Chapter 1

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PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 150

February 2, 1916.

CHARIVARIA.

According to the Correspondent of _The Daily Mail_ who described the festivities at Nish, the King of BULGARIA "has a curious duck-like waddle." This is believed to be the result of his effort to do the Goose-Step while avoiding the Turkey-Trot.

***

Owing to the extraction of benzol and toluol from gas for the purpose of making high-explosives it is stated that consumers may have to put up with some decrease in illuminating power. It is expected, in view of the good object involved, that the announcement will be received in a spirit of toluoleration.

***

We cannot agree with the actor who complains that his manager forbids him to wear his armlet on the stage. The sympathies of the audience might be entirely deranged by the discovery that the elderly villain was an attested patriot while the young and beautiful hero was either ineligible or a slacker.

***

Describing the depressed condition of the laundry trade a witness at the Clerkenwell County Court said, "We are eight million double collars short every week." It is shrewdly conjectured that they are in the neighbourhood of the Front.

***

Nothing in the course of his Balkan pilgrimage is reported to have pleased the KAISER so much as a steamer-trip on the Danube. It was looking so sympathetically blue.

***

The Government is going to close Museums and Picture-galleries to the public. No one shall accuse us of being Apostles of Culture.

***

It is said that the Australian and New Zealand soldiers now in London are very fond of visiting the British Museum, and take a particular interest in the Egyptian antiquities. But it is not true that they now refer to England as "The Mummy Country."

***

Austrians and Hungarians are said to be quarrelling as to whether the occupied Serbian territory should eventually belong to the Monarchy or the Kingdom, and the jurists on either side are ransacking the history of the past for arguments to support their respective cases. Here we have another instance of the fondness of learned men for disputing about purely academic questions. Serbia will belong to the Serbians.

***

An American gentleman, who started out to visit his wife when she was staying with her mother and failed to find her after three days' search, excuses himself on the ground that he had forgotten her maiden name. He puts it down to absence of mind; and his mother-in-law is inclined to agree with him.

***

Soap is the latest article to be placed on the list of absolute contraband; and it is now more certain than ever that the Germans will not come out of the War with clean hands.

***

In view of the impending paper-famine a widely-circulated journal announces its readiness to receive back from the public any parcels of old copies marked "waste paper." In the opinion of its trade-rivals the inscription is superfluous.

***

A suggestion has been made by a Registrar in Bankruptcy that the Tercentenary of SHAKSPEARE'S death should be celebrated by the performance in every large town of one of the Bard's plays; and some regret has been expressed that anybody should take advantage of a national celebration to boom his own business.

***

"'How many of us realise that, were it not for America, the War to-day in Europe, as fought, could not even exist?'" is the question put, according to a New York correspondent, "by Mr. Gutzon Borglum, the great American sculptor." Still the War has its compensations. But for its existence we might never have heard of Mr. GUTZON BORGLUM, the great American sculptor.

***

A correspondent, describing the recent food riots in Berlin, says that they were chiefly due to "women who were fed up with the difficulty of providing meals for their families."

***

The following notice was found affixed to a building somewhere near the Front: "SIR OFFICERS,--Ask the bathroom's key to the office. The bathroom shall be wash by the servant after bath. Sir Officer without servant shall not have the key." It sounds rather abrupt.

***

Owing to the Government demand that nothing in the way of unnecessary expenditure should be allowed, it is expected that all paid lecturers on War Economy and National Thrift will be given a week's notice.

***

Opposing a suggestion of the Wandsworth Borough Council to discontinue the issue of fiction from the free libraries, a member of the Women's Freedom League said that a novel was to a woman what a pipe was to a man. Well, not quite, perhaps. We never saw a man begin a pipe at the wrong end.

* * * * *

* * * * *

From an article by Mr. AUSTIN HARRISON in _The Sunday Pictorial_:--

"A few strange gentlemen attitudinise in Westminster on principle, but these men would cut capers of principle in any case, like Mr. Snodgrass when he went skating."

Or _Mr. Winkle_ when he wrote verses.

* * * * *

"In the Continental boat-trains the warning, '_Licht linauslehnen_,' has not been removed from the windows.... Occasionally you see that '_Nicht linauslehnen_' has been indignantly pasted over."--_Provincial Paper._

The latter is certainly a little more German than the other.

* * * * *

After a description of the new lighting order:--

"The regulations will impose a great deal of work on the police, and it is the duty of the public to make it as light as possible."--_Hampshire Observer._

_Lux_, in fact, _a non lucendo_.

* * * * *

A LONELY LIFE.

"Nothing but margarine has entered my door since the War began."--_Dr. C. W. SALEEBY in "Daily Chronicle."_

* * * * *

THE WATCH DOGS.

XXXIV.

MY DEAR CHARLES,--We're having a great time with our new arrival, one of those confounded civilians, who are only let into the business because the business, in these modern and highly complicated days, cannot be carried on without them. He's a jolly old Lieutenant of about fifty years; he has a concentrated experience of the world but doesn't remember having been mixed up in a big European war before. At first I kept on telling him that business is one thing and war is another, but he wouldn't see it and persisted in doing and saying and thinking things which were bound to land us in a national disaster. He had no respect whatever for the Pass Memo., his central and sole idea being to push along with the elimination of the Bosch. When he wanted something done, he just went to the Top-man of the department, called him "I say," and went straight to the point. The Top-man had never been asked to do business this way before.

He put up with it a dozen times or so, but finally he had to take steps. So he wrote a little note on a Buff slip and addressed it, very rightly of course, to the Top-man but one; and the Top-man but one read it and passed it very carefully to the Top-man but two; and so, with that inevitability which is the hall-mark of the system, it was passed and passed and passed until it came (in less than a week) to the office of the ancient Lieutenant on the opposite side of the street. And it ran: "Lieutenant So-and-So should be notified that it is neither necessary nor desirable that he should call personally at this office to transact his business. Matters should be put forward by him through the usual course of correspondence." The ancient Lieutenant, who wouldn't hurt anybody's feelings for the world, felt that it was up to him to put the matter right. So he stepped across to the Top-man's office, and when the Top-man asked him, somewhat pointedly, if he had received his note, the Ancient very genially replied, "Yes, thank you," and explained that he had just looked in personally to acknowledge receipt of same.

It sounds as if a dreadful quarrel would be raging between the Ancient on one side and on the other the Top-man, the whole series of under-Top-men and all persons in any way representing the military system. You'd expect to hear that the Ancient's conversation at mess is insubordinate, rebellious, or at least bitterly sarcastic. No such thing; the old gentleman becomes a more ardent militarist every day; wants to see once for all an end of all lawyer-politicians, and all so-called "business-men." "We have made a poor show of being civilians," is his point; "let's try being soldiers for a generation or two."

On the whole he thinks we should find it easier to carry on as a British Empire in uniform than as a German province in mufti. He says that what's wrong with Prussian Militarism is that it is Prussian; to succeed, the thing has to be run by gentlemen.

A Top-man honoured our mess the other night. Under the mellowing influence of our Curried Bully he unbent somewhat and encouraged the Ancient on his pet subject. Under the influence of the latter's theories he unbent still further. He discoursed upon the true inwardness of the military method of running an office, pausing at last for the Ancient to say a few words. "Oh," said he, "I don't allow myself to be put off by a trifle like that. There's many a kind heart behind a Buff slip, and we all have our little weaknesses." The idea of having a little weakness was so novel to the Top-man that it caused him to choke and to be led from the mess, eventually, in a state of nervous exhaustion.

The latest information from the trenches goes to support the maxim that all one requires to wage war is a bold face and a gas helmet. A very distinguished O.C. went up the other day to inspect the trenches of his command and to express such views of their faults and the faults of their inmates as might occur to him from time to time. He had progressed some way up the communication trench, when it struck him that, whereas his recent order had been particularly menacing to everyone of whatever rank who was discovered there or thereabouts without a gas helmet, nevertheless he himself was at that moment innocent of such furniture. Fortunately there came from the opposite direction an odds-and-end private, with nothing in his favour except the wearing of the well-known satchel so much in vogue in Flanders society for the carrying of gas helmets. That was enough for the Commander; this was essentially one of those privates to be called "My man," and treated as such. Politely but firmly he was requested to part with his satchel as a temporary loan to his General. Firmly, if respectfully, he refused to comply. Them was his orders. The Commander congratulated him on his very proper attitude, explained to him the nature of the higher commands and demanded the satchel. The man looked like being stony about it, but the Commander became irresistibly commanding and got the satchel at last. He buckled it on, and the party proceeded, characterising the reluctance of the private to part with his treasure as almost an exaggerated sense of obedience to printed orders.

Gas helmets always exercise a peculiar fascination for people who inspect trenches, and the matter was now especially prominent in the mind of the Commander as he marched along, outwardly appearing to be at his happiest here, inwardly thanking goodness that his home was elsewhere. Conceive his delight to discover a subaltern, fresh from ablutions, with no satchel upon him! The subaltern, distinctly aware of this amongst his many failings, was all for being passed by as insignificant; the Commander was all for a scene. Everybody halted, and the air became pregnant with possibilities.... It was a nicely calculated speech, leading up gradually to the pointed contrast between (_a_) overworked Commander, weighed down with responsibilities, absorbed day and night in momentous matters of large principle, nevertheless infallible on smallest detail and now in possession of gas helmet, one, and (_b_) very junior subaltern, free to enjoy the open-air irresponsible life of the trenches, yet neglecting even the few small matters entrusted to him, without same.

"And what's more, Sir," he concluded, "I doubt very much whether, if someone gave you a helmet now, you'd know what to do with it. Here, take mine." (The attendant Brass-hats liked the "mine," but very discreetly kept their emotions to themselves.)

It was not a peculiarly clean or remarkably well-packed satchel which the trembling hand of the disgraced subaltern took from the Commander, and the latter did not intend to let attention dwell too long upon the grimy details of its exterior. Fixing the steel eye of conscious rectitude on his victim, he leant slightly towards him and very unmistakably shouted at him the one dread word, "GAS!".... Unfortunately for the Commander the subaltern not only knew what to do next, but also had just the physical strength remaining in his fingers to start doing it. With the eyes of all upon him (and by this time there had gathered round quite a nice little crowd, thoroughly conversant with the event in progress), the subaltern opened the satchel alleged to belong to the Commander and took from it--no, Charles, not a gas helmet, but a pair of socks--and _such_ socks too!

Yours ever, HENRY.

* * * * *

* * * * *

ON BELLONA'S HEM.

THE MISFIRE.

When I entered the third smoker there was, as there now always is, a soldier in one corner.

Just as we were starting, another soldier got in and sat in the opposite corner. The freemasonry of Khaki immediately setting to work, within two minutes they knew all about each other's camp, destination and regiment, and had exchanged cigarettes.

The first soldier had not yet left England and was stolid; the newcomer had been in the trenches, had been wounded in the leg, had recovered, was shortly going back, and was animated. His leg was all right, except that in wet weather it ached. In fact he could even tell by it when we were going to have rain. His "blooming barometer" he called it. Here he laughed--a hearty laugh, for he was a genial blade and liked to hear himself talk.

The first soldier did not laugh, but was interested. He thought it a convenient thing to have a leg that foretold the weather.

"Which one is it?" he asked.

"The left."

The first soldier was disproportionately impressed.

"The left, is it?" he said heavily, as though he would have understood the phenomenon in the right easily enough. "The left."

Completely unconscious of the danger-signals, the second soldier now began to unload his repertory of stories, and he started off with that excellent one, very popular in the early days of the War, about the wealthy private.

For the sake of verisimilitude he laid the scene in his own barracks. "A funny thing happened at our place the other day," he began. He had evidently had great success with this story. His expression indicated approaching triumph.

But no anticipatory gleam lit the face of his new friend. It was in fact one of those faces into which words sink as into a sandbank--a white, puffy, long face, with a moustache of obsolete bushiness.

"I thought I should have died of laughing," the other resumed, utterly unsuspicious, wholly undeterred.

In the far corner I kept my eye on my book but my ears open. I could see that he was rushing to his doom.

"We were being paid," he went on, "and the quartermaster asked one of the men if he did not wish sixpence to be deducted to go to his wife. The man said, 'No.' 'Why not?' the quartermaster asked. The man said he didn't think his wife would need it or miss it. 'You'd better be generous about it,' the quartermaster said; 'every little helps, you know.'"

He paused. "What do you think the man said to that?" he asked his new friend. "He said," he hurried on, "'I don't think I'll send it. You see, I allow her four thousand a year as it is.'"

The _raconteur_ laughed loudly and leaned back with the satisfaction--or at least some of it--of one who has told a funny story and told it well.

But the other did not laugh at all. His face remained the dull thing it was.

"You see," said the story-teller, explaining the point, "there are all sorts in the Army now, and this man was a toff. He was so rich that he could afford to allow his wife four thousand pounds a year. Four thousand pounds! Do you see?"

"Oh, yes, I see that. He must have been very rich. Why was he just a private?"

"I don't know."

"Funny being a private with all that money. I wonder you didn't ask him."

"I didn't, anyway. But you see the point now. No end of a joke for the quartermaster to try and get a man who allowed his wife four thousand a year to deduct sixpence a week to send to her! I thought I should have died of laughing."

The first soldier remained impassive. "And what happened?" he asked at last.

"What happened?"

"Yes, what was done about it? The sixpence, I mean. Did he agree to send it?"

The second soldier pulled himself together. "Oh, I don't know," he said shortly. "That's not the point."

"After all," the other continued, "the regulations say that married men have to deduct sixpence for their wives, don't they?"

"Yes, of course," the other replied. "But this man, I tell you, already gave her four thousand a year."

"That doesn't really touch it," said the first soldier. "The principle's the same. Now----"

But I could stand the humiliation of the other honest fellow, so brimming with anecdote and cheerfulness, no longer; and I came to his rescue with my cigarette case. For I have had misfires myself too often.

* * * * *

* * * * *

"Mrs. Ruth Roberts, of Folkestone, celebrates the completion of her 103rd year to-day. She is one of a family of twenty-two, and her father fought with two of her sons at Waterloo."--_Irish Times._

She seems to have been very young for a mother when these family dissensions occurred.

* * * * *

"Will you allow me to give a warning to Ford owners who, like myself, jack up to obtain an easy start. A few days ago I was doing so as usual with only one scotch. The car jumped the jack, went over the scotch, knocked me down, ran over me, tore my clothes to rags, bruised me all over, tore my flesh and broke my collar-bone, and I think I got off very lightly. Of course that will not happen to me again."--_The Motor._

He will either drink the Scotch first or not have one at all.

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE FAUNA OF THE FRONT.

Chief among the fauna of the Front is, of course, the Bosch, a subterranean animal of unpleasant habits, which is now classed as vermin. He has been so thoroughly dealt with elsewhere that I shall leave him on one side, and confine my few observations to smaller and pleasanter creatures. The remaining fauna of the Front are (1) mice; (2) rats; with a few interesting extras, furred and feathered, which deserve more serious treatment than I can give them.

At home the mouse is regarded with contemptuous annoyance as a petty but persevering thief; while the rat commits his grosser depredations in an atmosphere tinged with horror. Out here it is different, for we are perforce neighbours. Indeed, we bipeds are in a sense trespassers upon the domain of the subterranean peoples. At home one seldom sees a rat or mouse save from above, and to look down upon anything is invariably to misjudge it. But here we share the hospitality of the underground and meet its freehold tenants on a level.

From the earth walls of the sanctuary where this small tribute is written mice look down upon our table with its newspaper cover, diffidently waiting for us to finish our meal and permit them to dine. We regard them as shy visitors--though are we not billeted on them?--not as sneaking thieves, and by the light of our candles perceive how sleek, bright-eyed, neat-handed and agile they are. In one dug-out I know a certain mouse who will drop on your shoulder and sit there a while in the friendliest manner, trying in his tiny modest way to play the host. Up above, in the open air, they are to be seen in swarms sharing our watchfulness. This gun-shaken valley is honeycombed with their little round funk-holes, into which they flash at any sudden noise. It is merely going downstairs where we are all at home.

The social instincts of the rat are less highly developed. His visible visits to the mess are rarer, but we overhear his conversation in his tunnels that open on our shelves, the patter of his pink feet across the canvas overhead, and the muscular squirming of his body in some tight place about the sandbag wainscot. Like a friendly dog he trots about your dug-out by night, bumping with trustful carelessness against the fragile legs of your rustic bed. You hear him crooning to himself or a pal, in his content--a placid, complacent little sound very different from the grating squeak or squeal of the unhappy Ishmaels you used to know. Certainly he will help himself to a little cake, if such a thing is to be had, for he feels at home, as he doubtless wishes you to do. If you do not care to share your dainties, you can hang them from the roof.

In the trenches themselves the rat is almost a domestic animal. Town rats are lean, persecuted and vicious; nobody loves them. But those who hobnob with us here are fed, like our Army, on Army rations, together with more than their share of private luxuries, and consequently are stout and contented-looking, and display none of the ill-bred and disconcerting haste of the hereditary fugitive of our drains and cellars. If you happen to stand still and silent for a few moments, you will hear some cheery old rascal come sniffing and grunting along the parapet, not so much in search of food as to enjoy the air--or so his manner would indicate.

Between the Army and these other dwellers in earths and burrows there must henceforth be a bond of true sympathy.

* * * * *

_La Grèce Antique_: Hellas. _La Grèce Moderne: Hélas!_

* * * * *

To be added to our collection "Glimpses of the Obvious":--

"We feel more than ever that the Past is all behind us and the Future all in front."--_Reading Standard._

* * * * *

From a trade circular:--

"We are installing 15 of our largest size Patent Fool-proof Steam Kettles at Woolwich Arsenal."

Zeppelin crews please note.

* * * * *

LAST THOUGHTS ON GALLIPOLI.

Once more sits Mahomet by Helles' marges And smokes at ease among his cypress-trees, Nor snipes from scrubberies at British targes Nor views them wallowing in sacred seas, But cleans his side-arms and is pleased to prattle Of that great morning when he woke and heard That in his slumbers he had fought a battle, A bloody battle, and a little bird Piped (in the German) at his side, and said, "The something infidels have been and fled."