Part 10

Men who claim British birth claim also the quality of loyalty, as a rule, and thus there can be little sympathy with such a one as this Liebknecht, whom Raemaekers shows as a little ascetic in the presence of the sombre War Lord. It is part of the plan of Nature that every country shall breed men like this: men who are constitutionally opposed to the current of affairs, ridiculously futile, blatantly noisy, the type of which extreme Socialists and Syndicalists are made. Possessed of a certain obstinacy which is almost akin to courage, they accomplish nothing, save to remain in the public eye.

Such is Liebknecht, apostle of a creed that would save the world by the gospel of mediocrity, were human nature other than it is. But, in considering this Liebknecht, let us not forget that he has no more love for England, or for any of the Allies, than the giant whom he attempts so vainly to oppose: he is an apostle, not of peace, but of mere obstruction, perhaps well-meaning in his way, but as futile as the Crown Prince, and as ludicrous.

E. CHARLES VIVIAN.

THE DUTCH JUNKERS

Some of these drawings remind us that the great cartoonist's message was primarily delivered to his own countrymen. They explain why he was accused, but not convicted, of endangering the neutrality of the Netherlands. He presents the German monster as a menace to all freedom, and not least to the freedom of the Dutch people. Germany's allies have sold theirs; they are harnessed to the Prussian war chariot, and must drag it whither the driver bids them, whip in hand. The nations in arms against Germany are fighting for their own and each other's freedom; and the neutrals stand looking anxiously on. Raemaekers warns them that their freedom too is at stake. He sees that it will disappear if the Allies fail in the struggle, and he shows his countrymen what they may expect.

In every country there are some ignoble souls who would rather embrace servitude than fight for freedom. They have a conscientious objection to--danger. How far the Dutch Junkers deserve Raemaekers' satire it is not for foreigners to judge. But we know the type he depicts--the sporting "nuts," with their careful get-up, effeminate paraphernalia, and vacuous countenances. So long as they can wear a sporting costume and carry a gun they are prepared to take a menial place under a Prussian over-lord and submit with a feeble fatalism to the loss of national independence. It is light satire in keeping with the subject, and it provides a relief to the sombre tragedy which is the artist's prevailing mood.

A. SHADWELL.

THE WAR MAKERS

_Who are the Makers of Wars?_ The Kings of the Earth.

_And who are these Kings of the Earth?_ Only men--not always even men of worth, But claiming rule by right of birth.

_And Wisdom?--does that come by birth?_ Nay then--too often the reverse. Wise father oft has son perverse, Solomon's son was Israel's curse.

_Why suffer things to reason so averse?_ It always has been so, And only now does knowledge grow To that high point where all men know-- Who would be free must strike the blow.

_And how long will man suffer so?_ Until his soul of Freedom sings, And, strengthened by his sufferings, He breaks the worn-out leading-strings, And calls to stricter reckonings Those costliest things--unworthy Kings.

Here you have them!--Pilloried for all time!

And what a crew! These pitiful self-seekers and their dupes!

Not the least amazing phenomenon of these most amazing times is the fact that millions of men should consent to be hurled to certain death, and to permit the ruin of their countries, to satisfy the insensate ambitions of rulers, who, when all is said and done, are but men, and in some cases even of alien birth and personally not specially beloved by them.

Surely one outcome of this world-war will be the birth of a new determination in every nation that its own voice and its own will shall control its own destinies--that no one man or self-appointed clique shall swing it to ruin for his or their own selfish purposes. Who pays the piper must in future call the tune.

"The world has suffered much too long. O wonder of the ages-- O marvel of all time-- This wonderful great patience of the peoples! How long, O Lord, how long?"

The answer cannot come too soon for the good of the world.

JOHN OXENHAM.

THE CHRISTMAS OF KULTUR, A.D. 1915

Mary, worn with grief and fear, covers her emaciated face with scarred hands, as she kneels in prayer before the infant Jesus. Joseph, grown old and feeble, nails up a barricade of planks to strengthen the door against the missiles of Kultur already bursting through it and threatening the sleeping child. So in that first Christmas, nineteen centuries ago, he saved Mary's child from the baby-massacre ordered by Herod to preserve his own throne.

Kultur, the gathered wisdom of the ages, has brought us back to the same Holy War. What a Christmas! What a Festival of Peace and goodwill towards men!

People ask: Why does God allow it? Is God dead? Foolish questions. When I was at school I had the good fortune to be under a great teacher whose name is honoured to-day. He used to tell us that the most terrible verse in the Bible was: "So He gave them up unto their own hearts' lust and they walked in their own counsels" (Ps. lxxxi, 13).

Man has the knowledge of good and evil; he has eaten of the tree and insists on going his own way. He knows best. Is not this the age of science and Kultur? We must not cry out if the road we have chosen leads to disaster.

Yet still the Child of Christmas lives and a divine light shines round His head. He sleeps.

A. SHADWELL.

SERBIA

Genius has set forth the most brutal characteristic of the Hun. In moments of triumph, invariably he is the bully, and, as invariably, he wallows in brutality--witness Belgium under his iron heel and, in this cartoon, stricken Serbia impotent to ward off the blow about to be dealt by a monstrous fist. That is the Teuton conception of War, Merry War (_Lustige Krieg_)! In the English prize-ring we have an axiom indelibly impressed upon novices--"Follow up one stout blow with another--_quick_!" That, also, is the consummate art of war. But when a man is knocked out we don't savage him as he lies senseless at our feet. The Hun does. His axiom is--"As you are strong, be merciless!"

In the small pig-eyes, in the gross, sensual lips, the mandril-like jaw, the misshapen ear, I see not merely a lifelike portrait of a Hun but a composite photograph of all Huns, something which should hang in every house in the kingdom until the terms of such a peace have been imposed which will make the shambles in Belgium, Poland, and Serbia an eternal nightmare of the past, never to be repeated in the future. And over the anaemic hearts of the Trevelyans, the Ramsay MacDonalds, the Arthur Ponsonbys, who dare to prattle of a peace that shall not humiliate Germany, I would have this cartoon tattooed, not in indigo, but in vermilion.

If Ulysses Grant exacted from the gallant Robert Lee "Unconditional Surrender," and if our generation approves--as it does--that grim ultimatum, what will be the verdict of posterity should we as a nation--we who have been spared the unspeakable horrors under which other less isolated countries have been "bled white"--descend to the infamy of a compromise between the Powers of Darkness and Light? The Huns respect Force, and nothing else. Mercy provokes contempt and laughter. I hold no brief for reprisals upon helpless women and children; I am not an advocate of what is called the "commercial extermination of Germany"; but it is my sincerest conviction that criminals must be punished. The Most Highest War Lord and his people, not excluding the little children who held high holiday when the _Lusitania_ was torpedoed, are--CRIMINALS.

HORACE ANNESLEY VACHELL.

THE LAST OF THE RACE

Raemaekers, the master of an infinite variety of moods and touch, reserves a special category of scorn for Von Tirpitz. Savage cruelty in war, the wanton destruction of life and property, the whole gospel of frightfulness--these things have been abandoned (so the historians tell us), not because savagery was bad morals but because it was the worst way of making war. It was wiser to take the enemy's property--and put it to your own use than to destroy it. If it was plundered it was wasted. It was wiser to spare men, women, and children, so that they should be better subjects if they remained conquered, less irreconcilable enemies, if they were restored to their old allegiance. Besides, murder, plunder, and rapine demoralized your men. They made them less efficient troops for fighting. Doubtless the argument is sound. But it would never have been accepted had not the horrors of savagery been utterly loathsome and repulsive to the nations that abandoned them.

Conventions in the direction of humanity are not, then, _artificial_ restrictions in the use of force. They are natural restrictions, because all Christian and civilized people would far rather observe them than not. Germany has revelled in abandoning every restraint. Raemaekers shows the cruelty, the wickedness of this in scores of his drawings. Here it is its folly that he emphasizes.

The submarine is no longer a death-dealing terror. It has become a blubbering fish. And the author of its crimes is no diabolical triton, but a semi-imbecile old dotard, round whom his evil--but terrified--brood have clustered; they fawning on him in terror, he fondling them in shaky, decrepit fondness. Note the flaccid paunch, the withered top, and the foolish, hysterical face. How the full-dress cocked hat shames his nakedness!

And this, remember, is the German High Admiral as history will know him, when the futility of his crimes is proved, their evil put out of memory, and only their foolishness remains!

ARTHUR POLLEN.

THE CURRICULUM

The nations are being educated amain, let us hope. Germany has prided herself on her education, her learning, and on her Kultur. To-day she is beyond the calculation of all that foresight which has been her boast, and foible. Human nature, other than German, has not been on the national curriculum, and, as in other departments of study, what has not been reduced to rule and line is beyond the ken and apprehension. How stupendously wrong a Power which could count, and into a European War! on insurrection in India, the Cape, and other parts of the British Empire! and how naively did Herr von Bethmann-Hollweg disclose the _Zeitgeist_ of German rulers when with passion he declared Britain to be going to war for "a scrap of paper!" A purpose to serve, a treaty becomes "a scrap"--in German courtly hands.

The artist depicts a scene, with masterly pencil, where Von Bethmann-Hollweg himself is charged by the All-Highest to be schoolmaster. It is a grim department of the training. Think of the unseen as well as that shown. What you do see is the lordly, truculent Kaiser, raising that menacing finger again. In spacious chair, he sits defiant, aggressive, as a ferocious captain; and there opposite is the "great Chancellor," bent, submissive, apprehensive, tablet and pencil ready to take down the very word of Kaiserly wisdom and will. What is it? The day's fare for a week! reaching a climax of "No dinner" on Saturday, and "Hate" on Sunday! Educative! of course it will be.

Some day, not so far, even the German people will not regard the orders of the Army and Navy Staff, the cruel mercies of the Junkers, as a revelation of Heaven's will. Three pounds of sugar for a family's monthly supply will educate, even when the gospel of force has been preached for fifty years to a docile people. Many of us are in "a strait betwixt two" as we see how thousands of inoffensive old men, women, and children are made to suffer, are placed by the All-Highest in this Copper and Hate School. It is not this, that, and the other that causes this, but the Director of the School, who does not, while the miserable scholars do, know what it is to endure "No dinner," not only on Saturdays, but many other days. And all to gratify the mad projectors imposing Kultur on an unwilling world!

W. M. J. WILLIAMS.

THE DUTCH JOURNALIST TO HIS BELGIAN CONFRERE

Whether the type here taken is a true criticism of a commercial attitude in a neutral State like Holland, it does not become us to discuss. Raemaekers is a Dutchman, and doubtless a patriotic Dutchman. And the patriot, and the patriot alone, has not only the right but the duty of criticising his own country.

For us it is better to regard the figure as an international, and often anti-national, character who exists in all nations, and who, even in a belligerent country like our own, can often contrive to be neutral and worse than neutral. A prosperous bully with the white waistcoat and coarse, heavily cuffed hands, with which such prosperity very frequently clothes itself, is represented as thrusting food in the starved face of an evicted Belgian and saying: "Eat and hold your tongue."

The situation is worthy of such record, if only because it emphasizes an element in the general German plot against the world which is often forgotten in phrases about fire and sword. The Prussianized person is not only a military tyrant; he is equally and more often a mercantile tyrant. And what is in this respect true of the German is as true or truer of the Pro-German.

The cosmopolitan agent of Prussia is a commercial agent, and works by those modern methods of bribing and sacking, of boycott and blackmail, which are not only meaner, but often more cruel, than militarism. For any one who realizes the power of such international combinations, there is the more credit due to the artists and men of letters who, like Raemaekers himself, have decisively chosen their side while the issue was very doubtful. And among the Belgian confreres there must certainly have been many who showed as much courage as any soldier, when they decided not to eat and be silent, but to starve and to speak.

G. K. CHESTERTON.

A BORED CRITIC

From Homeric warfare to subterranean conflict of modern trenches is a far cry, and Ares, God of Battles, may well yawn at the entertainment with which the Demon of War is providing him. But the spectator of this grim "revue" lacks something of the patience of its creator, and our Mephistopheles, marking the god's protest, will doubtless hurry the scene and diversify it with new devilries to restore his interest. Indeed, that has happened since Raemaekers made his picture.

The etiquette of butchery has become more complicated since Troy fell, yet it has been so far preserved till now that the fiend measures Ares with his eyes and speculates as to how far the martial god may be expected to tolerate his novel engines. Will asphyxiating gas, and destruction of non-combatants and neutrals on land and sea, trouble him? Or will he demand the rules of the game, and decline to applaud this satire on civilization, although mounted and produced regardless of cost and reckoning?

As the devil's own entertainment consists in watching the effects of his masterpiece on this warlike spectator, so it may be that those who "staged" the greatest war in mankind's history derive some bitter instruction from its reception by mankind. They know now that it is condemned by every civilized nation on earth; and before these lines are published their uncivilized catspaws will have ample reason to condemn it also. Neutrals there must be, but impartials none.

The sense and spirit of the thinking world now go so far with human reason that they demand a condition of freedom for all men and nations, be they weak or powerful. That ideal inspires the majority of human kind, and it follows that the evolution of morals sets strongly on the side of the Allies.

"War," says Bernhardi, "gives a biologically just decision, since its decisions rest on the very nature of things." So be it.

EDEN PHILLPOTTS.

"The Peace Woman"

In this humorous yet pathetic cartoon--humorous because of its truth to the type, and pathetic because of the futility of the effort depicted--with unfailing skill the artist shows the folly of the cry "Peace! Peace!" when there is none. In the forefront is a type of woman publicist who can never be happy unless the limelight secured by vocal effort and the advocacy of a "crazy" cause is focussed upon her. She calls "Peace!" that the world may hear, not attend. Behind her stands that other type of detached "peace woman," who has, judging from her placid yet grieved expression, apparently scarcely realized that the War is too serious and has its genesis in causes too deep-rooted to be quelled by her or her kind. One can imagine her saying: "A war! How terrible! It must be stopped."

The soldier, who is wise enough to prefer armour-plate even to a shield provided by substantially built peace women clad in white, looks on amused. The thinking world as a whole so looks on at "Arks" launched by American millionaire motor manufacturers, and at Pacifist Conferences held whilst the decision as to whether civilization or savagery shall triumph, and might be greater than right, yet hangs in the balance. There must be no thought of peace otherwise than as the ultimate reward of gallant men fighting in a just cause, and until with it can come permanent security from the "Iron Fist" of Prussian Militarism and aggression, and the precepts of Bernhardi and his kind are shown to be false. Those who talk of peace in the midst of "frightfulness," of piracy, of reckless carnage and colossal sacrifices of human life which are the fruits of an attempt to save by military glory a crapulous dynasty, however good their intention, lack both mental and moral perspective.

CLIVE HOLLAND.

THE SELF-SATISFIED BURGHER

The artist has depicted the ordinary attitude of a self-satisfied burgher not only in Holland but in other countries also. "What does it matter if we are annexed afterwards, so long as we remain neutral now?" That is the sort of speech made by selfish merchants in some of the neutral countries, especially those of Scandinavian origin. It is really a variety of the old text: "Let us eat, drink, and be merry; for to-morrow we die." Why not, it is urged, make the best of present facilities? As long as we are left alone we can pursue our ordinary industrialism. We can heap up our percentages and profits. Our trade is in a fairly flourishing condition, and we are making money. No one knows what the future may bring; why, therefore, worry about it? Besides, if the worst comes to the worst and Germany annexes us, are we quite sure that we shall be in a much worse condition than we are now? It will be to the interest of Berlin that we should carry on our usual industrial occupations. Our present liberty will probably not be interfered with, and a change of masters does not always mean ruin.

So argues the self-satisfied burgher. If life were no more than a mere matter of getting enough to eat and drink and of having a balance at the banker's, his view of the case might pass muster. But a national life depends on spiritual and ideal interests, just as a man's life "consisteth not in the abundance of the things which he possesseth." Freedom is the only principal of growth, and freedom is the one thing which German militarism desires to make impossible for all those whom she gathers into her fold. The loss of liberty means the ruin of all those ends for which a State exists. Even the material prosperity which the self-satisfied burgher desires will be definitely sacrificed by a submission to Teutonic autocracy.

W. L. COURTNEY.

THE DECADENT

War is a fiery winnower of incapacities. Many reputations have gone to the scrap-heap since August, 1914. None more surely than that of the braggart Crown Prince. It is said that this terrible catastrophe was largely of his bringing about and his great desire and hope.

Well--he has got his desire, and more than he expected.

He was going to do mighty things--to smash through the frontier and lead the German hordes triumphantly through France. And what has he done?

In the treacherous surprise of the moment he got across the frontier, and there the weighty French fist met the Imperial optic, and has since developed many stars in it. He has been held, wasting men, time, opportunity, and his own little apology for a soul. He has done nothing to justify his position or even his existence. He has wrecked his home-life by wanton indulgence. He has made himself notorious by his private lootings of the chateaux cursed with his presence.

Even in 1870 the native cupidity of the far finer breed of conquerors could not resist the spoils of war, and, to their eternal disgrace, trainloads of loot were sent away to decorate German homes--as burglars' wives might wear the jewellery acquired by their adventurous menfolk in the course of their nefarious operations.

But we never heard of "Unser Fritz," the then Crown Prince, ransacking the mansions he stayed in. He was a great man and a good--the very last German gentleman. And this decadent is his grandson!

"Unser Fritz" was a very noble-looking man. His grandson--oh, well, look at him and judge for yourselves! Of a surety the sight is calculated to heighten one's amazement that any nation under the sun, or craving it, could find in such a personality, even as representative of a once great but now exploding idea, anything whatever even to put up with, much less to worship and die for.