Part 1

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PUNCH,

OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 150.

MAY 31, 1916.

* * * * *

CHARIVARIA.

A conscientious objector told the Cambridge tribunal that he could not pass a butcher's shop without shuddering. The suggestion that he should obviate the shudders by going inside seems almost too simple a solution.

* * *

According to a report of the committee appointed to investigate the matter, water is the best agent for suppressing conflagrations caused by bombs. It is not suggested, however, that other remedies now in use for the purpose, such as the censorship of the Press, should be completely abandoned.

* * *

According to Reuter (whom we have no reason to doubt) a campaign is now being waged in German East Africa against giraffes, which have been inconveniencing our telegraphic system by scratching the wires with their necks. It will be remembered that the policy of using giraffes instead of telegraph poles was adopted by the War Office in the face of a strong body of adverse opinion.

* * *

It is reported that, as the result of the prohibition by Sweden of the exportation of haddock, salmon, cleverly disguised to resemble the former, are being sold by unscrupulous fishmongers in the Mile End Road.

* * *

An arsenal worker has pleaded for exemption on the ground that he had seven little pigs to look after. The Tribunal however promised him that in the German trenches he would find as many full-grown pigs to look after as the heart of man could desire.

* * *

"In showing how to use as little meat as possible," says a contemporary in the course of a review of the Thrift Exhibition of the National School of Cookery, "a cook mixed the steak for her pudding in with the pastry." This is a striking improvement upon the old-fashioned method of serving the pastry by itself and mixing the steak with the banana-fritters.

* * *

"A cricketer from the Front" (says an evening paper) "believes a lot of fellows would escape wounds if they would watch missiles more carefully." It would, of course, be better still if there was a really courageous umpire to cry "No-ball" in all cases of objectionable delivery.

* * *

Addressing the staff at SELFRIDGE's on Empire Day, Mr. GORDON SELFRIDGE said he was glad that President WILSON, "who had had his ear to the ground for a long time, had at last seemed to realise that the American nation was at heart wholly with the principles that animated the Allies in this world struggle." But why put his ear to the ground to listen? Does he imagine that the heart of the American nation is in its boots?

* * *

The Lord Mayor of LONDON states that he expects that within a couple of years he will be able to reach his estate, seventy miles from London, in half-an-hour by aeroplane. We hope his prophecy may be realised, but we cannot help wondering what would happen if his aeroplane were to turn turtle on the way.

* * *

A legal point has been raised as to whether a woman who, while attempting to kill a wasp, breaks her neighbour's window is liable for damages. Counsel is understood to have expressed the view that, if the defendant had broken plaintiff's window while trespassing through the same in pursuit of the wasp, or had failed to give the wasp a reasonable opportunity of departing peaceably, or if it could be shown that the wasp had not previously exhibited a ferocious disposition, then judgment must be for the plaintiff.

* * * * *

"Here in a circular letter from the Home Office we find the sentence: 'The increase in the number of juvenile offenders is mainly caused by an increase of nearly 50 per cent. in cases of larceny.' In ordinary human language this only means that nearly twice as many children were caught thieving as in the year before. But it would be all that an official's place was worth to say so."

_The Nation._

Certainly it would, if his duties required a knowledge of elementary arithmetic.

* * * * *

THE BRITISH DRAGON.

[The KAISER's Chancellor, in an interview with the American journalist, KARL VON WIEGAND, accuses England of militarism, and alleges that we pursued towards Germany a policy of envelopment (_Einkreisungspolitik_).]

They mocked us for a peaceful folk, A land that flowed with beer and chops; NAPOLEON (ere we had him broke) Remarked our taste for keeping shops; And WILLIAM, in his humorous way, Thought that we must have all gone barmy Because we joined so large a fray With so absurdly small an army.

Opinions alter. Now it seems, Under our outer rind, or peel, Deep at the core of England's schemes There lurked a lust for blood and steel; Herr BETHMANN-HOLLWEG he proclaims The War was due to our intrigue and Expounds our militaristic aims Into the ear of Herr VON WIEGAND.

We are a dragon belching fire, One of those horrors, spawned in hell, Who come from wallowing in the mire To crunch the innocent damosel; And when we've nosed about and found What looks to be a toothsome jawful We call our mates and ring her round With other dragons just as awful.

Prussia was ever such a maid; Pink-toed and fair and free from guile She frolicked in the flowery glade, Pursuing Culture all the while; Then, coached by GREY, the monsters came, And their behaviour (something horrid) BETHMANN condemns, and brands the blame Upon the premier dragon's forehead.

O.S.

* * * * *

UNWRITTEN LETTERS TO THE KAISER.

No. XL.

(_From a German._)

Yes, and for the very reason that I am a German I am speaking to you, so that you may know what one German at least thinks of you and your deeds. For I know that even where you sit walled about by your flatterers, ramparted against the intrusion of any fresh breath of criticism, and protected by entanglements of barbed wire against any hint of doubt as to your god-like attributes--even there I know that my voice shall in time reach you, and you shall become aware that there is a German who dares to say of you what millions of Germans think and soon will dare to say.

You are the man, Sir, who by a word spoken in a seasonable moment might have forbidden the War, and this word you refused to speak because, knowing your own preparations for war and those of the nations whom you forced to be your enemies, you anticipated an easy and a swift triumph. You believed that, after spending a few thousands of men and a few millions of marks, victory would be yours, and you would be able, as an unquestioned conqueror, to dictate peace to those who had dared to oppose you. And thus in a few months at the most you would return to Berlin and prance along the flower-strewn streets at the head of your victorious and but little-injured regiments. It is told of you that lately, when you visited a great hospital crowded with maimed and shattered men, your vain and shallow mind was for a moment startled by the terrible sight, and you murmured, "It was not I who willed this." In part you were right. You did not consciously will to bring upon your country the suffering and the misery you have caused, because you were willing to take the gambler's chance; but in the sight of God, to whom you often appeal, you will not escape the responsibility for having steadily thrust peace and conciliation aside when, as I say, by one word you might have avoided war.

Germany, you will say, is a great nation and cannot brook being insulted and defied. Great Heaven, Sir, who denied that Germany was great? Who wished to insult or defy her? Not France, whose one desire was to live in peace; not Russia, still bleeding from wounds suffered at the hands of Japan; not England, still, as of old, intent on her commercial development, though anxious, naturally enough, for her Fleet; not Italy, bound to you by a treaty designed to guard against aggression. It is true that all nations were becoming weary of a violent and hectoring diplomacy, of a restless and jealous punctilio seeking out occasions for misunderstandings and quarrels, and rushing wildly from one crisis to another; but under your direction this intolerable system had been patented and put in operation by Germany and by no other nation. It was as though a _parvenu_, uncertain of his manners and doubtful as to his reception, should burst violently into a _salon_ filled with quiet people and, having upset the furniture and thrown the china ornaments about, should accuse all the rest of treading on his toes and insulting him. So did Germany act, and for such actions you, who had autocratic power--you, at whose nod Chancellors trembled--you loved their tremors--and Generals quaked with fear--must be held responsible. What low strain of vulgarity was it, what coarse desire to bluster and rant yourself into fame and honour, rather than to deserve them by a magnanimous patience and a gentleness beyond reproach, that drove you on your perilous way? It was your pettiness that at the last plunged you into the War.

And now that you have been in it for little short of two years, how stands the Fatherland, and where are the visions of easy and all but immediate victory? Germany is bleeding at every pore. Her soldiers are brave; but to confirm you on your throne you force them day by day to a slaughter in which millions have already been laid low. That other nations are suffering too is for me no consolation. My thoughts are centred on Germany, once so nobly great, and now forced by a restless and jealous lunatic into a war to which there seems no end.

I sign myself in deep sorrow,

A GERMAN.

* * * * *

"The Mahogany Tree."

A correspondent writes to Mr. Punch: "In this season's _Printer's Pie_ your old friend and mine, Sir HENRY LUCY, speaks of '"the old mahogany tree" in Bouverie Street, under which THACKERAY for a while sat.' This tantalising sidelight makes many of us pine for fuller information. Did the incident occur on some particular occasion, or did the great novelist make a practice of this engaging form of self-effacement?"

* * * * *

"At a camp in Essex New Zealand troops joined with the local school children in the celebrations. The men paraded and the New Zealand flag was saluted. Afterwards there was a march past; the National Anthem, Kipling's 'Recessional,' and 'Lest we Forget' were sung."--_The Times._

Mr. KIPLING seems to have got an encore.

* * * * *

* * * * *

A REGRETTABLE INCIDENT.

Anne was standing in the hall looking like nothing on earth. One of the reasons why I gave in to Anne and married her was because of her repose. She can look more tragic than BERNHARDT, but she never makes a noise. In moments of domestic stress, as when the six hens we had purchased contributed one egg and that in the next garden (date of birth unknown), Anne assumes a plaintive smile that leaves the English language at the post. When the cook, who wears a frayed ulster ornamented with regimental badges ranging from the Royal Scots to the Brixton Cyclists, looked on the wine and went further, Anne did not blurt out crudities. Having shut the kitchen-door behind her, she simply entered the hall and walked smoothly to the plate where any persons who call may leave cards. Already she had soothed the house; and in that splendid silence, that pursuit of the commonplace, she had not merely calmed my dread of the scene that accompanies a cab and a constable, but had carolled, as it were, to Ethel the nursery-maid tilted over the second floor banisters that all was well, or nearly so.

Having stared gravely at a dusty card, which we all knew by heart, Anne turned her face and, raising her eyebrows about an eighth of an inch, shrugged her shoulders very slightly and passed on.

But on the present occasion there was, so far as I was aware, no domestic friction--we had boiled the hens--and I was, I admit, at a loss.

"Come, Herbert," said Anne gently. Then I knew that we were bankrupt--I mean, of course, more bankrupt. I knew that the Government, having crouched in leash, had sprung with a snarl upon the married man of forty-five.

We seated ourselves in Anne's room just as persons do upon the stage, Anne, leaning against the shutter, stared dreamily out of the window.

"Tell me," I said.

Anne is a great artist. She dabbed at her cheeks--but lightly, as though scorned a tear--smiled bravely at me with moist eyes, and, walking to the mantelpiece, adjusted a Dresden shepherdess.

"You have heard me speak of the Ruritanian Relief Fund," she said in a splendid off-hand tone.

"Frequently," I responded, but not impatiently.

"It was, you remember, the only possible fund when dear Lady Rogerson heard about the War. All the other allied countries had been snapped up--there seemed for a while no chance, no hope. Lady Rogerson was so brave. She said to me at the time, 'My dear we will not give in--we have as much right as anyone else to hold meetings and ask for money.'"

"And so you did, dear--surely you have been in the thick of it. Constantly have I seen appeals for Ruritania in the Press."

Anne permitted herself a faint gesture.

"Everything was going so well," she continued, dusting the shepherdess abstractedly. "We had a splendid committee, and Lady Rogerson was leaving for Ruritania with our Ladies' Coffee Unit this morning. They were going to provide hot refreshment for the gallant mountaineers as they marched through their beautiful mountain passes--they have them, haven't they, Herbert?"

"They must have," I said hotly. It was a nice state of affairs if they were going to back out of the coffee on that preposterous ground.

"At the last moment," she sobbed, and, dropping the shepherdess, was quite overcome. I was seriously concerned for poor Anne, whose affection for the Ruritanians was only rivalled by her ignorance of where the blessed country is.

"At the station," she said suddenly in a low voice, "news came that Ruritania was not even at war."

"Monstrous," I cried. "Most monstrous."

"So we all came back, and Lady Rogerson was so splendid and looked so brave in her sombrero and brass buttons. She explained how it was all her own fault--that old Colonel Smith had muddled the names of the Allies, and that we must be patient because who knew what might or might not happen in the future? But would you believe it, several of the Committee said the most awful things about Ruritania and poor Lady Rogerson, and in the middle of it all the telephone bell rang."

"Ah," I said, with a knowing look.

"And Lady Rogerson, after a moment, laid down the receiver, turned like BOADICEA, and said in a voice I shall never forget, 'Ladies and gentlemen, Ruritania declared war this afternoon. If the Coffee Unit starts immediately they can catch the night train.'"

Anne paused and made a little cairn of broken china on the mantelpiece.

"I'm so glad," I said, stroking her hand--"so glad. Lady Rogerson deserved her triumph."

Anne made no comment for a moment. When she spoke her voice was poignant.

"The Committee sang the National Anthem," she resumed miserably, "and we all put on our Ruritanian flags. A vote of confidence in dear Lady Rogerson was passed amidst tremendous enthusiasm, and the Coffee Unit set off for the station."

"It must now be on its way," I remarked briskly.

"No," said Anne, "never."

"But Ruritania?"

Anne trailed to the door. She was a wonderful artist in effects.

"Ruritania declared war"--

"I know, my dear--you said so"--

"Upon the Allies," added Anne, and left the room.

It was, considering everything, a rotten thing for Ruritania to do.

* * * * *

* * * * *

Our Helpful Critics.

"Browning's _Sordello_ was literature--but not actable drama."--_Daily Chronicle._

The same remark applies to _Paradise Lost_.

* * * * *

* * * * *

THOUGHTS ON NEWSPAPERS.

I swear that this article is not written in the interests of the newspaper trade.

If it bears fruit the newspaper trade will score, but that I cannot help. It is written in the larger interests of humanity and the sweeter life.

The situation briefly is this. One paper is not enough for any house, and some houses or families require many. In the house in which I write, situate in a foreign country, there are many exiles from England and only one paper, which arrives on the fourth day after publication (thus making Wednesday a terrible blank), and sometimes does not complete the round of readers until to-morrow. The result is that a bad spirit prevails. Normally open and candid persons are found concealing the paper against a later and freer hour; terminological inexactitude is even resorted to in order to cover such jackdaw-hoardings; glances become covetous and suspicious.

All this could be obviated.

I remember hearing of a distinguished and original and masterful lady (SARGENT has painted her) in the great days, or rather the high-spirited days, of _The Pall Mall Gazette_--when verse was called Occ, and it was more important that a leading article should have a comic caption than internal sagacity, and six different Autolyci vended their wares every week--who had fifteen copies of the paper delivered at her house every afternoon, and fifteen copies of _The Times_ every morning, so that each one of her family or guests might have a private reading; and she was right.

A newspaper should be as personal as a toothbrush or a pipe, otherwise how can we tear a paragraph out of it if we want to?--as my friend, Mr. Blank, the historian, always does, for that great sociological essay on which he is engaged, entitled _The Limit_.

But the idea of having enough papers for all has gained no ground. Even clubs don't have enough. And as for dentists----!

Givers of theatre parties have been divided into those who buy a programme for each guest and those who buy one programme for all; and programmes, for some occult reason which seems to satisfy the British ass, cost sixpence each. Yet the enlightened hosts of the first group will cheerfully pack their houses with week-enders and supply but one _Observer_ for the lot. Why?

The suggestion, even with war-time economy as an ideal before us, is not so mad as it sounds. Most of us smoke more cigarettes than we need, to an amount far exceeding the cost of six extra morning papers.

The worst of it is that other people can never read a paper for us. Most people don't try; they put us off.

If ever a La Rochefoucauld compiles the _sententiae_ of the breakfast-room he must include such apophthegms as these:--

Even the most determined opponent of journalism becomes alert and prehensile on the arrival of the paper.

He is a poor master of a house who does not insist upon the first sight of the paper.

He is a poor master of a house who, on being asked if there is any news of-day, replies in the affirmative.

No papers require so much reading as those with "nothing in them."

He is a poor citizen who could not edit a paper better than its editor.

Into what La Rochefoucauld would say when he came to deal not with the readers of papers but with papers themselves, I cannot enter. That is a different and a vaster matter. But certainly he should include this _pensee_:--

He is a poor editor who does not know more than the PRIME MINISTER.

* * * * *

ABDUL: AN APPRECIATION.

I heard the shriek of an approaching shell, something hit the ground beneath my feet, and I went sailing through the ether, to land softly on an iron hospital cot in a small white-walled room. There was no doubt that it was a most extraordinary happening. On the wall beside me was a temperature chart, on a table by my bed was a goolah of water, and in the air was that subtle Cairene smell. Yes, I was undoubtedly back in Cairo. Obviously I must have arrived by that shell.

Then, as I was thinking it all out, appeared to me a vision in a long white galabieh. It smiled, or rather its mouth opened, and disclosed a row of teeth like hailstones on black garden mould.

"Me Abdul," it said coyly; "gotter givit you one wash."

I was washed in sections, and Abdul did it thoroughly. There came a halt after some more than usually strenuous scrubbing at my knees. Mutterings of "mushquais" (no good) and a wrinkled brow showed me that Abdul was puzzled. Then it dawned on me. I had been wearing shorts at Anzac, and Abdul was trying to wash the sunburn off my knees! By dint of bad French, worse Arabic, and much sign language I explained. Abdul went to the door and jodelled down the corridor, "Mo-haaaaamed, Achmed." Two other slaves of the wash-bowl appeared, and to them Abdul disclosed my mahogany knees with much the same air as the gentleman who tells one the fine points of the living skeleton on Hampstead Heath. They gazed in wonder. At last Achmed put his hand on my knee. "This called?" he asked. "Knee," I told him.

"Yes," he said thoughtfully, "this neece--Arabic; this" (pointing to an unsunburnt part of my leg)--"Eengleesh."

Then the washing proceeded uninterruptedly. "You feelin' very quais (good)?" Abdul asked. I told him I was pretty quais, but that I had been quaiser. "Ginral comin' safternoon and Missus," he informed me, and I gathered that no less a person than the Commander-in-Chief (one of them) was to visit the hospital. And so it happened, for about five o'clock there was a clinking of spurs in the passage, and the matron ushered in an affable brass hat and a very charming lady. In the background hovered several staff officers. Suddenly their ranks were burst asunder and Abdul appeared breathless.

He had nearly missed the show. He stood over me with an air of ownership and suddenly whipped off my bed clothes, displaying my nether limbs. He saw he had made an impression. "Neece is Arabic," he said proudly. It was Abdul's best turn, and he brought the house down. The visitors departed, but for ten minutes I heard loud laughter from down the corridor. Abdul had departed in their wake, doubtless to tell Achmed and Mohammed of the success of his coup.