Part 1

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 148.

FEBRUARY 10, 1915.

CHARIVARIA.

"Kultur belongs to my Germans alone," says the KAISER. We were not aware that the charge had been brought against any other country.

* * *

"The Indians," complains the _Frankfurter Zeitung_, "have an extraordinary way of fighting. They jump up, shoot with wonderful precision, and disappear before one has time to notice them properly." Our contemporary has evidently not been studying the pages of _Punch_, or it would know that the disappearance is worked by the well-known Indian trick of throwing a rope into the air and climbing up it.

* * *

Letters from the British troops operating in Damaraland show that the prevailing complaint there is with respect to the heat; and a dear and very thoughtful old lady writes to suggest that, as our men in Flanders dislike the cold, it might be possible to arrange an exchange.

* * *

With reference to the attentions paid by German aeroplanes, the other day, to the British provision establishments at Dunkirk, we understand that the bombs which were dropped made no impression whatever on our bully beef, so famous for its durability.

* * *

The Norwich Liberals have selected as their candidate Lieutenant HILTON YOUNG, and it has been decided that the election shall not be contested. It is realised that in time of war "_Le monde appartient aux Jeunes_."

* * *

In his account of the dynamiting of the C. P. R. bridge over the St. Croix river, REUTER tells us that "A German officer who has been hanging around the neighbourhood for the past few days has been arrested." We have a shrewd idea that he may be hanging in the neighbourhood again very shortly.

* * *

We are surprised that the advocates of Mr. WILLETT'S Daylight Saving Bill have been so quiet lately. Surely it would be an enormous advantage to rush this measure through now so that the Germans may have less darkness to take advantage of?

* * *

Dr. HANS RICHTER, the celebrated WAGNER conductor, who enjoyed English hospitality for so long, has now expressed the hope that Germany may punish England who has so profoundly disgraced herself. It is even said that the amiable Doctor asked to be allowed to conduct a Parsifal airship to this country.

* * *

Professor KOBERT, of Rostock University, one of Germany's best-known chemists, is advocating a mixture of pig's blood and rye-meal as a most nutritious form of bread for his countrymen. There is, of course, already a certain amount of pig's blood in the composition of some Germans.

* * *

Our newspapers really ought to be more careful. We feel quite sure that the following paragraph in _The Daily Mail_ will be quoted in the German Press as showing the Londoner's fears of a Zeppelin visit: "The Golder's Green Training Corps yesterday morning mobilised eighty motor-cars and drove out to Harpenden to see how quickly the corps could get out of London in case of emergency."

* * *

_The Times_ has been discussing the question as to whether khaki is the best protective colour for soldiers. In this connection it is worth noting that the uniforms worn by the men of KITCHENER'S Army appear to render them almost completely invisible to the correspondents of German newspapers in this country, who report that there is only a mere handful of these soldiers.

* * *

By the way Colonel MAUDE pointed out recently in _Land and Water_ that it is essential that our gunners should be able to watch our infantry closing on the enemy, and that in this respect khaki is a drawback. We now hear that the wide-awake Germans are taking the hint, and that their new uniforms will have scarlet backs, which will not only help their artillery, but will act as a powerful deterrent should their troops think of running away.

* * *

Extract from a Book Merchant's Catalogue:--"I venture to assert no more acceptable gift could be sent to our Heroes on Active Service than a few cwts. of Literature. A book is the best of all companions and always useful, for one in the breast pocket has been the means of saving many a man's life in action." A Society for supplying every recruit with a complete set of _The Encyclopædia Britannica_ is now, we believe, in process of formation.

* * *

A book which is stated to have been "kept back on account of the war" is entitled _Hell's Playground_. One would have thought it would have been peculiarly _à propos_.

* * *

A live frog has been discovered embedded in a piece of coal hewn from a colliery in the Forest of Dean. It is thought that the colliery owners, by means of a series of bonuses like this, intend to make their coal look almost worth the price that is now being charged for it.

* * *

Frankly we were not surprised to hear that the moon was full a little while ago. In these times our own planet is certainly not a very desirable place.

* * *

It is now stated that Herr LIEBKNECHT, the Socialist leader, who was called to the colours a few days ago, has been relieved of service in the Landwehr. This is most annoying as it throws out all the carefully calculated figures of our experts as to the number of men Germany is putting into the field.

* * *

Even the Censor nods occasionally. _The Tailor and Cutter_ has been allowed to state that a Holborn tailor is making a uniform for a sergeant in KITCHENER'S Army who stands 6 ft. 8 ins. high. The fact that we have a man of these dimensions in reserve was, we understand, to have been one of our surprises for Germany.

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE MARK OF THE BEAST.

(_With acknowledgments to a cartoon by Mr. WILL DYSON._)

[In a Munich paper Herr GANGHOFER recites the following remark of the KAISER'S, whose special journalistic confidant he is said to be:--"To possess Kultur means to have the deepest conscientiousness and the highest morality. My Germans possess that."]

'Tis enough that we know you have said it; We feel that the facts correspond With your speech as a Person of credit, Whose word is as good as his bond; Who are we that our critics should quarrel With the flattering doctrine you preach-- That the German, in all that is moral, Is an absolute peach?

But the puzzle grows odder and odder: If your people are spotless of blame, Being perfectly sound cannon-fodder, Then whose is the fault and the shame? If it's just from a deep sense of duty That they prey upon woman and priest, And their minds are a model of Beauty, Then who is the Beast?

For a Beast is at work in this matter; We have seen--and the traces endure-- The red blood of the innocent spatter The print of his horrible spoor; On their snouts, like the lovers of Circe-- Your men that are changed into swine-- The Mark of the Beast-without-mercy Is set for a sign.

You have posed (next to God) as the pillar That steadies the fabric of State, Whence issues the brave baby-killer Supplied with his hymnal of hate; Once known for a chivalrous knight, he Now hogs with the Gadarene herd; Since it can't be the other Almighty, How _has_ it occurred?

When at last they begin to be weary Of sluicing their virtues in slime, And they put the embarrassing query:-- "Who turned us to brutes of the prime? Full of culture and most conscientious, Who made us a bestial crew? Who pounded the poisons that drench us?"-- I wouldn't be you.

O. S.

* * * * *

THE PLAINT OF A BRITISH DACHSHUND.

DEAR _Mr. Punch_,--I desire to address you on a painful subject. Let me state that I am (1) a dachshund of unblemished character; (2) a British-born subject; (3) a member of a family which, though originally of foreign extraction, has for several generations been honourably domiciled in one of the most exclusive and aristocratic of our English country seats. Imagine then the surprise and indignation experienced by myself, my wife and our only daughter when, shortly after the opening of the present unfortunate hostilities between our country and a certain continental Power, we found the atmosphere of friendly, nay, affectionate respect with which we had so long been surrounded becoming gradually superseded by one of suspicion and animosity.

The ball was started by Macalister, an Aberdeen terrier of unprincipled character, who has never forgiven me for summarily crushing the unwelcome advances which he had the bad taste to make last spring to my daughter. He had had the impertinence to approach me with a large (and, I confess, a distinctly succulent-looking) object, which he laid with an oily smile on the ground before my nose. But I had heard from Gertrude (my wife) of his attentions to our offspring, and I saw through the ruse.

"If you imagine," I said, "for one moment that this insidious offer of a stolen bone will induce a gentleman of family to countenance an engagement between his daughter and an advertisement for Scotch whisky you are greatly mistaken. Be off with you, and never let me see your ruffianly whiskers near my basket again!"

Rather severe, no doubt, but when I am deeply moved I seldom mince matters; in fact, as a Briton, I prefer to hit out straight from the shoulder. In any case, for the time being it settled Macalister.

I say for the time being. In the autumn he had his revenge. One morning early in October I was walking down the drive accompanied by a recent arrival within our circle, a rather brainless St. Bernard (who gave his name with a lisp as "Bwuno"), when we met my child's rejected suitor. Since the incident mentioned above I had consistently cut Macalister, and I passed him now without recognition. No sooner was he by, however, and at a safe distance, than he deliberately turned and snarled over his shoulder at me the offensive epithet, "Potsdammer!"

My blood boiled; I longed to bury my teeth in the scoundrel's throat; but I remembered that Gertrude had once told me that galloping made me look ridiculous. So I affected not to hear the insult, and proceeded, outwardly calm, with my morning constitutional. But, for some reason or other, Bruno's flow of small talk appeared suddenly to dry up, and once or twice I detected him looking at me curiously out of the corners of his eyes. Next day, on my calling for him as usual he pleaded a cold. His manner struck me as odd; still I accepted his excuse. But when the cold had lasted, without any perceptible loss of appetite, for a fortnight, and I had seen him meanwhile on two occasions actually rabbiting (an absurd pastime for a St. Bernard) with Macalister, I saw what had happened and decided to ask him what he meant by it. He endeavoured to assume a conciliatory attitude, but the long and short of it was, he said, that as a Swiss, and therefore a neutral, it was impossible for him to be too careful, and he feared that my society might compromise him. I did not argue with him; it would merely have involved a loss of dignity to do so.

Since that time, though we have endured in silence, the lot of myself and my family has been a hard one. We have been fed and housed as usual, it is true, but when one has been accustomed to live on terms of the most privileged friendship with a household it is galling to find oneself suddenly treated by every member of it, from the butler downwards, as a prisoner of war. I am not even allowed now to bite the postmen; and I used to enjoy them so much, especially the evening one, who wears quite thin trousers. Our only consolation has been the hope that our misfortune might be an isolated instance. To-day, however, I learn that it is not so. I have discovered by my basket (and I have reason to think that they were conveyed thither by the malignant Macalister) three humorous (?) sketches depicting members of my race in situations which I can only describe as ridiculous, and obviously insinuating that they were to be regarded as aliens.

I appeal to you, Sir, as a lover of justice and animals, to put this matter right with the public, for the life that a British dachshund has to lead at the present moment is what is vulgarly known as a dog's life.

Yours to the bottom biscuit, FRITZ.

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

HOT WATER.

At the beginning of things I sat outside my tent in the early hours of the morning while a stalwart warrior poured buckets of cold water down my spine. I felt heroic.

Towards the end of October I began to dislike my servant; I had a suspicion he was icing the water. Before November was in I had given up sitting outside my tent. My bathing I decided (one cold wet morning) should take place under cover, either at the Golf Club or at some kindly person's house.

A few days later, not being on duty, I had arranged to dine with the Fergusons. In the late afternoon I strode into the Golf Club and had a hot bath. From there I wandered into town, where I met Mrs. Johnston.

"Hello!" she said. "I'm just going home. Won't you come with me?"

Mrs. Johnston is one in a thousand.

"Rather," I agreed. "Forward--by the right."

Tea over, my hostess turned to me brightly. "Now," she said, "I know what it must be in camp. I'm sure you'd like a nice hot bath," and she rang the bell.

Somehow I didn't tell her I'd had one at the Club. You might have done differently perhaps, but--well, the little lady was beaming hospitality; was it for me to stifle her generous intentions? I thought not.

I went upstairs and splashed manfully.

For the third time that day I dressed; then I went downstairs and found Johnston.

"Hello," he said. "Been having a bath? Good!"

I stiffened perceptibly at "good."

We chatted a little while, then I breathed my sincere thanks and left them.

My arrival at the Fergusons' was rather early, somewhere about seven-thirty. I was shown into the drawing-room while the maid went to inform Mrs. Ferguson of my arrival. In two minutes she returned.

"Will you come this way, Sir?" she said.

I went that way.

Ten minutes later I emerged from Ferguson's bath and walked into his dressing-room. Ferguson had arrived.

"Hello!" he said. "Been having a bath? Good!"

I winced at the word; then I smiled bravely and started to dress--for the fourth time.

* * *

It was eleven o'clock when I got back to camp, and I found to my surprise that the Mess had been moved from the tent to the new hut.

"Hello!" they said, "how do you like the new quarters?"

I surveyed the bare boards.

"Topping," I replied, "but it's not anywhere near finished."

"No," said the Junior Major, "but the bath's in. Hot water, by Gad! Go and have a bath."

I looked at him blankly. "I've had three, Sir, to-day."

I might have known it was foolish; the Junior Major is still young.

"It's up to the subalterns," he suggested, "to see he has No. 4."

They saw to it.

* * * * *

"Baron von Bissing, the Governor of Belgium," says _The Central News_, "has paid a visit to Turnhout and inspected the German guards along the Belgo-Dutch frontier." In the whole of our experience we know no finer example of self-control than our refusal to play with that word Turnhout.

* * * * *

NOTICE

ON AND AFTER FEBRUARY 18, ANY MERCHANT SHIP (ENEMY OR NEUTRAL) FOUND IN THE MILITARY AREA WITHIN 500 MILES OF THE ATTACHED SUBMARINE WILL BE LIABLE TO BE SUNK AT SIGHT, WITH OR WITHOUT HER CREW.

BY ORDER]

* * * * *

IN QUAINTEST CINEMALAND.

In these troublous times Cinemaland is about the only foreign country in which it is possible to travel for pleasure. It has occurred to me that some account of its curious manners and customs may not be without interest for such readers as are still unacquainted with them.

As Cinemaland contains many departments, each of which has peculiarities of its own, I cannot attempt more than a general description.

The chief national industry is the chase of fugitives. In some departments this is done on horseback, with a considerable and rather aimless expenditure of ammunition; in others by motor car, or along the roofs of railway carriages. It seems a healthy pursuit and provides all concerned with exercise and excitement. The women are, almost without exception, young and extremely prepossessing. Nature has endowed them, among other personal advantages, with superb teeth, of which they make a pardonably ostentatious display on the slightest provocation. They are all magnificent horsewomen and fearless swimmers, and they do not in the least mind spoiling their clothes.

In their domestic circles, however, they show a feminine and clinging disposition, with a marked tendency to fall in love at first sight with any undesirable stranger.

The principal occupation of the children is reconciling estranged parents by contracting serious illnesses or getting run over. The latter is even easier to manage in Cinemaland than in any London thoroughfare. I have seldom, if ever, seen an aged Cinemian grandparent, a long-lost wife, or a strayed child try to cross the emptiest street without being immediately bowled over by a motor-car. The mere wind of it has the strange potency not only of knocking down a pedestrian, but inflicting the gravest internal injuries. Fortunately, Cinemaland is a country rich in coincidences, so the car is invariably occupied by the very person who has been vainly seeking the sufferer for years. This of course is some compensation, but, all the same, it is hardly the ideal method of running across people one is anxious to meet.

The victims are always removed to the nearest hospital, but, if I may judge from what I have seen of their wards, I should say that medical science in Cinemaland is still in its infancy, and it has never surprised me that so many patients die soon after admission.

But then Science of any kind seems to be a dangerous and unprofitable occupation there. The inventor, designer, or discoverer of anything is simply asking for trouble. If he doesn't blow himself up in his laboratory and get blinded for life, some envious rival is certain to undertake this for him. Or else a vague villain will steal his formula or plans and sell them to a Foreign Power with Dundreary whiskers. And the extraordinary part of it is that no Cinemian has ever invented anything yet of which the secret could possibly be worth more than twopence. I fancy the stealing must be done from sheer wanton devilry.

Crime in Cinemaland is invariably detected sooner or later, though I doubt if it would be but for a careless practice among criminals there of carrying in their breastpockets the document that proves their guilt. They seem to have a superstitious idea that to destroy it would bring them bad luck.

The exterior of a private mansion in a fashionable Cinemian suburb is stately and imposing, but the interior is generally disappointing, the rooms being small and overcrowded with furniture that is showy without being distinguished. In some houses the owners appear to have a taste for collecting antiques and to have been grossly imposed upon by dealers.

It is usual for young couples with a very moderate income to keep not only a smart parlourmaid but a butler as well. The manner of all Cinemian domestics is one of exaggerated deference; an ordinary English employer would be painfully embarrassed if his servants bowed to him so low and so often, but they appear to like it in Cinemaland.

Social etiquette there has exigencies that are all its own. For example, a guest at an evening party who happens to lose a brooch or necklace is expected at once to stop the festivities by complaining to her hostess and insisting on a constable being called in to search everybody present. It might be thought that Cinemian Society would have learnt by this time that the person in whose possession the missing article is discovered is absolutely sure to be innocent. But the supposed culprit is always hauled off (with quite unnecessary violence) to prison, amidst the scorn and reprobation of the hostess and her other guests. It is true they make the handsomest amends afterwards, which are gratefully accepted, but in any other country the hostess's next invitation to any social function would be met with the plea of a previous engagement. If these amiable and impulsive people _have_ a failing, I should say it was a readiness to believe the worst of one another on evidence which would not hang an earwig.

They are indefatigable letter-writers, but, after having had the privilege of inspecting numerous examples of their correspondence, I am compelled to own that, while their penmanship is bold and legible, their epistolary style is apt to be a trifle crude.

The clergy of Cinemaland all wear short side whiskers and are a despised and servile class who appear to derive most of their professional income from marrying runaway couples in back parlours.

In certain departments it is a frequent practice to dress up in Federal and Confederate uniforms and engage in desperate conflict. I have witnessed battles there with over a hundred combatants on each side. There was a profusion of flags and white smoke on these occasions, but, so far as I was able to observe, no blood was actually shed.

There is another department which is inhabited by a singularly high-strung, not to say jerky, race, the women especially betraying their emotions with a primitive absence of self-control. There, the pleasure of the cause has become a delirious orgy, though much valuable time is lost both by pursuers and pursued, owing to an inveterate habit of stopping and leaping high at intervals. Squinting is a not uncommon affliction, as is also abnormal stoutness, the latter, however, being always combined with a surprising agility. In personal encounters, which are by no means uncommon, it is considered not only legitimate but laudable to kick the adversary whenever he turns his back, and also to spring at him, encircle his waist with your legs, and bite his ear. The local police are all either overgrown or undersized, and have been carefully trained to fall over one another at about every five yards. As guardians of the peace, however, I prefer our own force.

I could not have written even so brief an account as this unless I had paid many visits to Cinemaland. If I am spared I fully expect to pay many more. The truth is that I cannot keep away from the country. Why, I can't explain, but I fancy it is because it is so absolutely unlike any other country with which I happen to be familiar.

F. A.

* * * * *

* * * * *

"The practice of compulsorily enrolling men for defence against invasion can be traced from before the time of Alfred the Great, when every man between 18 and 60 had to serve right up to the time of the Napoleonic wars."--_Saturday Review._

It was found, however, that men who had enlisted in ALFRED THE GREAT'S time at the age of sixty were of little real use in the Napoleonic wars.

* * * * *

FLEET VISIONS SEEN THROUGH GERMAN EYES.