nevertheless so excellently wholesome that it possesses almost a tonic quality.
AN OMEN OF 1908.
Reproduced from "Christmas Cards for Celebrities" in Mr. Punch's Almanack of that year.
The records achieved by the Lusitania had recently cheated a jealousy which the Kaiser and his friend, Ballin, of the Hamburg-Amerika Line, have now appeased.
Vive L'Entente Cordiale.
The following Notice has been placed in the window of a Hairdresser's shop in Manchester:—
   "MAISON FRANÇAISE late Watzlaffs. In order to avoid misconception the Proprietor who is an ENGLISHMAN has decided to alter the name of this Establishment to MAISON FRANÇAISE."
He (political). I see some of the papers are talking of a Coalition Ministry.
She (practical). A Coal-and-Ammunition Ministry would be more use to us.
   "The German journalist finally condemned the sinking of the Lusitania in a sentence which deserves to pass into history. 'It is worse than a crime—it is a blunder.'"—Liverpool Daily Post.
History had already anticipated this brilliant mot.
Advice to certain highly-placed aliens:—
"Pull up your socks, now that you've lost your Garters."