Part 1

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

Volume 148, January 20th, 1915

_edited by Owen Seamen_

* * * * *

CHARIVARIA.

"At every point," we read, "the Allies have made sensible progress." So different from the stupid progress made very occasionally by the enemy!

* * *

We have been asked to recommend suitable Fiction for reading during the War. We have no hesitation in calling attention to the claims of the war news from Amsterdam and Rome.

* * *

The Prussian Government has ordered that there shall be no public festivities on the occasion of the birthday of the KAISER. This confirms the rumour that HIS MAJESTY now wishes that he had not been born.

* * *

By the way, to show how far-reaching is the influence of a Prussian command even to-day, no public festivities will take place on the occasion referred to either in Belgium, France, Russia, Japan, Serbia, Montenegro, or Great Britain.

* * *

Dr. DERNBURG--and the expression is really not a bit too strong for him--has been telling an American audience that his countrymen really "love the French and the Belgians." At the risk of appearing ungrateful, however, our allies are saying that the Germans have such a subtle way of showing their love that they would rather be hated, please.

* * *

"Germany," says the _Cologne Gazette_ in an article on the food question, "has still at hand a very large supply of pigs." Even after the enormous number they have exported to Belgium.

* * *

Meanwhile we are constantly assured that the food question causes no anxiety whatever in Germany. It certainly does seem, judging by the lies with which the Germans are fed, that these wonderful people will be able to swallow anything.

* * *

Lord ROSEBERY'S appointment as Captain-General of the Royal Company of Scottish Archers has not escaped the notice of the alert German Press, and it is being pointed out in Berlin that we are so hard up in the matter of equipment for our army that bows and arrows are now being served out.

* * *

The new corps which has just been formed with the title of the "Ju-Jitsu Corps" has, we are informed, no connection with the artistes who went to the Front to give entertainments for the troops.

* * *

Both officers and men in certain towns are beginning to complain of the irksomeness of the constant salutes that have to be given when they walk abroad. Surely it should be possible to invent some simple little contrivance whereby a button is pressed and a mechanical hand does the rest?

* * *

Suggested name for a regiment of Bantams--The Miniature Rifles.

* * *

A peculiarly touching instance of patriotism has been brought to our notice. A London barber whose measurements are too puny to allow of his being accepted as a recruit has written to the War Office offering to barb some wire for them in his spare time.

* * *

"Mr. KEIR HARDIE," says a bulletin, "was yesterday reported to be gradually improving." But we are afraid that this only refers to his health.

* * *

An Englishman had suddenly to exercise all his tact the other day. He was in Kensington Gardens with a Belgian refugee. "What's that?" he asked, pointing to the Albert Memorial. The Englishman explained. "What, already a monument to our brave King!" cried the Belgian as he embraced his friend. The Englishman, with admirable reticence, said nothing.

* * *

"A Turkish advance guard," says a telegram, "has occupied Tabriz." Very plucky of him, and his name ought to be published. Can it be dear old Turkish Reggie?

* * *

The _Vorwärts_ computes that the War is costing nine millions a day. Small wonder if, in these hard times, one or two countries look upon war as a luxury which they ought to try to get on without.

* * *

"As there is every probability," we read, "that the child population of Kensington will decline in the future owing to the migration of families to the outer suburbs, the L.C.C. proposes to meet the present demand for a new school by building a 'short-life school,' one that will last but twenty years." The difficulty, of course, will be so to construct it that it will collapse gently on the last day of its twentieth year, and the problem threatens to tax to the utmost the ingenuity of our jerry-builders.

* * * * *

During a "stormy scene" in Stirling School Board, Councillor BARKER, according to _The Glasgow Evening Times_, "refused to withdraw, alleging that Mr. Reid taunted him on the streets as being an Alpine Purist." "Alpine purist" is a term of abuse with which _Mr. Punch_ has never sullied his lips, though once he nearly referred to a very tedious bishop as a cis-Carpathian pedagogue.

* * * * *

NOTICE.

The advertisement which appeared in our last week's issue, opposing the principle of the inoculation of soldiers against typhoid, came in very late, and unfortunately its contents were not submitted to the Secretary, who was merely told of the source from which it came--namely, the Anti-Vivisection Society. _Mr. Punch_ is himself absolutely in favour of inoculation against typhoid for the troops.

* * * * *

TO "GENERAL JANVIER."

("_In the Spring a young man's fancy ..._")

At it, old warrior! do your worst! Here's Fevrier coming, moist and blowy, And any trench you leave for him Not saturated to the brim He will accommodate its thirst As in the days of NOË.

But we, well-armed in every pore Against the tricks you mean to try on, Will stick it out through slush and slime, And bide, as best we may, our time Till General Mars begins to roar Just like a British lion.

And ere his exit, like a lamb, The sloppy mess shall all be tidied, And (since I can't believe that K. Has said that things won't move till May) We shall step out, as SHEM and HAM Did when the flood subsided.

Spring! Ah, to what a sanguine view Thoughts of the vernal prime provoke us! Yet never in my whole career Can I recall a single year When I so much looked forward to The advent of the crocus.

For with the Spring, when youth is free To execute its inward yearning, Like to a lark (or other bird) The soul of Thomas shall be stirred, And to Berlin I hope to see The young man's fancy turning.

O.S.

* * * * *

A FORCED MARCH.

Petherby recommended route-marching; said he used to suffer from sensations of repletion after heavy meals, just as I did, but, after a series of Saturday afternoons spent in route-marching through our picturesque hill country (Herne, Brixton, Denmark and so forth), the distressing symptoms completely vanished, and he now felt as right as a trivet.

I hadn't a ghost of a notion what a trivet was, nor yet what degree of rectitude was expected of it; but I nevertheless determined to try the route-march cure. Bismuth and pepsin should henceforth be drugs in the market as far as I was concerned. The only doubt in my mind was whether, technically speaking, I could perform a route-march all by myself. Somehow I thought etiquette demanded the presence of a band, or at any rate a drum and fife _obbligato_. But Petherby thought not, and declared it would prove just as effective rendered as a solo. "Besides," he added, "if you want music to invigorate you, you can whistle or hum. Moreover, you can switch the music on or off at will."

I resolved to start the treatment the following Saturday afternoon, and certainly should have done so but for the weather, which was very moist. If there's one thing I hate more than dyspepsia it's rheumatism. The next Saturday was fine--fine for a Saturday, that is; but a well-meant gift of tickets for a _matinée_, which it would have been churlish of me to refuse, robbed me of my prospective enjoyment. However, Saturday of the week after was also fine. Nothing stood in the way of my pleasurable tramp, and I determined to route-march home from the City.

I spent two hours in ill-concealed impatience--the marker told me he had never seen me put up such a poor game--waiting to see if the weather would change. But as at the expiration of that time it had apparently got stuck I decided to risk it.

Softly humming to myself, "Here we are again," I route-marched out of the hotel into Bishopsgate in fine style, and got on to a bus bound for the Bank (I did this to save time). Arrived at the Bank I took another bus to Blackfriars (I did this to save more time. I thought it would be nice to commence the march from the Embankment). When I reached Blackfriars I remembered that all the big walks started from the political end, so as I did not wish to assume any superiority which I did not strictly possess I took the tram to Westminster. There I alighted and was about to set off over Westminster Bridge when it occurred to me that I hadn't had any tea. To route-march on an empty stomach was, I felt sure, the height of folly. I therefore repaired to a tea-shop in the vicinity, where I encountered young Pilkington. We discussed KITCHENER and crumpets, training and tea, the KAISER and cake, and with a little adroitness I managed to bring in the subject of the medicinal value of route-marching. When I rose to go Pilkington inquired my destination.

"Norbury," I told him.

"That's lucky," he said; "I shall be able to give you a lift in a taxi as far as Kennington."

In vain I expostulated with him, and urged that I was route-marching, not route-cabbing. But he wouldn't listen.

"Anyhow," he concluded, "it's most dangerous to march just after a crumpet tea. Haven't you read your 'Infantry Training'?"

The upshot of the matter was that we taxied to Kennington, where at last I managed to leave him. And then I began to feel tired. True, I hadn't done any marching, but it was none the less true that I felt as tired as if I had. However, I succeeded in struggling on for about fifty yards (to the tune of HANDEL'S _Largo_), and then I boarded a tram. It had only proceeded a quarter-of-a-mile or so when the current failed and we all had to get out. I waited half-an-hour for a fresh batch of current to arrive, but none came, and I realised that my best course would be to walk to Brixton Station and procure a cab.

Accordingly, to the melody of "I don't expect to do it again for months and months and months," I put my best foot foremost. It was a moot point which of my two feet merited this distinction; they both felt deplorably senile. Then it began to rain--no mere niggardly sprinkling, but a lavish week-end cataclysm. I reached the station in the condition known to chemists as a saturated solution, only to find that there was not a cab on the rank. I was therefore compelled to adopt the only means of transport left to me--to route-march home....

I ultimately staggered in at my gate at an advanced hour of the evening to the strains of the opening bars of TSCHAIKOWSKY'S Pathetic Symphony, whistled mentally. I was far beyond making the actual physical effort.

That night I wrote a postcard to Petherby. It ran as follows:--"Have just completed your course of treatment. Am cured."

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE ORGANIST.

A MODERN PORTRAIT.

Grave and serene, though young at heart, "The Doctor," so his boys address him, And rightly, since his healing art Has made full many a mourner bless him-- For close on twenty years has served An ancient church renowned in story, And never in his teaching swerved From studying God's greater glory.

His choir, like every singing school, By turns angelic and demonic, Are quick to recognise a rule That is both "dominant" and "tonic;" For contact with so rare a mind Has seldom failed to spur and raise them, And when they shirk their needful grind With just rebuke he turns and flays them.

Withal he knows that human boys Are dulled by industry unending, And unreservedly enjoys Himself at seasons of unbending; A diet of perpetual Psalms Is only fit for saints and Dantes, And so he varies BACH and BRAHMS With simple tunes and rousing chanties.

His taste is catholic and sane; He does not treat as worthless lumber All MENDELSSOHN, or SPOHR disdain, Or let the works of HANDEL slumber; He likes to keep Church music clear From operatic frills and ribbons, And never ceases to revere TALLIS and PURCELL, BYRD and GIBBONS.

And thus he wisely neither aims At showing off his erudition, Nor for his choir and organ claims A _prima donna_-like position; He sees no virtue in mere speed, With sentiment he scorns to palter, And gives his most especial heed To the clear chanting of the Psalter.

He loves his organ far too well To be o'er-lavish with its thunder, Yet wields at will the magic spell That moves our hearts to awe or wonder; Three centuries have lent its keys All that consoles, inspires, rejoices, And with a calm consummate ease He blends the new and ancient voices.

And in these days when mothers mourn, When joy is fled and faith is shaken, When age survives bereft, forlorn, And youth before its prime is taken, He draws from music's soul divine A double magic, gently pleading With grief its passion to resign And happy warriors vanward speeding.

The hurrying years their changes bring; New-comers fill the singers' benches; And many whom he taught to sing To-day are fighting in the trenches; But howsoe'er their sun shall set, They'll face or glory or disaster More nobly for the lifelong debt They owe to their beloved master.

* * * * *

"On the other hand, the motor cycle rider may consider the law of expediency. When he confronts a motor car that insists on taking more than one-half of the road, it is up to him to stop and consider: 'Shall I insist on my rightful half of the road, and perhaps get injured, or shall I waive my right and break my neck?'"--_Cape Argus._

Personally we wave our neck, and brake with the right.

* * * * *

From a sale advert.:--

"OAK BEDSTEADS. PILLOW CASES. BREAKFAST SET To match above for 6 persons."

However, it is generally considered dangerous to breakfast more than five in a bed.

* * * * *

THE RECRUITER.

Madingley is one of those men who are always asking you to do things for them. He will send you cheerfully on the top of a bus from the City to Hammersmith to buy tobacco for him at a particular little shop, and if you point out that he could do it much better in his own car, he says reproachfully that the car is only used for business purposes. (If so, he must have a good deal of business at Walton Heath.) "Isn't your cousin a doctor?" he'll say. "I wonder if you'd mind asking him----" And somehow you can't refuse. He beams at you with such confidence through his glasses.

However, it was apparently to tell me news that he came to see me the other day.

"I'm horribly busy," he said. "The fact is I'm going to enlist."

"They won't take you," I said. "You're blind."

"Not so blind as you are."

"Put it that we're both blind, and that our King and Country want neither of us."

"Well, I'm not so sure. There are lots of people with spectacles in the Army."

"And lots of flies in amber," I said, "but nobody seems to know how they came there."

Then Madingley got to business. His partner, who had enlisted in August, had developed lung trouble and had returned to civil life. Madingley was now free to go. He had heard from a friend that the 121st Rifles (a Territorial Regiment) had no conscientious objections to spectacles. Would I--(I thought it must be coming)--would I go and find out for him? He gave me the address of their head-quarters.

"You see I'm so horribly busy, old chap--clearing up at the office, and so on."

Well, of course I had to. Madingley's attitude of pained forgiveness, if one refuses him anything, is more than I can bear. Alter all, it didn't seem very much to do.

I began with the sentry outside.

"Can you tell me----" I said pleasantly. He scowled and jerked his head towards the door. I went in and tried another man. "Can you tell me----" I began. "Enlist?" he said. "Upstairs." I went upstairs and pushed open a door. "Can you tell me----" I said. "This is the canteen," answered a man in an apron....

At last I found a sergeant. "Enlist?" he said briskly. "Come in." I went in.

He leant against a table and I smiled at him pleasantly.

"I just wanted to ask," I said, "whether----"

"Quite so," he said, and gave me a long explanation of what my pay would be now that I had decided to join the Army. He began with the one and a penny of a private and was working up towards the stipend of a Field Marshal when I stopped him.

"One moment----"

"Exactly," he said. "You're married."

"Y--yes," I said. "At least, no," I added, thinking of Madingley.

"Surely you know?" he asked in surprise.

I remembered suddenly the penalty for a false declaration. It would be no good explaining afterwards that I meant Madingley.

"Yes," I said. "Married."

He told me what my separation allowance would be.... As a married Field Marshal with three children it came to ----.

I decided to be firm.

"Er--I mustn't trouble you too much," I said. "I really only wanted to know if you take men with spectacles."

"Depends how short-sighted you are. Do you always wear them?"

"No, but I ought to really." I made a desperate effort to get Madingley back into the conversation. "I really only came to find out for a----"

"Ah, well, the best thing you can do," said the sergeant, "is to pass the medical examination first. You can sign the papers afterwards. Come along."

I followed him meekly downstairs. It was obviously not Madingley's afternoon.

We plunged downstairs into what was no doubt the anti-Zeppelin cellar. Through the gloom I saw dimly two or three pink-and-white figures waiting their turn to be thumped. Down the throat of a man in the middle of the room a doctor was trying to climb. Mechanically I began to undo my tie.

The sergeant spoke to one of the doctors and then came back to me.

"It'll save time if we do your sight first," he said. "Stand over in this corner."

I stood in the corner....

For a long time nothing happened.

"Well?" said the sergeant impatiently.

"Well?" I said.

"Why don't you read?"

"What? Have we begun?" I asked in surprise. I couldn't see anything.

The medical officer came over to me and in a friendly way put his hand over my left eye. It didn't help much, but I spotted where he came from, and gathered that the card must be in that direction. Gradually it began to loom through the blackness.

"Wait a moment," I said. I removed his hand and gazed keenly at the opposite wall. "That's a B," I announced proudly. "That top one."

The doctor and the sergeant looked at each other.

"It's no good," sighed the sergeant.

"He can't even read the first two lines," groaned the doctor.

"It's all very well for you two," I broke in indignantly; "one of you lives down here and is used to it, and the other knows the card by heart. I haven't come to enlist for night operations only. Surely your regiment does things in the daylight sometimes?"

The doctor, only knowing about the daylight by hearsay, looked blank; the sergeant repeated sadly, "Not even the first two lines."

"Look here," I said, "lend me the card to-night and I'll come again to-morrow. If it's only two lines you want, I think I can promise you them."

The doctor said mournfully that he might lend me the card, but that in that case it would be his painful duty to put up a different card for me on the next day.

There seemed to be nothing more to say. I was about to go when a face which I recognised emerged from the gloom. It had a shirt underneath it and then legs. The face began to grin at me.

"Hallo," said a voice.

"Hallo, Rogers," I said; "_you_ enlisting? I thought you couldn't get leave." Rogers is in the Civil Service, and his work is supposed to be important.

"Well, I haven't exactly got leave--yet," he said awkwardly. "The fact is, I just came here to ask about a commission for a friend, and while I was here I--er--suddenly decided to risk it. You know Madingley, by the way, don't you?"

"I used to think so," I said.

But now I see that there is more in Madingley than I thought. His job in this war is simple--and exactly suited to himself. By arrangement with the War Office he sends likely recruits to make enquiries for him--and the sergeant does the rest.

A. A. M.

* * * * *

"S. C.--1. The brussels-sprouts will do no harm to the apple trees."--_Morning Post._

All very well, but we know what these Belgians are. As likely as not they have been plotting for years with the French beans to spring upon their inoffensive neighbours.

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE SACRIFICE.

SCENE: _At the "Plough and Horses."_

"I be mortal sorry for that poor George--cut up as ever I see a man at thought of it."

"Tenderest-hearted fellow in these 'ere parts, and a true friend to all dumb animals."

"She be more 'n an animal to 'im. 'Aving no chick nor child, you may say as she's companioned 'im these many months."

"'E 'ave right to be proud of 'er too. Never did I see a more 'andsome sow--an' I've seen a many."

"She's been a right good sow to 'e."

"An' now 'e be nigh 'eart-broken 'long of these unnatural orders. For stuck ev'ry blessed pig 'as got to be should they Germans get anywheres within ten miles of us."

"I see 'im now as 'e was when 'e first got wind of it--fair struck all of a 'eap, 'e were. 'I ain't got no objection to burning ricks,' 'e says, 'for ricks ain't got 'uman ways to 'em, same as my old sow. But kill my old sow,' 'e says, 'that's asking of me more 'n I can do.'"

"'Tain't a question of asking, either. Them's our orders, set out in black and white."

"Somebody says that to George--and a cold-blooded word it seemed to me, considering 'is depth o' trouble."

"What did the old chap say to that?"

"'Orders?' 'e says; 'ain't this a free country? An' you come between me an' my old sow with orders!' 'e says."

"'Military law,' I says to 'im myself, 'makes 'avoc o' freedom--so it do. But with they Germans at your very gates,' I says, 'freedom ain't the same thing as a clean pair of 'eels. An' a pig's an awkward customer to drive in an 'urry,' I says."

"Ain't to be done--not really brisk like, any'ow."

"'E seed that, o' course?"

"Wouldn't say so, any way. An' the names 'e called the Government, or 'ooever 'twas as 'anded round them orders, fair surprised us all. Never knew the old chap could lay 'is tongue to the 'alf of it."

"If ever they Germans get 'ereabout there'll be trouble for the Government about old George."

"'E ain't got chick nor child, yer see. A man can't get on without something... Why, 'ere _be_ George."

"Evening, George. You come right in an' 'ave your pint, George."

"I earnt my pint to-day--so I 'ave. Busiest day's work I done this side o' my wife's passing away, poor soul."

"What you been doing, George?"