Part 1

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Bradbury, Agnew & Co.,

Printers,

London and Tonbridge.

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Punch, Or The London Charivari

Volume 148, January 6th, 1915

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NOTES ON NEWS.

BY A CYNIC.

The news that fills our daily files From special correspondents--miles Behind the Front--perchance beguiles The simple, but the sceptic riles.

The news from Rott- or Amst-erdam Has German powder in its jam.

The news from Petrograd, when fine And large, 'tis wiser to decline Without the GRAND DUKE'S countersign.

The Russian news that comes from Rome Is as romantic as a pome.

The news that comes from Austrian sources MÜNCHHAUSEN'S shade alone endorses.

The news from Nish upon Vienna Acts somewhat like the tea of senna.

News from Vienna wakes in Nish The exclamation "Tush!" or "Pish!"

On Turkish telegrams, _qua_ fiction, We may bestow our benediction;

They match (their humour is so tireless) The exploits of the German Wireless.

In fine, the cautious type eschews, As wholly prejudicial To his enlightenment, all news Save the Allies' official.

* * * * *

"The National Gallery had an unwonted experience. Quite a number of people, among them a church dignitary in garters, were inspecting its masterpieces."--_Evening News._

No mention is made of ourselves--a Press dignitary in sock-suspenders.

* * * * *

FROM THE NEUTRAL NATIONS.

[The recent boom in the export of copper from America to the neutral nations is very significant. If the enemy's supplies of this article--an essential in the manufacture of cartridges, etc.--were cut off, the war would come to a speedy end. The figures for September and October, 1914, show an increase of nearly 400 per cent. over the corresponding figures for 1913.]

O Britain, guardian of the seas, Whose gallant ships (may Heaven speed 'em) Defend the wide world's liberties Against the common foe of Freedom; Doubt not where our true feelings lie; We would not have you come a cropper, Although it suits us to supply That common foe with copper.

Dear Land of Hope, in which we trust, Beneath whose ample wings we snuggle, Safe from the KAISER'S culture-lust And free to live and smile--and smuggle; Devoted to the peaceful arts, We keep our conduct strictly proper, Yet all the time you have our hearts (And Germany our copper).

Although the crown is theirs alone Who crush the tyrant's bold ambitions, Peace hath her profits, all her own, Derived from contraband munitions; And you who fight for Freedom's aims Will surely shrink to put a stopper Upon our bagmen's righteous claims And burst the boom in copper.

Once more we swear our hearts are true And, like the tar's connubial token, "It doesn't matter what we do" If we but keep that pledge unbroken; So while we pray for Prussia's fall, And look to your stout arm to whop her, We mean to answer every call She makes on us for copper.

O. S.

* * * * *

THE KAISER'S LOST CHANCE.

I found him gazing intently at the framed Bill of Fare by the main door of the Restaurant Furioso, where I had often lunched at his table.

"Hullo, Fritz!" I exclaimed. "What are you doing out here? Have you been sacked?"

"Ach, Mein Herr," he answered, "there has of the German waiters what you call an up-round been. I prove myself Swiss; I invoke the memory of WILHELM TELL and the Alpine Club, but the proprietor say that he take no risk, and out I go. But no matter. I myself was myself to have sacked, but he spoke too quick."

I said I was sorry and asked whether he meant to go back to Switzerland. Fritz winked and tapped his breast pocket.

"Perhaps," he said. "I am rich, I have money. But first I buy new clothes and then I lunch at my own table at the Furioso."

"Come where you can tell me all about it," said I, scenting a story, and he led me to a quiet tavern in a back street.

"Beer," was his answer to my first question. "English beer. I have done with Germany."

"I thought you said you were Swiss," I remarked.

"That is so," he replied; "but I have served Germany, and, ach! she have the thankless tooth of the serpent's child. I have read your SHAKSPEARE. But you shall know all," he went on. "Already the police know all, and they laugh in my face. They call me fool, but I have money, and the KAISER has missed his chance.

"Listen, Mein Herr! I have been one of STEINHAUER'S spies. He is the Master Spy and came over to England with the KAISER, and he stayed, I am told, at Buckingham Palace. But STEINHAUER is a fool, and I tell him so in my last letter. One day, a month ago, a gentleman dine at my table: he speak good English and wear London clothes, but I suspect him German, and when I see him eat I know. Some English officers also dine in the room, and he look at them--ach! as there were sour apples in his stomach. So I speak in German to Hans at the next table, and, when I give the bill, the gentleman point out a too-much charge for the butter he have not; I bend my head to read, and he whisper in my ear in German."

"Ah!" I said. "I can guess the next part about the secret meeting and the false name and so on. But tell me how the KAISER missed his chance."

"Well," he resumed, "I become a spy. My duty was to listen to English officers who dine at the Furioso, and to send reports to STEINHAUER through a cutter of hairs in Soho, who call himself Ephraim Smiley, but his right name is Johann Schnitzelbrod. One night three young officers dine at my table and talk much about the British Army. One say the Arsenal is weak, another that the Rangers cannot shoot for nuts, and the third that the Palace is sure to go down next Saturday. 'Aha!' I say to myself, 'the Army is bad, and they fear Zeppelins or revolution.' STEINHAUER will know which, and I shall get the five-pound note. So I send my report; but STEINHAUER is stupid and the five-pound note come not, and I say, 'Better luck on the following occasion.'

"A week later a cavalry officer dine at my table alone, and he talk to me for company. He ask me if I follow horses, and I say, 'Yes, formerly, when they drew the bus.' Then he laugh, and ask whether I ever have what he call a flutter on a dead snip. I scratch my head, but Hans interpret, and so, as you English say, I tumble. I tell him I would like, but for me the dead snip have not yet deceased. He say, 'Put all your tips on Mutton Chop for the Cookingham Stakes,' and he give me a shilling. Presently Hans tell me that Mutton Chop is not an English food, but a horse. He say he know of what he call a bookie who is not a Welshman, and if Mutton Chop win, I multiply my savings one hundert times.

"So I write to STEINHAUER in haste: he must advise the KAISER to put one hundred million marks on Mutton Chop, and the war will be paid for and something left over for poor Fritz. Then I take my savings from the bank and pawn my clothes, and much money goes to the bookie to back Mutton Chop. Well, the good Mutton Chop roll home--that is what Hans call it, and he is a racing-instructed; he has been waiter at Ascot, and once he go to see the City and South London. The same day come a letter from STEINHAUER that I am a _Schweinkopf_, and he shall advise the KAISER no such thing; and he dismiss me with notting.

"But I go to the bookie, who laugh and pay me one tausend pound. He did not care; he make ten tausend from the many fools who back German Sausage. So I write one last letter to STEINHAUER and say, '_Schweinkopf_ yourself! Stew in your own _Sauerkraut_!' He get another spy to denounce me, but I find the police have opened all my letters, and they laugh in my face. But the superintendent say, 'Much obliged, Herr Fritz! Thanks to you, I also make my _bitchen_ on Mutton Chop. When you get another dead snip, pass it on.'"

Then I ordered Fritz another English beer, and gave him an introduction to my own tailor.

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CHARIVARIA.

Germany, it is stated, has promised to pay Turkey a fifth of the war indemnity, when she gets it. This looks as if she didn't expect to win.

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At last, we hear, the enemy has found a song which is becoming as popular as "It's a long way to Tipperary." We refer to "Stop your nibbling, JOFFRE."

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The Sultan of TURKEY is reported to be suffering from a severe heart attack, and the KAISER, it is said, has written to him telling him not to be nervous, and pointing out how soon he himself recovered after his heart had bled for Louvain.

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"There is no room in Germany to-day for soft-hearted humanitarians," says _Die Post_. We had not suspected that the Fatherland was inconveniently crowded with this type.

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The production of _King Albert's Book_ is said to have caused many pangs of jealousy to the KAISER. He must, however, have patience. His army's achievements in Belgium are now being investigated, and _Kaiser Wilhelm's Book_ will appear in due course, and should also cause a sensation.

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The Turkish Army despatched "to deliver Egypt" has begun its march to the Suez Canal, but the Egyptians remain calm, being convinced that there is no real danger of their being delivered.

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Discontent with their Government's inaction increases among the Italians day by day, and the Tiber has risen.

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The report that the EMPEROR FRANCIS JOSEPH is seriously ill is denied. As a matter of fact our information is to the effect that His Majesty has not yet been told about the War, as it was feared that it might worry the old gentleman.

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On Christmas Eve a bomb was planted by an enemy aeroplane in a Dover garden. This must be a case of intensive culture.

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The Crown Prince of GERMANY is reported to have sent a special emissary to this country in order to report whether _The New Clown_ at the New Theatre is, as he suspects, a disrespectful attack on His Royal Highness.

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"The English," says the unspeakable Dr. KARL PETERS in the _Münchener Neueste Nachrichten_, "believe our natural kindness to be mere weakness." Certainly we have never looked upon kindness as being their strong point.

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It is announced from Berlin that the Government intends to issue a new set of stamps for use in Belgium. Germany is evidently trying to attach to herself the sympathy of philatelists--a class of men well known for their adhesive propensities.

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"TRADE WITH THE ENEMY FINE."

_Daily Mail._

We think it a mistake, not to say unpatriotic, to praise illegal transactions in this way.

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In describing the wonderful escape of the Newcastle express the other day when the engine left the rails, _The Evening Standard_ reported that "The passengers contained many soldiers returning home on leave." While we have realised that there might be a danger of some of our heroes being killed by kindness, this news frankly shocks us, and we are sorry that it should have been passed by the Censor.

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Mr. RUDYARD KIPLING entered his fiftieth year last week. He did it quietly, without an ode from the POET LAUREATE.

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The _Vorwärts_ reports that there is a shortage of braces among the German soldiers at the Front. Ostend, evidently, is not "so bracing" after all.

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The Sultan of TURKEY has issued a rescript announcing that the Sultan of EGYPT will be tried by a court-martial of the 4th Army Corps, which is now operating against Egypt. They were wrong who alleged that the Turks are wanting in humour.

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The French Government has prohibited the exportation of butter. Curiously enough the day after the prohibition our provision merchant informed us that he was quite unable to supply us with our "real Devonshire butter" as usual.

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The latest recruiting poster at Hastings runs:--

"FALL IN! SOUTHDOWNS." But this does not necessarily mean cheaper mutton.

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"Reuter's New York correspondent wires that Mr. Eugene Zimmerman, whose death was announced the other day, was the railway magnate, and not the noted caricaturist popularly known as 'Zim.'" This news, when conveyed to the latter, was very well received.

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"NEW YEAR'S HONOURS.

P.C. FOR LABOUR LEADER."

At first we hoped that the police had come for KEIR HARDIE.

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"CAPTURING THE ENEMY'S TRADE."

From Craven House, Northumberland street, W.C., there has been issued a pamphlet entitled 'British Trade with Russia,' compiled from consular reports, by Mr. Malcolm Burr, M.A., D.Sc., etc., the object of the work, which is published at sixpence, being to indicate the colossal potentialities of the Russian market, and to supply some data to the British merchant or manufacturer who contemplates entering it."--_Kentish Mercury._

We have no fault to find with the above, except that it is placed under the general heading "Literature and Art," being actually neither.

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PAYING GUESTS.

I came across Crawshaw in the road unexpectedly. I would rather meet a rate-collector than Crawshaw. He is the most dangerous beggar in England. He could induce a blind crossing-sweeper to guarantee half-a-crown a week to a Belgian Relief Fund. If only he were Chancellor of the Exchequer people would almost like paying income-tax.

"Good morning, old man," I said, trying to dash past him.

"Just the man I was looking for," said Crawshaw. "I want you."

"My dear fellow," I began, "I can't possibly afford----"

"I don't want your money," interrupted Crawshaw.

"Well, you've got all my spare blankets, underclothing and old novels."

"I want you to come to a little dinner I'm giving on Monday. Just a bachelor festival."

I looked at him suspiciously. "You intend to entice me into your house and produce a subscription list."

"My dear fellow, I'll do nothing of the sort. It's just that I want a few of my friends to have a good time. Look in about 7.30. You'll come? That's good."

I found a genial company assembled when I arrived.

"Now we're all here," said Crawshaw. "Come in to dinner, you men."

Two or three guests confided to me on the way that Crawshaw owed us a good dinner after all he had got out of us. We seated ourselves at the table, and then I noticed an empty bowl in the middle. It bore this inscription, "Any one desiring to make a remark about the War will drop a shilling in for the Soldiers' Comforts Fund."

"My idea," said our smiling host. "We want a nice convivial dinner with an evening off from The Subject. We shall return to it to-morrow with fresh intelligence and enthusiasm after a brief relaxation."

I turned to my neighbour, Spoor, and carefully selecting a safe topic began on the weather. "Bit windy, isn't it, to-night?"

"Good anti-Zeppelin weather, I call it," said the incautious Spoor.

"A shilling, please, Spoor," remarked Crawshaw.

Rogers was across the table. I could see him fiddling with knives and salt-cellars. All at once he broke out: "In our platoon to-day there was a man missing, and in consequence a blank file. Now in such a case----"

"You pay a shilling," interposed Crawshaw.

For a moment an awful silence prevailed. I could think of nothing except the War. All at once Williams threw a five-shilling piece into the bowl.

"I met an officer on leave from the Front to-day," he began, "and he was telling me just what JOFFRE is up to."

Now Chapman is nothing if not a strategist. He listened with impatience to the exposition of JOFFRE'S idea, and then, hurling half-a-sovereign into the bowl, proved conclusively that Williams' informant was absolutely in the wrong.

It was at this point that I remembered an interesting fact I had just heard about Italy's mobilisation. I could not keep it back. "Crawshaw," I appealed, "will you compromise? A sovereign each for the dinner?"

"Done," said Crawshaw.

"Good. I always mistrusted you. I came without a penny. Lend me a sovereign."

"I'm not in this compromise," cried Chapman. "I've said all I've got to say. You'll run me in for nothing more."

It was at the end of the meal that Crawshaw rose. "Thanks awfully, you fellows. There's twelve pounds twelve in the bowl. Eleven of us have given a sovereign and Chapman there, bless his generous heart, thirty-two shillings."

"Crawshaw," grumbled Chapman, "I know you've a family. I know you're too old. I know you're physically disqualified. But you ought to go to the Front. Not only would it raise the spirits of the poor people you leave behind here, but your very presence in the trench with a subscription list would make the enemy run."

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THE REASON.

He was a saturnine-looking man with a distinctly anti-social suggestion; but after a while he began to talk. We discussed one thing and another, and casually he remarked that he was connected with the motor industry--as indeed all men whom one cannot immediately place now are.

He did not build cars, he said, or design them, or sell them. What then did he do?

"My task is a peculiar one," he said, "and you might never guess it. It is wholly concerned with taxi-cabs. I am an inspector of taxi-cab windows."

He looked at me as with a challenge.

"It is your duty," I inquired, with a horrible feeling that I could not congratulate him on his efficiency, "to inspect the windows and see that they are in good order?"

"To inspect the windows--yes," he replied; "but not for the purpose you name."

"Then why inspect them?" I asked warmly. "What is wanted is some one to see that the wretched things can be manipulated. I would bet that out of every ten cabs I am in not more than two have windows that will work."

"Two!" he mused. "That's a very high percentage. I must see to that."

"High!" I exclaimed.

"Yes, high," he repeated. "You see, my duty is to visit the garages all over London before the cabs go out and see that the windows won't work. If they do work I disarrange them. That's my job."

"But why?" I gasped.

"Haven't you noticed how much worse they have been lately, and that, when you take a cab off the rank, the windows are always down when you get in, however bad the weather?"

"Yes," I said, "Everyone must have noticed it."

"Well," he continued, "that's my doing. That's my job."

"But why?" I repeated.

"Just a part of the general scheme of getting the War into people's minds," he said. "The darkening of London, the closing of the public-houses, the defective cab windows--they're all of a piece. Only the cab-window trick is the most useful."

"How?" I asked.

"Well, it hardens you," he said. "It accustoms you to cold and wet, and that's all to the good."

So now I know.

* * * * *

"Around Souraine there have been violet combats.... We have made considerable progress in the region."--French communiqué, as reported in _The Western Evening Herald._

We know that Battles of Flowers are a speciality of our comrades of France, and we are not surprised to hear that the enemy was beaten at this exchange of gallantries.

* * * * *

ELEVEN SECONDS.

The word "schedule" always bothers me; when I see it on an income-tax paper I lose my head. In my confusion I sign my name lavishly. I confess to profits from trades, professions, employments _and_ vocations; I reveal the presence of unsuspected gas-works, quarries, salt-springs, alum mines, streams of water, ferries, cemeteries and "other concerns of the like nature within the United Kingdom"; no secret is made of my colonial and foreign possessions. Wherever I see an inviting gap I slip in a few figures.... Then the assessor looks at my paper and tells me what I ought to give him.

This year things went worse than ever. I got some noughts in the wrong place; a whole lot of gaps headed "Claim for Relief in Respect of Earned Income," which I had supplied with particular liberality, went by the board, all because I hadn't noticed in the preambulation some foolish date "before which any claim must be preferred." Those two accidents practically doubled my little tax ... and then LLOYD GEORGE went and doubled it again. It began to look as if it would be cheaper to pay income on my income-tax instead of the other way round.

"Celia," I said, "we're ruined. Cancel any orders for potted salmon; we shall have to live simply in future." And I told her just what the tax-gatherer had asked for.

"But why do we have to pay so much?" she asked.

"Partly because of the KAISER, and partly because of me. History will apportion the blame."

Celia seemed prepared to anticipate History.

"Don't forget," I went on hastily, "that the money will be well spent. If I had to make a fool of myself, I would sooner have done it this year than any other. It is a privilege to pay for a war like this."

Celia looked thoughtful.

"How much does the war cost England?" she asked.

"Oh, lots. I think it mentioned the exact figures in _The Times_ this morning. They'll be only too glad of my little contribution."

She retired in search of _The Times_.

* * * * *

The stars denote Celia at work. I can imagine her with her head on one side and the tip of her tongue just peering out to see how she is getting on, the paper in front of her a mass of figures. The ink is creeping up her pen; her forefinger is nervous and bids her hurry.

She has finished, and she comes into the room, trying to look grave. My letter to the Assessor, "Sir and Friend,--By the beard (if any) of your ancestor, I beseech you----" is abandoned, and I turn to her.

"Well?"

"I've worked it out," she said. "Do you know how long you'll be paying for the war?"

"Oh, quite a long time."

"Eleven seconds."

It was a little disappointing.

"Eleven seconds," repeated Celia. "One--two--three--four----"

"That's too fast. Begin again."

"One----two----three----"

"That's better."

She counted eleven. It seemed much longer now. One----two---- three----four....

And all the time my brave army was fighting in Flanders, my navy was sweeping the North Sea, my million recruits were growing into soldiers. In Yorkshire my looms were busy, ARMSTRONG'S were turning out my guns, Northampton was giving my gallant boys their boots. Did an aeroplane shoot up into the sky, did a submarine dive into the deep, mine was the supporting hand. Was I not a god among men?

"Ten," said Celia--"eleven. What are you thinking about?"

I pitched my letter to the Assessor in the fire.

"I've been thinking about my war," I said. "Every shot that was fired while you were counting I paid for; I paid for the food of every soldier and sailor; for the separation allowances of their wives; for hospitals and ambulances and doctors."

"How lovely it sounds. I hadn't thought of it like that. It makes eleven seconds seem an age."

"It is an age. For eleven seconds FRENCH and JELLICOE were my men."