The Project Gutenberg eBook of Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 147, September 2nd, 1914
    
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Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 147, September 2nd, 1914

Author: Various

Editor: Owen Seaman

Release date: October 26, 2008 [eBook #27055]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Neville Allen, Malcolm Farmer and the Online
        Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI, VOL. 147, SEPTEMBER 2ND, 1914 ***




Produced by Neville Allen, Malcolm Farmer and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net









  PUNCH,

  OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

  VOLUME 147.

  SEPTEMBER 2, 1914.

       *       *       *       *       *

CHARIVARIA.

Reports still continue to come in as to the outbursts of rage which took
place in Germany when the news of our participation in the War reached
that country. Seeing that we had merely been asked to allow our friends
to be robbed and murdered, our interference is looked upon as peculiarly
gratuitous.

       ***

We hear, by the way, that the Germans, who hold Kiao-chau on a long
lease, appealed unsuccessfully to Leaseholders Protection Societies all
over the world to intervene in defence of their interests.

       ***

We understand that a new version of the KAISER'S famous "Yellow Peril"
cartoon (it bore the inscription, "Nations of Europe, protect your
property!") is in preparation at Tokio, in which a jaundiced KAISER is
delineated as the Yellow Peril.

       ***

Those persons who complain that the Allies are too frequently on the
defensive forget that it is very difficult to be as offensive as the
Germans.

       ***

The report that among the troops which entered Brussels was a bear
dressed up in infamous taste to represent the King of the BELGIANS is
denied in Germany. It is quite possible that he was merely one of the
Prussian officers.

       ***

The _Giornale d'Italia_ reports that, at a meeting of cardinals held at
Rome, it was decided to issue an appeal to the belligerents to agree to
a truce pending the election of a new Pope. It is thought, however, that
the KAISER will refuse even such a reasonable request as this.

       ***

It is rumoured that WILHELM II. has despatched all his British uniforms
to KING GEORGE. This, anyhow, should be remembered to his credit. He did
not wish to disgrace them.

       ***

The temptation to call the KAISER names is, of course, almost
irresistible, but we are rather surprised to come across the following
head-lines in our serious contemporary, _The Observer_:--

"Brussels--and After. The German Sweep."

       ***

There would seem to be no end to the social horrors of the War. The
Teuton journal _Manufakturist_ is now prophesying that one of its
results will be the substitution of German for French fashions.

       ***

The title of "The King of Prussia," one of the oldest licensed houses at
Barnet, is to be altered. Every effort, we understand, is being made in
Germany to keep the news from the KAISER.

       ***

People must not come down too heavily on KEIR HARDIE. We honestly
believe that he honestly believes that his little views are right.
That's what makes his case so sad.

       ***

The Dominican Revolution, it is announced, has ended. It is supposed to
have been unable to stand the competition of the bigger war.

       ***

There appears to be considerable difference of opinion as to whether
those persons who are in want of a holiday should take it as usual or
not. The "Take your Change" movement may be quite right for women and
children; but the "Leave your Change" movement is better still.

       ***

According to _The Evening News_ three elephants have been requisitioned
from the Zoo at the White City by the military authorities. In Berlin,
no doubt, this will be taken to signify that our heavy cavalry mounts
are giving out.

       ***

The Committee of the Masters of the Foxhounds Association have decided
that, while regular hunting will be impossible, they consider it would
be most prejudicial to the country in general if it were allowed to
lapse altogether. In this, we understand, the Committee and the foxes do
not see eye to eye, the latter taking the view that hunting men ought
now to devote their entire attention to more important matters.

       ***

"GERMANS DRIVEN BACK FROM ANTWERP" read an indignant old lady. "Driven,
indeed!" she exclaimed; "I'd have made them walk!"

       ***

The statement issued to the Press by Messrs. SUTTON AND SONS to the
effect that large supplies of bulbs from Holland are now being delivered
at Reading in as good a condition as ever has, we hear, had a distinctly
steadying effect on the country at large.

       ***

From Hoylake comes the news that certain persons who live in a street
there called Prussia Road have petitioned the Urban District Council for
a change of name--and it is rumoured that the Council, with a view to
saving the ratepayers' pockets, have hit upon the ingenious idea of
obliterating the first letter only of the present name--thereby also
paying a well-deserved compliment to a distinguished ally.

       ***

A clerk who left a month ago for a week in lovely Lucerne and has only
just been able to get back found his employer (a merchant with a strain
of German blood in his veins) quite angry. "I have half a mind to
dismiss you for exceeding your leave," he said. "However, you are useful
to me. Only please understand that you have now had your holiday for the
next three years as well."

       *       *       *       *       *

Illustration: "Special constables who can speak German are
particularly required."--_Daily paper._

_Special Constable_ (_having cornered his man_). "SPRECHEN SIE DEUTSCH?"
_Suspect._ "NEIN! NEIN!"

       *       *       *       *       *

    "A sow has given birth to a freak of nature. The animal's face is
    almost human in appearance, it has neither eyes nor nostrils, but a
    nose like a fish."

    _Sheffield Daily Telegraph._

This is like none of our friends.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE AVENGERS.

(_To our Soldiers in the field._)

    Not only that your cause is just and right--
      This much was never doubted; war or play,
    We go with clean hands into any fight;
      That is our English way;--

    Not this high thought alone shall brace your thews
      To trample under heel those Vandal hordes
    Who laugh when blood of mother and babe imbrues
      Their damnéd craven swords.

    But here must be hot passion, white of flame,
      Pure hate of this unutterable wrong,
    Sheer wrath for Christendom so sunk in shame,
      To make you trebly strong.

    These smoking hearths of fair and peaceful lands,
      This reeking trail of deeds abhorred of Hell,
    They cry aloud for vengeance at your hands,
      Ruthless and swift and fell.

    Strike, then--and spare not--for the innocent dead
      Who lie there, stark beneath the weeping skies,
    As though you saw your dearest in their stead
      Butchered before your eyes.

    And though the guiltless pay for others guilt
      Who preached these brute ideals in camp and Court;
    Though lives of brave and gentle foes be spilt,
      That loathe this coward sport;

    On each, without distinction, worst or best,
      Fouled by a nation's crime, one doom must fall;
    Be you its instrument, and leave the rest
      To GOD, the Judge of all

    Let it be said of you, when sounds at length
      Over the final field the victor's strain:--
    "They struck at infamy with all their strength,
      And earth is clean again!"

    O. S.

       *       *       *       *       *

HOW GERMANY CAME OFF.

(_Extracts from a diary kept at intervals by a very special
correspondent in the Dardanelles._)

_GOEBEN_ arrives Dardanelles. Announcement of sale to Turkey and of
disembarcation of German crew.

_Goeben_ still in Dardanelles. Having been disposed of to Turkey, the
ship again disembarced her crew.

_Goeben_ continuing in Dardanelles, the disembarcation of German crew,
which was completed three days ago and again yesterday, began again
to-day and was carried out successfully.

The _Goeben_ still being at anchor in the Dardanelles, it was decided to
carry out a disembarcation of her German crew on a scale surpassing all
previous efforts.

The _Goeben_ continues in the Dardanelles. Owing to the remarkable
expertness which her crew has acquired, it was possible to carry out
three disembarcations this afternoon. The officer commanding, indeed,
proposes shortly to issue a challenge to ships of all nationalities for
the Open Disembarcation Championship of the World.

The _Goeben_ remains in the Dardanelles. In response to a pressing
request from great masses of the Turkish population, who have been
unable before to witness the ceremony, it has been decided again to
disembark the German crew, and, beginning to-morrow at 10 A.M., the
impressive spectacle will be gone through at regular intervals of an
hour throughout the day. All the railway companies have announced cheap
excursions, and there can be no doubt that these disembarcations will
easily surpass all earlier ones.

The German crew of the _Goeben_ are agitating for an eight-hour day.

Instructions having reached the crew of the _Goeben_ to return to
Germany, a magnificent Farewell Disembarcation took place last night. At
its conclusion sympathisers presented an illuminated address bearing the
following inscription "To the crew of the _Goeben_ on the occasion of
their final disembarcation before leaving for the Fatherland."

_Later._--Arrival of the crew of the _Goeben_ at Kiel. Great popular
enthusiasm. KAISER orders a Special Disembarcation to take place before
entire Fleet, a duplicate cruiser (in the regretable absence of the
_Goeben_) being lent for the purpose.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE TRUCE.

PEACE reigns in the club-house on the links. The young men have nearly
all gone, and Morris, our veteran "plus two" member, who generally only
condescends to go round with the pro. and one or two choice players, is
eager for a match with anyone. Only you must play for five shillings for
his wife's branch of the Red Cross Society.

In the smoke-room over our pipes--cigars are considered wasteful and bad
form--the old conversational warriors look at one another. I glance
across at Sellars, a member of that loathsome, I should say highly
admirable, institution, the National Liberal Club. It is not six weeks
since I denounced him as a pestilent traitor because he demanded, for
some reason, that escapes me, the blockade of a city called Belfast.
And, if I remember, he alluded to me as a traitorous tamperer with the
Army. But now I praise the admirable patriotism of JOHN REDMOND; I
eulogise the financial genius of LLOYD GEORGE; I grow fervid as I
rhapsodise about WINSTON.

Then Sellars interposes, "My dear fellow, why do you forget the splendid
abnegation of Sir EDWARD CARSON? As for LLOYD GEORGE he may have done
well, but hasn't he AUSTEN at his elbow all the time? Talk about WINSTON
if you like, but, after all, he has only muzzled the German fleet. F. E.
SMITH has done a far more wonderful thing. He has muzzled the British
Press."

Peace! It is wonderful. Only at the back of my mind there is one sad
thought which I strive to put away from me. Suppose a General Election
comes whilst the war is still on. I, as a patriot, shall have to vote
for the splendid Government. It will be Sellars' duty and joy to support
our splendid Opposition. And, if we all act in the same way, we shall
have those wretched--what funny slips one's pen makes!--those adorable
Radicals back in power for another five years.

But when the war is over and we see a free Europe I promise myself one
reward. The night when peace is proclaimed I shall seek out Sellars and
tell him just what I think about LLOYD GEORGE; and I haven't the
slightest doubt that he will celebrate the occasion by some venomous
abuse of BONAR LAW.

You see at present we are handicapped; we are just Englishmen.

       *       *       *       *       *

Another Impending Apology.

    "The first editor of GOLFING was Mr. Thomas Marlowe, who is now
    editor of the _Daily Mail_. On the other hand, there have been
    several editors of GOLFING who have since risen to positions of
    distinction."--_Golfing._

       *       *       *       *       *

Illustration: TO ARMS! RECRUITING-SERGEANT PUNCH. "NOW, MY LADS, YOUR
COUNTRY WANTS YOU. WHO'S FOR THE FRONT?"

       *       *       *       *       *

Illustration: UNDER MARTIAL LAW.

"NOW MIND, MARY, IF A SENTRY ASKS YOU WHO YOU ARE, YOU MUST IMMEDIATELY
ANSWER, 'FRIEND.'"

"YES, 'M, BUT WHAT AM I TO SAY IF HE ASKS ME HOW BABY IS?"

       *       *       *       *       *

THE ATTACK ON GERMAN TRADE.

Those mistaken persons who maintain that "music has no frontiers" have
been sharply rebuked by the patriotic action of the management of
certain concerts, who boldly opened the season by expelling all German
music from their programmes. It is all very well to say that this is
confounding the Germany that we honour and admire with the Germany of
the other sort, of which we have had more than enough. The step has been
taken on the highest patriotic grounds, and although the ban has been
partially removed since the season began, it is clearly indicated that
this conciliatory attitude will only last so long as the main German
fleet continues to skulk behind the defences of Kiel. If there is any
aggressive movement, then let it be understood that TSCHAIKOWSKI'S
_Pathètique_ Symphony will be worn threadbare by nightly repetition
sooner than that we should have any truck with BRAHMS, WAGNER or BACH.

Already the occupation of Brussels has caused the scratching (at the
very last moment) of the SCHUMANN concerto.

Of course there is more in it than meets the eye. If all German music is
eliminated there are bound to be prodigious gaps which must be filled up
somehow. Very well. The result can only be a new state of activity in
the home composing industry. This is no time for giving away secrets,
but perhaps we may be allowed to say that the continued attendance last
week of Sir HENRY WOOD at the offices of the Board of Trade can only
mean that he too is taking his part in a comprehensive and
well-considered plan for making war on German industries. Now is the
time for the native producer to get to work. Germany must once and for
all be ousted from this market. There need be no difficulty in obtaining
samples, and we look to British industry and enterprise to do the rest.

We are not sure that neutrals should be allowed into this thing. An
exception might be made in the case of Italy, but, apart from her, we
should limit the exotic features in our programmes to the works of our
allies in the field. It might give a needed fillip to the national music
of Japan.

       *       *       *       *       *

How it strikes our Contemporaries.

    "Yesterday's eclipse of the sun was itself eclipsed by the world
    shadow. Shortly after noon a large inky blot obscured nearly
    three-quarters of the sun's surface and a violet haze hung over
    London, but very few people were heeding the phenomenon in the sky.
    The hawkers, even, were too busy selling patriotic favours to offer
    smoked glasses."--_Daily Mail._

    "Londoners did not permit the war to eclipse the eclipse. The
    hawkers' cry, 'Smoked glass a penny,' was heard everywhere, and
    there was a ready sale for the pieces of glass which enabled one to
    view the darkening of the sun." _Daily Mirror._

The allies should come to a better agreement than this.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Spies Output Down Again," says a contemporary, and we were just going
to congratulate the authorities when we discovered that it referred to a
Petroleum Company.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE FATAL GIFT.

People say to me sometimes, "Oh, _you_ know Woolman, don't you?" I
acknowledge that I do, and, after the silence that always ensues, I add,
"If you want to say anything against him, please go on." You can almost
hear the sigh of relief that goes up. "I thought he was a friend of
yours," they say cheerfully. "But, of course, if----" and then they
begin.

I think it is time I explained my supposed friendship for Ernest
Merrowby Woolman--confound him.

The affair began in a taxicab two years ago. Andrew had been dining with
me that night; we walked out to the cab-rank together; I told the driver
where to go, and Andrew stepped in, waved good-bye to me from the
window, and sat down suddenly upon something hard. He drew it from
beneath him, and found it was an extremely massive (and quite new)
silver cigar-case. He put it in his pocket with the intention of giving
it to the driver when he got out, but quite naturally forgot. Next
morning he found it on his dressing-table. So he put it in his pocket
again, meaning to leave it at Scotland Yard on his way to the City.

Next morning it was on his dressing-table again.

This went on for some days. After a week or so Andrew saw that it was
hopeless to try to get a cigar-case back to Scotland Yard in this casual
sort of way; it must be taken there deliberately by somebody who had a
morning to spare and was willing to devote it to this special purpose.
He placed the case, therefore, prominently on a small table in the
dining-room to await the occasion; calling also the attention of his
family to it, as an excuse for an outing when they were not otherwise
engaged.

At times he used to say, "I must really take that cigar-case to Scotland
Yard to-morrow."

At other times he would say, "Somebody must really take that cigar-case
to Scotland Yard to-day."

And so the weeks rolled on ...

It was about a year later that I first got mixed up with the thing. I
must have dined with the Andrews several times without noticing the
cigar-case, but on this occasion it caught my eye as we wandered out to
join the ladies, and I picked it up carelessly. Well, not exactly
carelessly; it was too heavy for that.

"Why didn't you tell me," I said, "that you had stood for Parliament and
that your supporters had consoled you with a large piece of plate?
Hallo, they've put the wrong initials on it. How unbusiness-like."

"Oh, _that_?" said Andrew. "Is it still there?"

"Why not? It's quite a solid little table. But you haven't explained why
your constituents, who must have seen your name on hundreds of posters,
thought your initials were E. M. W."

Andrew explained.

"Then it isn't yours at all?" I said in amazement.

"Of course not."

"But, my dear man, this is theft. Stealing by finding, they call it. You
could get"--I looked at him almost with admiration--"you could get two
years for this;" and I weighed the cigar-case in my hand. "I believe
you're the only one of my friends who could be certain of two years," I
went on musingly. "Let's see, there's----"

"Nonsense," said Andrew uneasily. "But still, perhaps I'd better take it
back to Scotland Yard to-morrow."

"And tell them you've kept it for a year? They'd run you in at once. No,
what you want to do is to get rid of it without their knowledge. But
how--that's the question. You can't give it away because of the
initials."

"It's easy enough. I can leave it in another cab, or drop it in the
river."

"Andrew, Andrew," I cried, "you're determined to go to prison! Don't you
know from all the humorous articles you've ever read that, if you _try_
to lose anything, then you never can? It's one of the stock remarks one
makes to women in the endeavour to keep them amused. No, you must think
of some more subtle way of disposing of it."

"I'll pretend it's yours," said Andrew more subtly, and he placed it in
my pocket.

"No, you don't," I said. "But I tell you what I will do. I'll take it
for a week and see if I can get rid of it. If I can't, I shall give it
you back and wash my hands of the whole business--except, of course, for
the monthly letter or whatever it is they allow you at the Scrubbs. You
may still count on me for that."

And then the extraordinary thing happened. The next morning I received a
letter from a stranger, asking for some simple information which I could
have given him on a post-card. And so I should have done--or possibly, I
am afraid, have forgotten to answer at all--but for the way that the
letter ended up.

    "_Yours very truly_,
      _ERNEST M. WOOLMAN._"

The magic initials! It was a chance not to be missed. I wrote
enthusiastically back and asked him to lunch.

He came. I gave him all the information he wanted, and lots more.
Whether he was a pleasant sort of person or not I hardly noticed; I was
so very pleasant myself.

He returned my enthusiasm. He asked me to dine with him the following
week. A little party at the Savoy--his birthday, you know.

I accepted gladly. I rolled up at the party with my little present ... a
massive silver cigar-case ... suitably engraved.

       ***

So there you are. He clings to me. He seems to have formed the absurd
idea that I am fond of him. A few months after that evening at the Savoy
he was married. I was invited to the wedding--confound him. Of course I
had to live up to my birthday present; the least I could do was an
enormous silver cigar-box (not engraved), which bound me to him still
more strongly.

By that time I realised that I hated him. He was pushing, familiar,
everything that I disliked. All my friends wondered how I had become so
intimate with him ...

Well, now they know. And the original E. M. W., if he has the sense to
read this article, knows. If he cares to prosecute Ernest Merrowby
Woolman for being in possession of stolen goods I shall be glad to give
him any information. Woolman is generally to be found leaving my rooms
at about 6.30 in the evening, and a smart detective could easily nab him
as he steps out.

    A. A. M.

       *       *       *       *       *

FORTUNE'S FAVOURITE.

    Dear maiden of the sunny head
      And cheeks of coral hue,
    The lips of rarest ruby red,
      The eyes of Oxford blue,
    And other charms I've left unsaid ...
      Ah, how I envy you!

    Heedless of half a world at war
      You neither strive nor cry;
    Though danger knocks at England's door
      There's laughter in your sky:
    You ask not what she's fighting for,
      Nor reck the reason why.

    You little guess, you never will,
      The force that nerves this fist
    To toil away for you until
      My mind is like a mist;
    The lack of money for the mill,
      The growing dearth of grist.

    Ah, since amid a world grown wild,
      And horrors still half told,
    Peace has her palace round you piled,
      By all the gods I hold
    You are a very lucky child,
      My little Nine-months-old.

       *       *       *       *       *

Illustration: _Officer Commanding Squad (about to cross Waterloo
Bridge.)_ "'ALT! BREAK STEP! LARGE COLUMNS OF TROOPS WHEN CROSSIN'
BRIDGES IS COMMANDED TO 'BREAK STEP' SO THAT THE UNISON OF THEIR TREAD
MAY NOT DANGEROUSLY THREATEN THE STERBILITY OF THE BRIDGE."

       *       *       *       *       *

A CANDIDATE FOR THE FORCE.

"I want to enrol myself as a Special Constable," I said to the man in
mufti behind the desk.

"Well, don't let me stop you," he remarked. "The Police Station is next
door. This is a steam laundry."

A minute later I began again:--

"I want to enrol myself as a Steam Laund--that is to say, as a Special
Constable."

"Certainly, Sir," said the Inspector in charge. "Your name and address?"

I opened my cigarette-case and placed a card on the desk.

"The name of the house is pronounced _Song Soocee_," I said, "not, as
spelt, Sans Souci."

The Inspector handed me back the card. It was a cigarette-picture
representing the proper method of bandaging a displaced knee-cap. I
rectified the error, and he entered the information in a book.

"I must ask if you are a British subject?" he inquired.

"You might almost describe me as super-British," I replied. "There is a
tradition in my family that my ancestors were on Hastings Pier when the
Conqueror arrived."

"Thank you. That will be all."

"You don't want me to give references, one of which must be a clergyman
or a J.P.? You don't require me to state previous experience, if any, or
any details of that sort?"

"Oh, no," he answered. "That'll be all right. You are no doubt familiar
with squad drill?"

"Splendid! I had no idea it was used in the Force."

"Eight turn--left turn--about turn--form fours--and so on?"

"I beg your pardon," I said, "but what did you call that?"

"Squad drill, Sir."

"O-o-h! I thought you said 'quadrille'. But I know the turns. Right turn,
I turn to the right; left turn, I turn to the left; about turn, I turn
just about, but not quite; form fours, I form--excuse me, but how does
_one_ man form fours?"

"There will, of course, be others," replied the Inspector. "You'll soon
pick it up. And please state at what hours of the day you would be
prepared to take duty."

"Well," I said, "I've practically nothing to do from the time I get
up--half-past ten--until mid-day. I could also manage to spare
half-an-hour between afternoon-tea and dinner. And I could just drop in
here about eleven at night to see if things were going along all right.
Now, if you'll kindly fetch me a bull's-eye lantern, a life-preserver, a
bullet-proof tunic, some indiarubber boots, a revolver, and a letter of
introduction to some of the most skilful cooks in the neighbourhood I
can put in one crowded hour of joyous life before I'm due on the links."

"Just a moment," said the Inspector. "I don't want to discourage you,
but kindly cast your eye over these paragraphs;" and he handed me a
printed circular. "You will see that it will be necessary for you to
perform four consecutive hours' duty."

"Good heavens," I exclaimed, "I don't think I shall be able to manage
that. I'm in the middle of an important jig-saw; I'm expecting a new
motor-car to arrive any minute; and I have a slight head-cold. However,
if my country calls me, I will see what can be arranged."

I noticed the Inspector's look of admiration at my bull-dog resolution,
so to hide my blushes I perused the circular.

"I see," I said, "that we are each supplied with 'one armlet.' What's an
armlet?".

"A badge that goes round your arm."

"Of course! How stupid of me! Just like a bracelet goes round one's--no,
that won't do. Just like a gimlet goes--no, that doesn't either. I can't
think of a simile, but I quite understand. Then we have 'one whistle.'
What's that for? To whistle on if I feel lonely?"

"To summon assistance if you should require it."

"I have an idea that my whistle will be overworked. Shall I be able to
get a new one when the original's worn out?"

The Inspector thought there would be no difficulty in my getting
rewhistled.

"'One truncheon,'" I continued. "That, of course, is to trunch with. One
truncheon, though, seems rather niggardly. I should prefer two, one in
each hand. 'One note-book'--is that for autographs and original
contributions from my brother Specials?"

"For noting names and addresses and details of cases," explained the
Inspector. "For instance, if, when on duty, you saw Jack Johnson
committing a breach of the peace you would--"

"Blow my whistle hard--"

"Certainly not. You would take his name and address and note it down."

"And if he refused it I could then whistle for help?"

"No, you would at once arrest him."

"What's the earliest possible moment at which it would be etiquette to
blow my whistle?"

"When he offered resistance. Then you could whistle."

"No, I couldn't," I said, "not unless my equipment included one pair of
bellows. Do you mean to tell me that I should be expected to arrest a
man of infinitely superior physique to my own with no other weapons than
one armlet, one whistle, one truncheon and one note-book? Surely I should
be allowed to run for the Mayor and get him to read the Riot Act? If
not, I can only say a policeman's lot is----"

"Not a happy one?" put in the Inspector.

"I was going to say a policeman's lot is a lot too much. Would you
kindly cross my name off your list?"

"I crossed it off some minutes ago," replied the Inspector.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE WATCH DOGS.

II.

DEAR CHARLES,--Another letter from the back of the front for you. You
will be glad to hear that your Terrier is settling down in his temporary
kennel and sharpening his teeth in due course. The time will come when
you may look your gift dog in the mouth and be not disappointed, we
hope, by the view.

We received orders a day or two ago to take up our beds and walk; that
is, a couple of officers and a hundred odd of the men were told off to
execute a flank movement on a neighbouring township where there is a
range, and do our damnedest with the poor old targets. So we put our
oddments in our pillow-case, rolled up our bedrooms into a convenient
bundle and trekked. We were assured that we should be back at our base
within the week, but we have learnt to take no chances. We have but one
form of movement, the _tout ensemble_.

It is quite refreshing to step, over a hundred strong, into a village
with no pre-arranged scheme of board and lodging. Like every other
wanderer in a strange part, we turn first to the policeman. We march
towards him at attention; we call a halt at the base of his feet, and
then, with the courtesy of the gentleman and the brevity of the soldier,
we inform him that we have arrived. The next development is up to him.

It is not to him, however, that we owe our temporary rest. It is to that
irrepressible and indefatigable unit, the Boy Scout. Charles, I believe
we'd all be lying out in the rain at this moment but for that
assistance. The equipment of the Boy Scout on billeting duty consists of
a piece of white chalk and a menacing demeanour. Thus armed, he knocks
at every likely door, wishes the householder a good morning and
registers on the door-frame the number of men that may be left till
called for within, even while the policeman is still endeavouring to
explain the international situation and the military exigencies to the
slow-thinking rustic. Many formidable obstacles lie in our path, we
know, but we are comforted by the thought that the Boy Scout isn't one
of them. If, in the next generation, Britain continues to exist as a
nation and not as a depôt for the training of waiters in the Berlin
restaurants, then indeed we shall have something to rely on in these
adaptable young fellows.

The host upon whom we officers were thrust was quite polite as long as
our Boy Scout stood by, but, left to himself, turned out crusty. He was
rather too old to turn into the perfect hotel proprietor all in a
minute, and, as he put it, "he couldn't see his way" to do this and that
for us. He was prepared to do all he had to do, but no more.
Unfortunately we were not as well up in the regulations as our youthful
and now departed protector. So we went out and did a bit of billeting on
our own. It is an odd experience, this knocking at somebody's door and,
upon being asked what one has come for, answering, "To stay." For
ourselves we thought that the Rector would be a good man to experiment
on. These parsons are used to being victimised and are known not to be
too harsh upon the delinquent. So off we went to the Rectory,
significantly handling our hilts and twirling our military stubbles. But
the essence of war is surprise, and it was the Rector's wife who
confronted our attack.

I said, upon enquiry, that I couldn't say what we wanted but placed
myself unreservedly in my colleague's hands. I then took a pace to the
rear and prepared to retire in good order. Robertson's whole efforts
were concentrated on refraining from taking off his cap, as behoves a
gentleman, but not an officer, and the Rector's wife remained amiable
but on the defensive. Charles, our position was a hopeless one and our
careers had concluded then and there but for the arrival of the ally.
Boy Scouts are as tactful as they are forgiving; he accepted our
explanation and apology to himself and he explained for us and
apologised to the Rector's wife. It was little he had to say, for never
was a less reluctant and more efficient billettee. This kind lady has
not only made our sojourn one long series of simple luxuries, she has
been through the whole of our kit and washed and repaired the lot. Think
what you may about the Church when you are a civilian in affluence, but
when you are a soldier in distress turn to it first for succour.

Lastly, a minor incident of a regretable nature. Halting on the march
yesterday for our transport to catch up (our transport is known as
Lieutenant Pearson's Circus) I discovered one of our dusty thirsty
warriors having made his illegal entrance into a public-house by an
emergency door. There he stood with a glisten in his eyes and his hand
just about to grasp the pewter pot! Out he went under sentence of death
by slow torture, and there was I left, with a thirst such as I have
never before believed to be possible, alone with a pewter pot, with the
foam just brimming over the top ... alone, unseen, undiscoverable ...

    Your fallen Friend,
    HENRY.

       *       *       *       *       *

Illustration: THE LANGUAGE OF THE HOUR.

_Irate Lady (firing Parthian shot after marital misunderstanding)._
"Yer--yer bloomin' Oolan!"

       *       *       *       *       *

LITERARY GOSSIP.

The Autumn publishing season will undoubtedly be affected by the war,
several firms having decided to withhold most of their forthcoming
books. Messrs. Odder and Thynne, however, being convinced that the
reading public cannot subsist entirely on newspapers, have with great
public spirit resolved to publish their full programme, which is
unusually full of works of interest.

       *       *       *       *       *

The foremost place in their list is allotted to Principal Toshley
Potts's volume of essays, which bear the attractive title of _The Hill
of Havering_. Principal Potts was recently hailed by Sir NICHOLSON
ROBERTS as "the Scots A. C. Benson," and this felicitous analogy will,
we feel sure, be triumphantly vindicated by the contents of this
epoch-making work, which by the way is dedicated to Dr. Emery Cawker, of
the University of Brashville, Ga.

       *       *       *       *       *

Another work of outstanding significance is a volume of poems, entitled
_Kailyard Carols_, from the accomplished pen of Mr. Alan Bodgers, whom
Mr. DAVID LYALL, in a three-column article in the _Penman_, recently
declared to be the finest lyric poet since SHELLEY, and Mr. LYALL seldom
makes a mistake. Mr. Bodgers, it may be added, is the sub-editor of the
_Kilspindie Courant_, and has a handicap of twenty-two at the local golf
club.

       *       *       *       *       *

Very welcome also is the announcement that Professor Hector McGollop has
undertaken to edit a series of Manuals of Moral Uplift, to which he will
contribute the opening volume on _The Art of Unction_. Other
contributors to the series are Dr. Talisker Dinwiddie, Principal Marcus
Tonks and the Rev. Bandley Chadd.

       *       *       *       *       *

In the department of fiction the most remarkable of the novelties
promised by Messrs. Odder and Thynne is _The Nut's Progress_, by Mr.
EWAN STRAW. It will be remembered that in a four-column review of Mr.
STRAW'S last book, _Nothing Doing_, which appeared in the Xmas number of
the _Book Booster_, Sir CLEMENT SHORTHOUSE declared that this talented
fictionist combined the lilt of FRANK SMEDLEY (the author of _Frank
Fairleigh_) with the whimsicality of BARRIE and the austere morality of
ANNIE SWAN. Otherwise we may be sure the firm of Odder and Thynne would
never have published a work with so risky a title.

       *       *       *       *       *

PERHAPS.

    Of wolves that wear sheep's clothing
      The world has long been full,
    But I've a special loathing
      For one in Berlin wool.

    Although the wool may cover
      Not more than half the beast,
    Perhaps when all is over
      He'll be entirely fleeced.

    W. W.

       *       *       *       *       *

    "MAGNIFICENT BEQUEST TO THE LOUVRE. Sunspot Visible to the Naked
    Eye."

    _Times._

France seems to have acquired Germany's spot in the sun.

       *       *       *       *       *

Illustration: _Ethel (in apprehensive whisper which easily reaches her
German governess, to whom she is deeply attached)._ "MOTHER, SHALL WE
HAVE TO KILL FRÄULEIN?"

       *       *       *       *       *

REASONING IN THE RANKS.

[_Several journals have pointed out that the type of recruit now
offering himself is in a high degree capable of reasoning and
initiative._]

"Now I want any of you who are puzzled about anything to ask questions
about it," said the instructing sergeant-major ... and anon:

"Right about, Number 3 of the front rank! There is no such thing as left
about turn. Squad, form----"

"Excuse me," interrupted Number 3, "but why do you say that there is no
such thing as left about turn?"

"Because there isn't," said the sergeant-major unsympathetically.

"But, my good man," urged Number 3, "there must be. I've just done it.
Why, look here!"

He did it again.

"Such a movement is not in the drill-book," said the sergeant-major
curtly.

"But," protested Number 3, "you told us yourself only yesterday that
very few of the total possible commands _are_ in the drill-book. For
instance, there is no provision for lining a railway embankment, often,
I understand, a salutary and even vital evolution."

The sergeant-major considered.

"There's no use," he said at last weightily, "'avin' _two_ ways of doin'
anything when one will do. It is generally considered that right about
turn is enough ways of turning about for any one man."

"By all means," admitted the recruit generously, "let us be frugal.
Frugality is the mainspring of efficiency. One way of turning about is
ample for me. But why right rather than left?"

"Because right's right, and that's all there is to it," said the
sergeant-major, who was tiring of the argument.

"Exactly," admitted Number 3, "and left's left, and _that_ leaves us
just where we started. Now if the War Office had tossed up and made a
general decision in favour of right I could understand the position. But
my impression is that this is not so. Thus, if I were to step off with
the right foot----"

"Shut your face," said the sergeant-major, "and do what you're told.
Squad! A-bout---- Turn!"

"Reasoning," observed Number 3, "is lost upon yonder survival of the old
school of stereotyped militarism. The hour for initiative has arrived."

And by way of protest he executed a neat left about turn.

       *       *       *       *       *

GUNS OF VERDUN

    Guns of Verdun point to Metz
    From the plated parapets;
    Guns of Metz grin back again
    O'er the fields of fair Lorraine.

    Guns of Metz are long and grey
    Growling through a summer day;
    Guns of Verdun, grey and long,
    Boom an echo of their song.

    Guns of Metz to Verdun roar,
    "Sisters, you shall foot the score;"
    Guns of Verdun say to Metz,
    "Fear not, for we pay our debts."

    Guns of Metz they grumble, "When?"
    Guns of Verdun answer then,
    "Sisters, when to guard Lorraine
    Gunners lay you East again!"

       *       *       *       *       *

Illustration: AT THE POST OF HONOUR.

LIBERTY (_to Belgium_)--"TAKE COMFORT. YOUR COURAGE IS VINDICATED; YOUR
WRONGS SHALL BE AVENGED."

       *       *       *       *       *

ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

(EXTRACTED FROM THE DIARY OF TOBY, M.P.)

_House of Lords, Tuesday, Aug. 25._--After fortnight's recess Parliament
meets again. Scene mightily changed. At time of adjournment country on
brink of war. Now in thick of it.

Contrary to custom interest centred in Chamber at this end of corridor.
Man of the moment is the tall strongly-framed figure that enters on
stroke of appointed hour and marches with soldierly step to Ministerial
Bench. This is KITCHENER, Secretary of State for War, primed with
message from the Army which, making its first stand at Mons, had a
baptism of fire that lasted thirty-six hours.

With characteristic modesty the new Minister seated himself at lower end
of Bench. CREWE presently arriving signalled him to come up higher.
Accordingly seated himself next to LEADER OF HOUSE. Thence rose at
half-past four to make his maiden speech, a deliverance effected under
rarely momentous circumstances. Brought with him one of those "scraps of
paper" which the KAISER scorns when they contain such trifling matter as
a solemn treaty with a neighbouring nation. On this KITCHENER, more at
home on the battlefield than in a place where a man's business is to
talk, had written his speech.

It was brief, manly, simple. Made haste to point out that, though
associated with the Cabinet, holding high office in the Government, his
appearance on the Ministerial Bench did not imply that he belonged to
any political party.

"As a soldier," he said, "I have no politics."

House startled to hear him add that his occupation of the post of
Secretary of State for War is temporary. Terms of his service are those
of the recruits for the new Army. He is engaged to serve during the war.
If it lasts longer than three years, then for three years only.

Faced by grim suggestion that the war just opening may last for three
years, a deeper gravity fell over listening House. KITCHENER
pre-eminently a man who knows what he is talking about. And here he was
in level tones, unruffled manner, taking into account the contingency of
the war lasting three years.

That this was no idle conjecture, rather a well-thought-out possibility
intelligently provided for, appeared when he went on to describe how the
contingency must be faced. The enemy had already brought his full
resources into the field. It was a maximum which, after a succession of
days like last Sunday, must necessarily diminish. On the other hand,
whilst we have put a comparatively small force afoot, there is behind
it, at home and in the Colonies, a vast reserve which, diligently
trained and organised, will steadily reinforce the fighting line. In the
course of six or seven months there will be a total of thirty divisions,
continually kept up to full fighting strength.

Nor was that all.

"If," said the soldier-Minister, "the war be protracted, and if its
fortune be varied or adverse, exertions and sacrifices beyond any
already demanded will be required from the whole nation and Empire."

Ominous words increasing prevalent gloom. At least satisfactory to know
that in his official communications KITCHENER will always cheer us by
presenting to closest view the worst that has actually happened or is
possibly in store.

_Business done._--KITCHENER makes his maiden speech.

Illustration: ANOTHER "SCRAP OF PAPER." (K. of K.)

_House of Commons, Wednesday._--No one looking in on House this
afternoon would imagine that the country is engaged in an armed fight,
issues of which will in one direction or another transform the aspect of
Europe. Atmosphere unruffled. "Business as usual" the order of the day.

Pretty full attendance considering House has with brief intervals been
in session since February and meets again at what in normal times would
be period of full recess. PREMIER on Treasury Bench at opening of
sitting. Having answered a few questions, withdrew to his private room
and was no more seen.

LLOYD GEORGE, left in charge, moved through various stages series of
emergency measures.

On Currency and Bank Note Bill question of design of new twenty-shilling
and ten-shilling notes came up. Some disrespectful things said of it.
CHANCELLOR OF EXCHEQUER admitted its imperfection but pleaded that in
the hurried circumstances of the day it was the best that could be done.
Exception especially taken on score that the design made forgery easy.
Here the CHANCELLOR differed.

"I have been told by an expert in these matters," he said, with the
pleased air of one recalling the dictum of a respected friend, "that the
plainer the design on a note the more difficult it is to forge it."

All the same the notes are to be called in and replaced.

_Business done._--Second reading of Bill giving Government blank cheque
for meeting expenses of war carried without debate or division.

_Thursday._--PREMIER'S surpassing gift of speech, equally concise and
eloquent, never more brilliantly displayed than this afternoon. Proposed
Resolution conveying expression of sympathy and admiration for heroic
resistance offered by the Belgian Army and people to wanton invasion of
their territory. In speech that occupied less than ten minutes in
delivery the PREMIER, himself moved to loftiest pitch of righteous
indignation, touched deepest feelings of a crowded House.

Referring to Great Britain's intervention in "a quarrel in which it had
no direct concern," he pointed out that the country threw away the
scabbard only when confronted by necessity of choice between keeping and
breaking solemn obligations, between the discharge of a binding trust
and a shameless subservience.

A deep-throated cheer approved his emphatic declaration, "We do not
repent our decision."

Cheers rang forth again when in another fine passage he said, "The
Belgians have won for themselves the immortal glory which belongs to a
people who prefer freedom to ease, to security, even to life itself. We
are proud of their alliance and their friendship. We salute them with
respect and honour. We are with them heart and soul."

Difficult to follow outburst of genuine eloquence like this, delivered
with thrilling force. BONAR LAW in equally brief speech voiced hearty
acquiescence of Opposition in Resolution. JOHN REDMOND, associating
Ireland whole-heartedly with it, made practical suggestion, that,
instead of lending Belgium ten millions as proposed, we should hand the
money over to her as a free gift, an instalment of a just debt.

_Business done._--More Emergency Bills advanced by stages. Ominous hint
of fresh taxation dropped by CHANCELLOR.

       *       *       *       *       *

Illustration: FOR NEUTRAL CONSUMPTION.

       *       *       *       *       *

Illustration: GERMAN KAISER. "We are not satisfied with Our moustache;
it seems to need support on the Eastern side."

       *       *       *       *       *

BLANCHE'S LETTERS

THE WAR SPIRIT

    _Park Lane._

DEAREST DAPHNE,--There was a big party of us at the Clackmannans' Scotch
place, Blairbinkie, when all these fearful things began to happen--and
now where are we all? The Flummery boys and ever so many more of the
party are at the front with their regiments. The Duke of Clackmannan is
at the head of the Clackmannan Yeomanry. Norty's gone off to help take
care of the East coast, and it's lucky to have _him_ helping to protect
it and keep watch, for if there's _anybody_ who could see things coming
sooner than anybody else it's Norty!

Stella, Beryl, Babs and your Blanche are all back in Town, and when
we're not taking lessons in nursing we're sewing at flannel. I make
Yvonne do my hair quite, _quite_ plainly, and I'm giving my jewels to my
country. I've already given my dear collar of pearls. I gave that first
because I love it best of all my jewels, because it can _never_ be
replaced, and because pearls suit me better than _any_ other stone.

All our first fingers are covered with pricks and look immensely horrid,
but we glory in it and won't even put any cold cream on them! As I said
yesterday afternoon, when we were all sewing away at flannel, if _any_
woman, I don't care _who_, offered me her hand and I saw that the first
finger was _smooth_ I'd refuse to take it! Beryl must needs weigh in
with, "But, my dear Blanche, she wouldn't offer you her _left_ hand!
It's the _left_ forefinger that gets punished in needlework." "The
principle is the same," I answered coldly. "And besides, some people are
left-handed." Beryl has decent qualities, I know, and one doesn't want
to find fault with anyone just now, but she was always like that--and
her _hemming_, dearest!

Babs is wild to go to the front, but I say she'd be only a nuisance
until she knows more about nursing. Someone told me the other day,
_à propos_ of untrained women going to the front and hindering instead of
helping, that during the last war a poor dear in one of the hospitals
had his hair parted _fifty_ times in an hour by _fifty_ different
people, and nearly got brain-fever.

There was a man in the party at Blairbinkie who, before we were at war,
talked _fervidly_ of what he should do for his country if trouble came.
I had not liked Hector Swankington the least little bit before that, but
when he said that, in the event of war, he would raise a troop at his
own expense, call it "Swankington's Horse" and lead it himself "wherever
the fighting was hottest," I thought I'd not done him justice. So I
listened to him and approved and encouraged the plan. And then the storm
burst and we all scattered. The other morning I met him in the Park when
I was taking my early walk. He asked if I would dine with him some
evening at the "Iridescent," and I said it was not a time for dining at
restaurants. "No," he agreed, "it certainly isn't now all the French
cooks are gone; and what an idiotic idea this is about reducing the
number of courses at dinner! Silly rot, I call it!"

I ignored this and asked, "What about 'Swankington's Horse'?"

"Oh! that's all off," he said huffily. "I wrote to the authorities about
raising the troop, asked what State recognition I should get, and
enclosed a drawing of the hat I meant to wear as leader--a ripping
scheme, turned up at one side and with a bunch of feathers. All the
answer I got was a few brief words of acknowledgment and a request to
set about it at once and report myself somewhere or other. Not a word of
the State recognition I was to receive, and the drawing of the hat
returned with 'Not approved' scrawled across it. So I've chucked the
whole business. And now don't let us talk of _that_ any more!"

I gave him my freezing look (you've never seen my freezing look,
dearest--it's _terrible_!) and I said with a little calm deadly manner
that I very, _very_ seldom use, "I've no wish to talk to you of
_that_--or of anything else--ever again." And I left him.

The party at Blairbinkie that scattered almost as soon as it assembled
was by way of being a farewell to the old place, for the Clackmannans
had virtually sold it to a Mr. Spragg, of Pittsburg. He was going to
have the old castle taken across in bits and set up again in
Pennsylvania; and he was taking all the family portraits, the mausoleum,
the old trees in the park and the stags at a valuation, as well as the
village itself with all its cottages and people, in order that the
castle might have its proper _setting_ out there. There were two more
things he wanted included in the bargain--a village idiot and a family
ghost ("hereditary spectre," he called it).

Ah, my dear! all this belongs to the happy old days of a hundred years
ago, when we were all three or four weeks younger. The man from
Pittsburg, so far from being able to buy Blairbinkie, hardly knows where
to look for his next meal, and as for shipping castles and trees and
mausoleums and village idiots and family ghosts across the Atlantic he
only wishes he could get _himself_ across, even if he had to work his
passage!

Josiah is at the uttermost ends of the earth. He went in June, about
rubber-mines or oil-concessions, I'm not sure which. I had a cable from
him the other day from a place that began with "Boo" and ended with
"atty"--I forget what came between. He told me not to be anxious, that
he'd get back when and how he could. My answer was, "Not anxious.
Wherever you are you'd better stay there, or you may get taken prisoner
by those creatures, and then I'd never forgive you!"

Talking of prisoners reminds me of a rumour about the
Bullyon-Boundermeres. They were cruising somewhere in their new big
steam-yacht when war broke out, and now there's a report that the enemy
have taken the yacht and turned it into a cruiser; that the
Bullyon-Boundermere people are prisoners on board, and that they're
making _her_ wash dishes and forcing _him_ to work as a stoker or a
bulkhead or some fearful thing of that kind! This is not _official_, my
dear, but I give it you for what it's worth.

I called a little meeting here yesterday about a scheme of mine. Beryl
and Babs and your Blanche and several more of us are really _crack_
shots, and I want to form us into a band of rifle-women and ask the
Powers that be to let us guard some important place--a bridge or a bank
or a powder magazine. We should wear a distinctive uniform, and we
wouldn't let anyone come _near_! Babs said she hoped the uniform would
be smart and becoming, but I soon shut her up. "This is not a time to
think of cut or colour," I told her. "Myself, I shouldn't care _how_ my
uniform was cut--even if the _shoulder_ seams were at the _elbows_. And
as for colour I'd wear _grass-green_, though it's a colour in which I
look a mere _fiend_, if it would help my country!" And Beryl and Babs
cried and kissed me.

    Ever thine,
    BLANCHE.

       *       *       *       *       *

Illustration: _The Lady of the House_, "JUST THE PERSON I WANTED TO
SEE. I'VE STARTED TEN COMMITTEES IN CONNECTION WITH THE WAR AND I WANT
YOUR HELP."

_Visitor._ "MY _DEAR_! I'VE JUST STARTED TWELVE AND I SIMPLY _COUNTED_
ON YOU!"

       *       *       *       *       *

    "The Suez Canal has brought St. Helena much closer than in
    Napoleonic days."

    _T.P.'s Weekly._

In the same way the opening of the Panama Canal has made Heligoland much
more adjacent than in Lord SALISBURY'S days.

       *       *       *       *       *

ODE TO JOHN BRADBURY.

(_The new notes for_ £1 _and_ 10s. _are signed by JOHN BRADBURY._)

    When the Red KAISER, swoll'n with impious pride
      And stuffed with texts to serve his instant need,
    Took Shame for partner and Disgrace for guide,
      Earned to the full the hateful traitor's meed,
          And bade his hordes advance
    Through Belgium's cities towards the fields of France;
    And when at last our patient island race,
          By the attempted wrong
          Made fierce and strong,
    Flung back the challenge in the braggart's face,
    Oh then, while martial music filled the air,
      Clarion and fife and bagpipe and the drum,
    Calling to men to muster, march, and dare,
      Oh, then thy day, JOHN BRADBURY, was come.

    JOHN BRADBURY, the Muse shall fill my strain
      To sing thy praises; thou hadst spent thy time
    Not idly, nor hadst lived thy life in vain,
      Unfitted for the guerdon of my rhyme.
    For lo, the Funds went sudden crashing down,
      And men grew pale with monetary fear,
          And in the toppling mart
          The stoutest heart
    Melted, and fortunes seemed to disappear;
    And some, forgetting their austere renown,
          Went mad and sold
    Whate'er they could and wildly called for Gold!

    "Since through no fault of ours the die was cast
          We shall go forth and fight
          In death's despite
    And shall return victorious at the last;
          But how, ah how," they said,
          "Shall we and ours be fed
    And clothed and housed from dreary day to day,
    If, while our hearths grow cold, we have no coin to pay?"

    Then thou, where no gold was and little store
      Of silver, didst appear and wave thy pen,
          And with thy signature
          Make things secure,
    Bidding us all pluck up our hearts once more
      And face our foolish fancied fears like men.
    "I give you notes," you said, "of different kinds
          To ease your anxious minds:
    The one is black and shall be fairly found
    Equal in value to a golden pound;
    The other--mark its healthy scarlet print--
    Is worth a full half-sovereign from the Mint."

    Thus didst thou speak--at least I think thou didst--
          And, lo, the murmurs fell
          And all things went right well,
    While thy notes fluttered in our happy midst.
    Therefore our grateful hearts go forth to thee,
    Our British note-provider, brave JOHN BRADBURY!

R. C. L.

       *       *       *       *       *

    "BELGIUM.--Can any member let me know as to what kind of weather to
    expect in Belgium towards the end of October, and as to the
    condition of the roads? I and my wife propose going a tandem tour at
    that time in the Ardennes, Luxembourg, etc. Are most of the hotels
    shut for the season at that time? Would the north of France be
    preferable?--G. J."--_C. T. C. Gazette._

This gentleman is evidently particular. We are half afraid he will not
get quite what he wants.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE COLUMN OF ADVENTURE.

Even _The Times'_ "agony column," my staple reading during
toast-and-marmalade, suffers from the all-pervading war. Old friends
have dropped out of the column on its war march. No longer does the
Young Gentleman yearning for the idyllic life call on the charitable to
provide him with a year of perfect ease, comfort and luxury. I had hoped
to meet him some day, to draw out his confidences, perchance to edit his
memoirs. "My Check is My Fortune" would be a catchy title. But
apparently the War has put him out of business. The idyllic life has
gone. Another victim.

His place is being filled by the Sportsman, eager to be up and
shooting--partridges. "Either singly or with a house party," he offers.
He asks only for board, lodging and ammunition. These provided, he is
willing to go for the enemy all September and October.

Another Sportsman, humbler in aspiration, is prepared to specialise on
rabbits. He is ready to continue the fight until "Peace terms dictated
in Berlin by Allies."

There has also arisen the Professional Rescuer. He offers to go
abroad--for a cash consideration--and smuggle back stranded relatives.
He does not give particulars of personal appearance, but one may imagine
him as essentially Williamlequeuish--small dark moustache, super-shrewd
eyes, Homburg hat, a revolver in every pocket, speaking six languages
more fluently than the natives, and on terms of intimacy with half the
diplomats of Europe. He would open his conversation with a casual: "The
last time I was chatting with the KAISER (I shall, of course, cut him in
future)...."

Another occupation has been called into being by the War. It is that of
Berth-Snatcher. He is apparently a City man who has realised all his
securities and invested them in berths and staterooms on Atlantic
Liners. These he now offers "at a small bonus"--exact amount unstated.

Also interesting is the occupation of Amateur Adviser. He has much
well-intentioned advice to offer to all and sundry: "To the War Office.
It is hoped that something is being done regarding," etc. Or: "Japan,
our Ally, could easily lend us half a million men."

Presumably the Amateur Adviser has been denied place in the
correspondence columns.

The Young Hungarian Nobleman, whose remittances have been stopped by the
war, is reminiscent of the original yearner for the idyllic life. "Is
supposed to be of good appearance," he states with obtrusive modesty.

But the romantic halo around these young aristocrats is rather tarnished
by the Young French Vicomte. When he advertises that he "would
thankfully accept some clothes from English or American gentlemen," one
suspects a snug little second-hand business somewhere in savoury Soho.

       *       *       *       *       *

From a letter in _The Bristol Evening Times_:--

    "Only last evening I was passing through one of our main
    thoroughfares, and saw seven or eight Territorials taking
    refreshment in the backbone. I ask in fairness, Is this the
    backbone. I ask in fairness, is this patriotic?"

In fairness we reply. It is neither.

       *       *       *       *       *

    "The old Latinist has it, 'Deos vult pedere prius dementas.'"

    _Manx Chronicle._

How one's Latin slips from one with advancing age! But he must have been
very old.

       *       *       *       *       *

    "The Scheldt can easily be damned."--_Daily Chronicle._

So can the KAISER, but it isn't enough to say so.

       *       *       *       *       *

Illustration: _Ex-Teuton (to landlady)._ "ACH! MADAME, EET IS ALL
RIGHT! I VOS ENGLEESH NOW! I HAVE TO-DAY MEIN PAPERS OF NATIONALIZATION
TO YOUR HOME OFFICE SENT OFF. DERE VOS SEVERAL OATHS BY HALF-A-DOZEN
PEOPLES TO BE SVORN. IT VOS A TREMENDOUS AFFAIRS!"

       *       *       *       *       *

THE HEROES.

Once upon a time, many years ago--how many I cannot say, but certainly
it must have been before the Christian era--there lived a sublime
Emperor. After being for long the warmest, if platonic, friend of Peace,
and forcing the world to listen to his loud protestations of fidelity,
he suddenly surprised his hearers by declaring war.

It was shortly after the opening of hostilities that he was seated on
his throne presenting awards of merit to the bravest of his brave
soldiers. The hall was filled with martial enthusiasm, and the memorable
scene was one in which splendour, animation and the confidence of
rectitude were equally notable.

The Emperor's noble Vizier, to whose massive mind treaties were of no
more consequence than waste paper, stood at the side of his Imperial
Master to act as introducer of the gallant soldiers whose exploits (with
which the world was ringing) it had been decided to reward although so
early in the campaign--_pour encourager les autres_.

"The first decorations," remarked the Vizier, "are for deeds of signal
courage."

He motioned to a stalwart warrior. "This noble son of the Empire," he
said, "with his own bow shot six non-combatants within as many minutes."

Loud cheers rent the air.

"Three of them," the Vizier continued, "were women."

Louder cheers.

"The other three were old men over seventy."

Immense enthusiasm.

"This determined hacker-through," the Vizier continued, as another giant
stood forth, "shot an unarmed priest."

More enthusiasm.

"And," added the Vizier, "burned his temple."

Amid the plaudits of the flower of the Stale the monarch affixed the
cherished tokens to the heroes' breasts. "My Braves!" he exclaimed. "In
the name of the Fatherland I thank you."

Another warrior stepped out and saluted.

"And what, my friend," asked the monarch, "did you do?"

"Nothing, Sire," he replied with the unaffected simplicity of the man of
action; "I merely stamped on some little children--twins, I think."

"Two medals for that," said the Emperor with ready wit, and there was
not a wet eye as he placed them in their proud position.

The Vizier beckoned to a youthful officer on whose lip the down was
hardly yet visible. But though young in years he was already every inch
a soldier of his country.

"This gallant gentleman," said the Vizier, "unaided, and at great
personal risk, shot a baby in arms."

"In arms?" asked the monarch sharply. "Surely that mitigates the
heroism?"

"I meant in its mother's arms," the Vizier hastily explained.

"Ah!" said the Emperor with a sigh of relief, "that reassures me." And
amid profound excitement he embraced the soldier, pinned the coveted
badge to his breast and bade him quickly return to the front to carry on
the great work.

"The next reward is for resource in emergency," said the master of
ceremonies an hour or so later.

He beckoned to a superb officer, splendid in his trappings--a blue-eyed
colossus of nearly six-feet-six.

"This highborn Captain," said the Vizier, "snatched some women from
their beds and pushed them before his men so that the enemy should not
shoot."

The hall resounded with applause.

"'Twas a brilliant thought," said the Emperor. "Not only will we
decorate him for intelligence, but for valour."

"The last is for chivalry, Sire," said the master of the ceremonies,
indicating the remaining award.

An officer stood forth.

"This warrior," said the Vizier, "ordered his men to trample down some
public flower-beds in the enemy's capital."

"Bravely done," said the Emperor. "A great and imaginative lesson. We'll
learn them to resist invasion!"

Amid renewed demonstrations of loyalty and fervour the Emperor brought
the proceedings to a close.

"Among so many deeds of valour," he said, "I find it impossible to say
which is the most splendid. All are glorious. I am in a position to
assure you that Heaven is proud of you. The Fatherland also is proud of
you, and, above all, I am proud of you. May the blessings of Heaven
continue to fall upon our great and merciful campaign for the right!"

With these words the proceedings terminated and the heroes hurried back
to the fighting line, eager to win more laurels by similar feats of
culture.

       *       *       *       *       *

SIDELIGHTS ON THE WAR.

It is frequently remarked that the present war will be far-reaching in
its consequences. The truth of this is apparent from the following
notices, gathered at random from the column of "Personal Paragraphs"
which the Editor of _The Shrimpington-on-Sea Gazette_ publishes weekly,
without charge, thereby earning the reputation of a patriot:--

IN CONSEQUENCE OF the present crisis in the Money Market, Mrs. Pincham
desires to give notice that she hereby disclaims all liability for any
debts contracted by her at Bridge, and the same will not be paid.

THIS IS TO SAY THAT, owing to the war and my pocket-money being stopped
because I broke the dining-room window, if Jackson Minor does not pay me
the balance of sixpence remaining for his half-share of the white rabbit
we both bought last term, his half of the rabbit will be sold and the
proceeds kept by the undersigned, SMITH TERTIUS.

LADY STRAITER regrets to be obliged to announce that, in consequence of
the perilous financial situation in Europe, she will be forced to
discontinue her subscription of 2_s._ 6_d._ per annum to the Society for
the Relief of Distressed Dustmen.

MR. ALURED DE MORTIMER TALBOT-HOWARD-ST. MAUR begs to inform his many
friends and the general public that the above is his real name, and that
he is proud to say he is by birth and descent an Englishman. The
spiteful rumours which allege that he originally kept a pawnbroker's
shop in Hamburg, where his name was Wilhelm Guggelheimer, are merely the
inventions of malicious persons who are envious of his property and
social position.

As the Shrimpington-on-Sea Golf Course has been entirely ploughed-up
(with the exception of the greens) and planted with onions, turnips,
cabbages, and beetroot, to increase our national food-supply, all
members are requested to play in rubber-soled shoes only during the next
two months, so as not to damage the growing crops.

       *       *       *       *       *

AT THE PLAY.

"MY AUNT."

Illustration: SHOULD THE TELEPHONE BE USED EXCEPT UNDER MEDICAL
ADVICE?

    _Mrs. Martingale_    Miss LOTTIE VENNE.
    _Dr. Sweette_        Mr. ERNEST HENDRIE.

       ***

Really, the only question to ask oneself of this adaptation from the
French is "Is it funny enough?" With so much being offered by the
newsboy outside the Vaudeville that is not at all funny, it would be
pleasant to find inside the doors a little relief from the world.

I will give the authors the benefit of any doubt I may have felt now and
then, and say that _My Aunt_ serves its purpose. In places it made us
all laugh a good deal, and I don't think we were prepared to be easily
amused; although (for a reason which still escapes me) there was a
sudden burst of clapping when _Aubrey Braxton_ announced that he had
received an "ultimatum" from _Suzanne_. The latter part of the Second
Act is particularly well worked up, and one remark of _Aubrey's_ to
_Leslie Tarbolton_ brought down the house. ("You are the sort of man who
would go to call on a sick friend ... and eat his grapes.") The Third
Act is terribly padded with things which are not really funny, but it
gives us an opportunity of seeing a little more of Miss LOTTIE VENNE, to
whom the authors had not previously been generous. (I love Miss VENNE'S
voice and I love her manner of waving her arms in the air. It was
delightful to see and listen to her again.)

For the best parts of the first two Acts, then; for Miss LOTTIE VENNE'S
voice; above all, for Mr. A. W. BASKCOMB'S face, _My Aunt_ is worth
while. As _Aubrey Braxton_ Mr. BASKCOMB--the never-to-be-forgotten
_Slightly_ of so many Christmasses--goes through all the many troubles
of a hero of farce with his own inimitable air of hopeless resignation.
I hope that his efforts will not be unrewarded, and that the management
will find that, without rivalling the success of that other aunt,
Charley's, they will yet for some time be able to play to good "business
as usual."

  M.

       *       *       *       *       *

MR. PUNCH'S HOLIDAY STORIES.

III.--THE FIGHT OF THE CENTURY.

(Concluded.)

    [_SYNOPSIS OF PRECEDING INSTALMENT:--The great boxing boom is at its
    height. A fight arranged between Smasher Mike and the famous
    heavyweight champion. Mauler Mills, is arousing intense excitement
    throughout the country. Nothing whatever is known of the Smasher,
    and the betting is therefore 100 to 1 against him. Young Lord
    Tamerton is at this time in desperate financial straits. His bosom
    friend, Ralph Wonderson, who is in love with his sister, the
    beautiful Lady Margaret Tamerton, prevails upon him to wager heavily
    on Smasher Mike, and undertakes to put him in the way of obtaining a
    loan of £5,000 for this purpose. Their conversation is overheard by
    an agent of Sir Ernest Scrivener,_ alias _Marmaduke Moorsdyke, who
    is the mortal enemy of Wonderson and is plotting to get Lady
    Margaret Tamerton in his power._]

The vast area of Corinthia was crammed with eager spectators, whose eyes
were concentrated with feverish intensity on the raised platform in the
centre of the hall. In the seats near the ring, for each of which a
hundred guineas had been charged, sat the cream of Britain's
aristocracy, including Lord Tamerton and Lady Margaret Tamerton, for
whom two tickets in a plain envelope had been left that morning.

At last the preliminaries came to an end and Smasher Mike, clad in a
claret-coloured dressing-gown with yellow facings, crawled through the
ropes and went to his corner. As he raised his face to the lights a
murmur of amazement ran through the hall.

"_It's Ralph Wonderson!_" Lady Margaret gripped her brother's arm till
the perspiration stood out on his forehead.

"_It's Ralph Wonderson!_" The whisper passed from lip to lip, merging
presently into a burst of cheering as Mauler Mills scrambled up to the
platform, wearing an electric-blue dressing-gown with green facings and
pink sash.

Ralph sat motionless in his corner, watching his gigantic adversary with
a pleasant smile and softly whistling the air of a popular song. At
length the referee leisurely entered the ring. As he did so, Ralph gave
a violent start and Lady Margaret gripped her brother's arm till his
teeth chattered. _The referee was not the popular Algernon Mittens, as
had been announced, but Sir Ernest Scrivener!_

Lord Tamerton stared up at the ring with ashen lips. With such an
official in charge nothing but a miracle could save Ralph Wonderson from
being disqualified in the first round. The House of Tamerton was more
utterly ruined than ever.

But in thirty seconds Ralph, trained in many sports to meet all
emergencies, had summed up the situation and decided upon his course of
action.

The gong sounded and the two pugilists advanced warily towards each
other. Suddenly Ralph lashed out a terrific right which, as he intended,
missed the Mauler by a foot. Unable, apparently, to retain his balance,
he swung completely round with the impetus of the blow, and his clenched
fist landed squarely upon the referee's jaw. Sir Ernest shot high over
the ropes and crashed down on the Dowager Duchess of Cumbersea, whence
he rebounded with terrible force into the arms of the Marquis of
Meltington.

After a brief delay all three were removed to the hospital.

       *       *       *       *       *

The fight, under a new referee, was in its twentieth round. Not a sound
could be heard beyond the shuffling of the pugilists' feet and the thud
of fist on flesh.

Feinting with his left, the Mauler clinched heavily with his right, but
Ralph foiled the attack with a clever half-nelson. Again Mills swung his
right, and again Ralph parried the blow, this time by sending his left
to the funny-bone and thus paralysing the arm. He then dashed in and
uppercut his opponent severely on the occiput. Mauler Mills staggered to
the ropes, to which he clung frantically in order to preserve his
balance.

A savage roar went up from the crowd, roused now to a pitch of frenzied
excitement. "Now you've got him! Finish him! Put him out!" they shouted.

But Ralph, chivalrous as always, drew back, bowed formally to his
opponent and quietly awaited his recovery.

Presently, after a courteous enquiry and an assurance from the Mauler
that he was quite ready, the pair exchanged a warm handshake and renewed
their combat.

Taking a deep breath, Ralph advanced with cat-like tread and flashing
eyes upon his adversary. Knowing from painful experience what to expect,
the latter circled cautiously away, covering his face with his hands.
But Ralph, realising that time was short, determined not to be baffled.
Combining the agility of the chamois with the ponderous strength of the
hippopotamus, he crouched low and sprang like a tiger through the air
upon the unhappy Mauler, striking him full on the solar plexus. White to
the lips, the Mauler fell squirming to the floor, while Ralph
nonchalantly adjusted a lock of hair which had floated loose.

"_One--two--three ..._" the voice of the referee was like the voice of
inexorable Fate ... "_four--five--six ..._" Lady Margaret gripped her
brother's arm till his hair stood on end ... "_seven--eight ..._" The
Countess of Snecks fainted with a loud shriek ... "_nine--Out_"!

The great fight was won. The House of Tamerton was saved.

Clad in his claret-coloured dressing-gown, the new champion pressed his
_fiancée_ against the yellow facings and stroked her fair hair fondly
with his boxing-gloves.

"My little wife!" he whispered.

And the vast area of Corinthia rang with emotional cheers.

       *       *       *       *       *

Illustration: _Sentry (suddenly appearing)._ "HALT! WHO GOES THERE?"

_Brown._ "ER--SEASON!"

       *       *       *       *       *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

(_By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks._)

Far too rarely does the conscientious reviewer enjoy such a chance as
has come to me now, a chance to let himself go in the matter of praise
without stint or reservation. As a reward doubtless for some of my many
unrecorded good deeds, there has come into my hands a slender volume
called _Naval Occasions_ (BLACKWOOD), which seems to me to be the most
entirely satisfactory and, indeed, fascinating thing of its kind that
ever I read. The writer chooses for his own sufficient reasons to
disguise himself as "BARTIMEUS," and under that name I have to ask him
to accept my very sincere gratitude. The little book contains
twenty-five sketches, mostly quite short, relating to (I quote its text,
taken from the Articles of War) "the Navy, whereon, under the good
Providence of God, the wealth, safety, and strength of the Kingdom
chiefly depend." Never surely did a book appear so aptly. At a moment
like this, when the dullest collection of naval facts can stir the
pulse, such pages as these, full of the actual life and work of the men
who are safeguarding us all, deserve a public as vast as the Empire
itself. The appeal of them is amazing, for their art is of so concealed
a quality that the writing seems simplicity itself. To say that they
bring the atmosphere of salt winds and the tang of the sea, is nothing;
a skilful novel about Margate sands would deserve this praise; it is in
their humanity that the charm lies, the sense of courage and comradeship
and high endeavour that is in every one of them. You will laugh often as
you read; and sometimes, quite suddenly, you will find yourself with a
prickly feeling at the back of the eyes, because of the tears that are
in these things; but they are the proud kind, never the sloppily
sentimental. And at the end I am mistaken in you if you do not close the
book with the rare and moving sensation that you have found something of
which you can say, as I myself did, "This is absolutely It!"

       *       *       *       *       *

Amongst the thousands of helpful suggestions for the conduct of war
which have recently filled the columns of the daily press, I do not
remember having seen any scheme for supplying the officers of the Allied
Armies with an Irish terrier apiece. And yet if MARIE VON VORST is to be
trusted, this is a very serious omission, for, had it not been for
_Pitchouné_, I fear that the gallant hero of _His Love Story_ (MILLS AND
BOON) would have perished in the Sahara and never have won the lady of
his heart. The _Comte de Sabron_ was forbidden by his military orders to
take a dog with him to Algiers, but _Pitchouné_ ran all the way from
Tarascon to Marseilles and jumped into the boat. Subsequently, when his
master was lying wounded in the desert, he tracked down the nearest
native village--twelve hours away--and barked till they sent out a
relief expedition. A boy scout could not do more, and, though my own
experience of Irish terriers has led me to think that they do not spend
over much time in the study of ordnance maps, yet for sentiment's sake,
and because _His Love Story_ is a charmingly written romance, I am ready
to believe in all the feats of _Pitchouné_, and even to hope that he
will not after all be _de trop_ now that _M. le Comte_ is happily
wedded, but may have another brilliantly successful campaign in front of
him.

       *       *       *       *       *

Although Mrs. PENROSE'S new novel, _Something Impossible_ (MILLS AND
BOON), gaily admits in its title its difficulties, I cannot pretend that
I consider her to have made the most of her opportunity. There are at
least two classic examples of her theme, Mr. ANSTEY'S _Vice Versâ_ and
Mr. DE LA MARE'S _Return_. Mrs. PENROSE cannot approach either the
charming humour of the one or the delicate beauty of the other. On a
lower plane her story has its amusing moments, and there is a vein of
real tenderness in her picture of the relations of her hero and his
faithful lady--a happy relief after the monotonous repetition of
matrimonial infidelities dealt out to us by the average novel. It will
be a consolation also to many readers to discover that plain people are
far more popular than handsome ones and that to "have features of
classical beauty" is the most unfortunate of handicaps in the race for
comfort and success. Mrs. PENROSE, like many other women novelists, is
very cruel to her own sex and never misses an opportunity of exposing
its shallow sentiments and transient affections. But why are all
novelists of to-day so merciless to the provincial town? There must be
some pleasant people in Cathedral cities. I am weary of retired colonels
with port-stained faces, and vinegary old maids, and unctuous canons.
Mrs. PENROSE has shown in her earlier books so real a sense of beauty
and so touching a spirit of kindliness that I am bound to confess that,
with the exception of her treatment of her hero, this rather acid and
ironical piece of nonsense is a disappointment.

       *       *       *       *       *

Illustration: _The Small Man._ "IF I WAS AS WELL SET UP AS YOU I'D GO
AND FIGHT FOR MY COUNTRY, _I_ WOULD!"

_The Large Man._ "NO GOOD, MATE, I'VE TRIED IT. TOLD ME AT THE WAR
OFFICE I WOULD SPOIL THE UNIFORM APPEARANCE OF ANY REGIMENT, SO I'M
WAITIN' TILL THEY RAISE A CORPS OF CINEMA GUARDS."

       *       *       *       *       *

From the Emperor of AUSTRIA'S telegram to WILHELM II.:

    "Words fail to express what moves me, and with me my army, in these
    days of the world's history."

The word "Servia" might express what moves his army.

       *       *       *       *       *

_The Scotsman_ on the condition of things in Norway:--

    "Food supplies and rents are controlled by the Government, and
    spirits and wines cannot be purchased. Most of the English people
    have now left Norway."

For other reasons, we hope.

       *       *       *       *       *

    "PLEASURE TOURS.--St. Petersburg from London _viâ_ Kiel Canal."

    _Advt. in "Times."_

Take your camera with you, and snap the jolly little German battleships
as you go past. The result of the recent fight off Heligoland should
increase your popularity.







*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI, VOL. 147, SEPTEMBER 2ND, 1914 ***


    

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