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Title: Punch or the London Charivari, Vol. 147, October 21, 1914
Author: Various
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.
Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

*** Start of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "Punch or the London Charivari, Vol. 147, October 21, 1914" ***

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  PUNCH,

  OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

  VOL. 147.

  OCTOBER 21, 1914.

       *       *       *       *       *

Illustration:

_The following incident has been forwarded by the Special Constable
himself, but the Authorities will not permit the publication of his
actual portrait:--_

_Small Boy_ (_suddenly noticing Special Constable_). "LOOK AHT! COPPER!"

_Girl._ "WHERE?"

_Boy._ "THERE--AGIN FENCE."

_Girl_. "GARN, SILLY--FRIGHTENIN' ME!"

       *       *       *       *       *

CHARIVARIA.

"The King," says _The Manchester Courier_, "has returned all his German
Orders." So much for the taunt that Britain's object in taking part in
the War was to pick up German orders.

       * * *

We hear that, in addition to lowering the lights at night, the
authorities intend, in order to confuse the enemy, to alter the names of
some of our thoroughfares, and a start is to be made with Park Lane,
which is to be changed to Petticoat Lane.

       * * *

The KAISER is reported to have received a nice letter from his old
friend ABDUL ("the D----d"), pointing out that it is the fate of some
kind and gentle souls to be misunderstood.

       * * *

Matches, it is stated, are required at the front--to put an end, we
believe, to Tommy Atkins' reckless habit of lighting his cigarette by
applying it to the burning fuse of a bomb.

       * * *

A Sikh non-commissioned officer has, according to _The Central News_,
delivered himself of the following saying:--"Power is to kings, but time
belongs to the gods. The Indians know how to wait." This will no doubt
call forth an indignant rejoinder from the Teutonic Waiters'
Association.

       * * *

"Property insured in London is valued at £1,320,000,000," according to
an announcement made by Lord PEEL last week. One can almost hear the
KAISER smacking his lips.

       * * *

At last the authorities have acted, and the premises of a German firm
with concrete foundations have been raided. This bears out the promise
of certain high officials who declared that they would take action when
a concrete example was brought to their notice.

       * * *

The official "Eye-Witness" in a recent despatch tells us how a British
subaltern saw, from a wood, an unsuspecting German soldier patrolling
the road. Not caring to shoot his man in cold blood, he gave him a
ferocious kick from behind, at which the startled German ran away with a
yell. This subaltern certainly ought to have figured in "Boots' Roll of
Honour" which was published last week.

       * * *

Why, it is being asked, do not the French retaliate for the damage done
by the Germans to their cathedrals and drop bombs on Berlin? The persons
who put this question have evidently never seen Berlin or they would
know that you cannot damage its architecture if you try.

       * * *

The KAISER has announced his intention of eating his Christmas dinner in
London. We trust that Mr. MCKENNA and his men will see to it that His
Majesty will, anyhow, find no mince pies here. [NOTE.--"Mince pies"
should be pronounced "mean spies." This greatly improves the paragraph.]

       * * *

According to one report which reaches us the KAISER is now beginning to
quibble. He has pointed out that, when he said he would eat his
Christmas dinner at Buckingham Palace, he did not mention which
Christmas.

       *       *       *       *       *

TO THE ENEMY, ON HIS ACHIEVEMENT.

  Now wanes the third moon since your conquering host
    Was to have laid our weakling army low,
  And walked through France at will. For that loud boast
          What have you got to show?

  A bomb that chipped a tower of Nôtre Dame,
    Leaving its mark like trippers' knives that scar
  The haunts of beauty--that's the best _réclame_
          You have achieved so far.

  Paris, that through her humbled Triumph-Arch
    Was doomed to see you tread your fathers' tracks--
  Paris, your goal, now lies a six days' march
          Behind your homing backs.

  Pressed to the borders where you lately passed
    Bulging with insolence and fat with pride,
  You stake your all upon a desperate cast
          To stem the gathering tide.

  Eastward the Russian draws you to his fold,
    Content, on his own ground, to bide his day,
  Out of whose toils not many feet of old
          Found the returning way.

  And still along the seas our watchers keep
    Their grip upon your throat with bands of steel,
  While that Armada, which should rake the deep,
          Skulks in its hole at Kiel.

  So stands your record--stay, I cry you grace--
    I wronged you. There is Belgium, where your sword
  Has bled to death a free and gallant race
          Whose life you held in ward;

  Where on your trail the smoking land lies bare
    Of hearth and homestead, and the dead babe clings
  About its murdered mother's breast--ah, there,
          Yes, you have done great things!

  O. S.

       *       *       *       *       *

TOMMY BROWN, RECRUITING SERGEANT.

Tommy Brown had been moved up into Form II., lest he should take root in
Form I. He had been recommended personally by the master of Form I.
to Mr. Smith, the guardian deity of Form II., as "the absolute
limit." After a year of Tommy, Mr. Smith had begun to mention him
in his prayers, not so much for Tommy's good as for his own
deliverance--mentally including him in the category of plague,
pestilence, famine and sudden death.

Though the pervading note of Mr. Smith's report upon Tommy was gloom,
deep gloom, he must have had some dim hopes of him, for, at the end of
the Summer Term, he had placed his hand upon Tommy's head and said,
"Never mind, my boy, we shall make a man of you some day."

A new term had begun; Tommy Brown had mobilised two days late, but he
was in time for Mr. Smith's lecture on "The War, boys."

The orator spoke for an hour and a quarter, and at the end he wiped his
brows with the blackboard duster under the impression that it was his
handkerchief. Meanwhile Tommy had eaten three apples, caught four flies,
written "Kiser" in chalk on the back of the boy in front of him,
exchanged a catapult with Jones minor for a knife, cut his finger, and
made faces at each of the four new boys. Mr. Smith caught him in one of
these contortions, but he was speaking of Louvain at the moment and took
it as a compliment.

Suddenly Tommy found himself confronted with a number of sheets of clean
paper. "The essay is to be written on one side of the paper only," said
Mr. Smith.

Tommy asked the boy next to him what they had to write about, and the
reply, "The War, you fool," set him thinking.

A deathlike stillness fell upon the room; Tommy Brown looked round,
frowned heavily, dipped his pen in the ink and then in his mouth, and
thought hard.

Then, after much frowning, he delivered himself of the following, the
ink being shared equally between himself and the paper:--

"The wor was becose the beljums wouldent let the jermens go over there
fields so they put minds in the sea and bunbarded people dead with
airplans. It was shokkin. The rushens have got a steme roler. We have
got a garden roler at home and I pull it sometimes. I dont like jermens.
Kitchener said halt your country needs you and weve got a lot of
drednorts. The airplans drop boms on anyone if your not looking it isnt
fare yours truly T. Brown."

The essay completed to his satisfaction, Tommy Brown conveyed to his
mouth a sweet the size and strength of which fully justified the name
"Britain's Bulwarks" attached to it by the shopkeeper.

He then leaned back with the air of one who had done his duty in the
sphere in which he found himself and proceeded to survey the room.

The other boys were still writing, and for fully half a minute Tommy
looked at them in pained surprise.

He then read his own essay again and, finding no flaw in it, frowned
once more on his fellow pupils and wrote: "My father won the Victoria
Cross Meddle." Having written this he looked round again somewhat
defiantly. His eye caught one of the new boys beginning another sheet.

Tommy's essay just filled two-thirds of a page. He would fight that new
boy. Just then the words of a war poster came into his head and he wrote
in large letters: "Your King and country want _you_."

Tommy studied this for a minute, and then, as the appeal seemed directed
to himself, he wrote: "I'm not old enuf or I'd go my brothers gone I'm
not a funk I let Jones miner push a needle into my finger to show him."

It seemed to Tommy Brown that the other boys possessed some secret fund
of information, even the new boys. He'd show those new boys after
school. Having made up his mind on this point he printed at the bottom
of his essay, "Kitchener wants men." As an after-thought he added, "My
father was a man."

He let his gaze wander round the room until it fell upon the face of his
master, and then, under some impulse, he wrote the fateful words, "Mr.
Smith is a man."

"Finish off now!" rang out the command from Mr. Smith.

Tommy saw the other boys putting sheet after sheet together, and he had
hardly filled one. He racked his brains for something to add to his
essay, and there came to his mind the words written under his father's
portrait. He had only time to put down "England expecs----" when his
paper was collected.

No one ever read Tommy Brown's essay excepting Mr. Smith, and he burnt
it.

       *       *       *       *       *

A lady teaches Form II. now, and Tommy Brown is eagerly looking forward
to the day when Mr. Smith will return to occupy once more the post that
is being kept open for him, for Mr. Smith has promised to bring Tommy
home a German helmet.

       *       *       *       *       *

    "A number of shells burst together and almost at the same moment he
    saw a large cigar-shaped cigar fall to the earth."

    _Bolton Evening News._

The unusual shape of it struck him at once.

       *       *       *       *       *

Illustration: THE GREATER GAME.

MR. PUNCH (_to Professional Association Player_). "NO DOUBT YOU CAN MAKE
MONEY IN THIS FIELD, MY FRIEND, BUT THERE'S ONLY ONE FIELD TO-DAY WHERE
YOU CAN GET HONOUR."

[The Council of the Football Association apparently proposes to carry
out the full programme of the Cup Competition, just as if the country
did not need the services of all its athletes for the serious business
of War.]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE SUNDAY EVENING EDITION.

Mrs. Henry looked up. "I think I hear that boy again selling evening
papers," she said. "I suppose they must come off the 9.5 train. But it's
a strange thing to happen on a Sunday--here."

The Reverend Henry was already at the window. He threw it up and leaned
out.

"One can't approve of it, but I suppose in war time--" Mrs. Henry was
beginning when her husband cut her short. "Hush--I'm trying to hear what
he is saying. I wish boys could be taught to speak distinctly." There
was a pause.

"I can't make him out." The Reverend Henry's head reappeared between the
curtains. "It's really most exasperating; I'd give a lot to know if the
Belgian army got out of Antwerp before it fell."

"Couldn't you shout down and ask him?"

"No, no. I cannot be discovered interrogating urchins about secular
affairs from a second storey window on Sunday evening. Still, I'd like
to know."

The Reverend Henry perambulated the room with knitted brow.

"I never bought a Sunday paper of any sort in my life. Never."

"I suppose one must have _some_ principles," said his wife.

"But it's enormously important, you know. They may easily have been
surrounded and captured." He returned to the window. "Hullo, he's gone
to the door. I say, Cook has bought one. This is exciting. I should
never have thought Cook would have done that."

"It raises rather a nice point," said Mrs. Henry.

The Reverend Henry returned resolutely to his book. The shouts of the
newsvendor died away.

"We must not forget," said the Reverend Henry irrelevantly, "that Cook
is a Dissenter." Then suddenly he broke out. "I wish I knew," he said.
"I am not paying the least attention to this book and I shan't sleep
well, and I shall get up about two hours before the morning paper
arrives, and be restive till I know whether the Belgians got out. But
what am I to do? I can't ask Cook."

"I might go down," his wife volunteered. "I needn't say anything about
it, you know. I could just stroll about the kitchen and change the
orders for breakfast. The paper is pretty sure to be lying about. There
may be headlines."

"No," said the Reverend Henry with determination, "I really cannot
consent to it."

"Well, I may as well go to bed. Don't sit up late."

The Reverend Henry did sit up rather late. He was wide awake and ill at
ease. At last he listened intently at the door and then took a candle
and stole down the passage.

The Reverend Henry had not been in his own kitchen for close upon ten
years, and he did not know the way about very well. He had adventures
and some moments of rigid suspense while the clatter of a kicked
coal-scuttle died away in the distance. But when at last he crept
noiselessly up-stairs he was assured of a good night's rest.

"What a mess your hands are in," said Mrs. Henry sleepily.

"Yes," said Henry. "That miserable woman had used it to lay the fire.
But it's all right. They did get out--most of them."

       *       *       *       *       *

Illustration: _Alf_ (_reading French news_). "ALL THE CINEMAS IN CALAIS
ARE SHUT UP. MY WORD! THAT BRINGS THE HORRORS OF WAR PRETTY CLOSE TO
HOME!"

       *       *       *       *       *

    "British Troops Fighting (Official)."--_Western Mail._

So the Censor has let the secret out at last, and the rumours of the
last 70 days prove to be well founded.

       *       *       *       *       *

    "Five hundred German prisoners were landed in Dublin yesterday
    afternoon, and conveyed under escort to Templemore, County
    Tipperary."--_Newcastle Daily Journal._

It's a long, long way, but they've got there at last.

       *       *       *       *       *

UNINTELLIGENT ANTICIPATION.

"My dear," I said, "you are always proposing things, and then, when they
are carried _nem. con._, you argue against your own proposal."

"It's unfair to use Greek to me."

"_'Nem. con._,'" I said, "is rich old Castilian and, put simply, means
that nobody--I am nobody--objects."

"But we can't afford a new tea-set."

"Then why did you ask so many to tea at once?"

"I didn't think," said Alison. "They are coming to make pyjamas for our
soldiers in the trenches, and I simply thought that the more people came
the more pyjamas there would be."

"How many cups have we?"

"Only five tea-cups. Jessie broke two more yesterday, and there's one
with a piece out that you or I could use. Oh! and there are the two
breakfast cups and two odd ones which would make up the number, but
they're such a mixed lot."

Jessie is our domestic staff and a champion china-breaker.

"If Jessie," I said, "were not so good to young Peter I should insist on
handing her back her credentials. Hold! I have the germ of an idea.
Leave me to work it out, please. I see credit, nay kudos, in it."

At the end of ten minutes Alison looked in again.

"I'm just putting the finishing touches," I said. "Kindly ask Peter to
spare me a few moments. He's sailing his boats in the bath, I imagine.
By the way, what time are these people coming?"

"Half-past four," said Alison, "and it's now nearly four."

"Then please see that Jessie brings in tea at five exactly."

"Why exactly?" said Alison.

"Why not?" I said. "Five is a very good hour, and it's part of my
scheme."

"It's most mysterious," said Alison.

"It's particularly ingenious," I said. "Everything dovetails in
beautifully, and if you'll carry out your small share all will be well.
By the way, if I make any remark to the company before tea which is
not--er--strictly true, you will please to take no notice of it."

"I'll try not to," said Alison, "if it isn't too outrageous."

"Oh, no," I said, "nothing to shy at. But I might find it necessary to
say something about a Worcester tea-set. Listen," I said before she
could interrupt. "When you hear me say, 'Worcester tea-set' you say
'Great heavens!' or whatever women say under stress of great emotion.
But sit tight. Don't go and see about it."

"See about what?"

"The Worcester tea-set, of course."

"But we haven't got one."

"My dear girl," I said, "try to imagine we have. In this little
drawing-room comedy you've only one line to learn, and your cue's
'Worcester tea-set.'"

"But what's the idea?" said Alison.

"The idea," I said, "is great, but it is as well you should not know the
whole plot of the piece yet. Play your one line, and I, as stage
manager, will answer for the rest of the cast."

"And what's Peter got to do with it? I want him to have tea with
Jessie."

"Right," I said. "Peter's part is important, but is played off--in the
wings, as it were."

My interview with Peter was not a long one.

"Now look here, old pal," I said at the close, "quarter to exactly, in
the bathroom."

"Right-o! Daddy." Peter (ætat. 9) has a wrist-watch already and winds it
regularly, so I knew he wouldn't fail me.

At a quarter to five I was talking to Mrs. Padbury, the Rector's wife,
about the doings of the various Armies in the field. I was sitting in
such a position that, while seeming to attend only to her, I could keep
an eye on the drawing-room clock behind her. Every detail of my scheme
had been carefully arranged; it now only remained for the actors to play
their ...

    Crash!

"Bless my soul," I said, "that sounds remarkably like the Worcester
tea-set," and looking at the clock again I knew that Peter had made the
"loud noise off" at the exact moment. "Good lad," I said to myself.

"Great heavens!" said Alison.

I was delighted. I had been more afraid of Alison's getting stage fright
than of anything else, and there she was playing her part like a veteran
actress. Things were going really splendidly.

It was at this precise moment that the grandfather clock in the kitchen
gave out the first stroke of five, and at the same moment Jessie entered
bearing a tray, on which were the five drawing-room tea-cups which were
intact, the single ditto with a piece out, two breakfast cups and two
odd ones.

So the one player, the kitchen clock, whose part had been overlooked,
had spoilt the whole show by being nearly fifteen minutes fast; and the
fact that Jessie tripped on the doormat as she came in, with fatal
results to the rest of our tea-things, was a mere circumstance.

Alison blames me for everything.

The next pyjama conference is to be held at the Rectory.

       *       *       *       *       *

From a well-known Firm's catalogue:--

    "_Our roll of honour to date: 487 employees joined the colours._"

The question, "Shall women fight?" has now been decided.

       *       *       *       *       *

Illustration: The St. John Ambulance Association, which forms part of
the Red Cross Organisation of Great Britain, derives its name and
traditions from the Order of St. John of Jerusalem (Knights
Hospitallers), founded at the time of the Crusades. It has at this
moment many thousands of workers engaged in tending the wounded at the
seat of war and in the hospitals of the Order.

In peace time it does not appeal to the public for subscriptions, but
under the stress of war it finds itself in urgent need of help, and is
absolutely compelled to ask for funds. Gifts should be sent to the Chief
Secretary, Colonel Sir Herbert C. Perrott, Bt., C.B., at St. John's
Gate, Clerkenwell, E.C., and cheques should be crossed "London County
and Westminster Bank, Lothbury," and made payable to the St. John
Ambulance Association. In aid of its work, a Concert (at which Madame
Patti will sing) is to be given at the Albert Hall on Saturday
afternoon, October 24th.

       *       *       *       *       *

Illustration: A UNITED FAMILY.

_Irish would-be Recruit._ "BEG PARDON, CAPTAIN, BUT THE MAN IN THERE
WON'T LET ME GO TO FIGHT BECAUSE OF ME EYE."

_Captain._ "HAVE YOU EVER BEEN IN THE ARMY?"

_Would-be Recruit._ "I HAVE, SORR."

_Captain._ "WHAT REGIMENT?"

_Would-be Recruit._ "ME BROTHER WAS IN THE LEINSTERS."

       *       *       *       *       *

STICK TO IT, RIGHT WING!

(_A few suggested official communiqués, respectfully offered to the
authorities in Paris._)

MONDAY.

  Enemy, towards Lassigny, made attack,
    But after suffering heavy loss withdrew.
  We have made progress near to Berry-au-Bac,
    And on our right wing there is nothing new.

TUESDAY.

  Near the Argonne we had a slight reverse
    (Though what the Germans said is quite untrue).
  Along the Meuse things seem a little worse,
    But on our right wing there is nothing new.

WEDNESDAY.

  We gather that sensational reports
    Announced the fall of Antwerp ere 'twas due;
  There's still resistance in some Antwerp forts,
    And on our right wing there is nothing new.

THURSDAY.

  Our left is making progress, and it looks
    (For the straight line is getting very skew)
  As if our forces might surround VON KLUCK'S.
    Meantime, on right wing there is nothing new.

FRIDAY.

  Fighting in centre; German loss immense;
    Our casualties, it seems, were very few.
  All up the left wing Germans very dense;
    May they remain so! Right wing, nothing new.

SATURDAY.

  In some few places we have given ground;
    In several others we have broken through.
  Our left is still by way of working round,
    And on our right wing there is nothing new.

SUNDAY.

  On our left wing the state of things remains
    Unaltered, on a general review.
  Our losses in the centre match our gains,
    And on our right wing there is nothing new.

L'ENVOI.

  So it goes on. But there may come a day
    When WILHELM'S cheek assumes a different hue,
  And bulletins are rounded off this way:--
    "And on the right wing there is something new."

       *       *       *       *       *

    "The prisoner, who was said to be an Indian barrister's window, was
    placed on the floor of the Court."--_Edinburgh Evening Dispatch._

The prisoner would have looked better in the roof as a skylight.

       *       *       *       *       *

"THE DOUBLE MYSTERY."

ACT I.

_Scene:_ _The house of_ Judge Hallers. _Also of_ Mr. ARTHUR BOURCHIER;
_that is to say, The Garrick._

_Doctor Ferrier_ (_professionally_). Now tell me the symptoms. Where do
you feel the pain?

_Judge Hallers._ At the back of the head. I've never been myself since I
fell off my bicycle. My memory goes.

_Ferrier._ Ah, I know what you want. Open your mouth. (_Inserts
thermometer._) This will cure you ... Good heavens, he's swallowed it!

_Hallers._ There you are, that's what I mean. I thought it was asparagus
for the moment. Haven't you another one on you?

_Ferrier._ Tut, tut, this is very singular. (_Makes another effort to
grapple with it._) What books have you been reading lately?

_Hallers._ One about Dual Personality. It's all rubbish.

_Ferrier_ (_quoting from the programme with an air of profound
knowledge_). Cases showing prevalence of this mental disorder are to be
found everywhere. (_Gets up._) Well, well, I will come round to-morrow
with another thermometer. Good night.
    [_Exit._

_Hallers._ Dual personality--nonsense! (_A spasm seizes him. He scowls
at the audience, ties a muffler round his neck and loses his identity._)
Gr-r-r-r! Waugh-waugh! Gr-r-r-r-r! Przemysl!
    [_Exit growling._

ACT II.

_Scene: "The Lame Duck" café, a horrible haunt of depravity._

_Poulard_ (_the Proprietor, to long-bearded customer_). Yes, Sir?

_L.-B. Customer._ H'sh! (_Removes portion of beard._) I am Inspector
Heidegg!

_Poulard._ Fried egg?

_Inspector_ (_annoyed_). Heidegg. (_Replaces beard._) A gang of
desperate desperados, headed by the ruffianly ruffian whom they call The
Baron, will be here to-night. I shall be hiding under the counter. Ten
men and two dachshunds surround the house. If you betray me your licence
will not be worth a moment's purchase.

    [He dives under the counter. Poulard, rather upset, goes out and
    kicks the waiter.

_Enter the gang of desperados, male and female. A scene of horrible
debauchery ensues._

_Charlier_ (_revelling recklessly_). Small lemonade, waiter.

_Picard_ (_with abandoned gaiety_). A dry biscuit and a glass of milk.

_Jacquot_ (_letting himself go_). Dash, bother, hang, bust!

_Picard_ (_to_ Merlin). Why don't you revel?

_Merlin_ (_giving Suzanne a nudge_). What-ho!
    [_Relapses into silence again._

_Picard_ (_gaily_). A song! a song!

_Charlier_ (_in an agonised whisper_). You fool, none of us can sing!

_Picard._ What about the girl who sang the recruiting song before the
play began? Isn't she behind the scenes still? (_Cracking his biscuit._)
Well, let's have a dance anyway. We must make the thing _go._ Waiter,
_another_ glass of milk.

_Enter Judge Hallers in scowl and muffler._

_Charlier_ (_enthusiastically_). Ha! The Baron!

_Hallers._ I mean business to-night, boys. Look at this! (_He produces a
dagger and a pistol._)

_Charlier._ What a man!

    [_He throws away his pea-shooter in disgust._ Jacquot, _who has just
    begun to strop a fish-knife, realizes that he has been outdone in
    devilry, and gives it back to the waiter. Picard replaces his
    knotted handkerchief._

_Hallers._ Yes, boys, I've got a crib for you to crack to-night. It's
Judge Hallers' house. (_A loud bumping noise is heard from the direction
of the counter._) What's that?

_It is_ Inspector Heidegg. (_Raising his head incautiously, in order to
catch his first sight of the notorious Baron, he has struck the top of
his skull against the counter and is now lying stunned._)

_All._ A spy!

_Hallers._ Bring him out ... Ha! Who is he? Is that his own beard or
Clarkson's?

_Charlier._ It's a police inspector in a false beard!

_Mr. BOURCHIER_ (_contemptuously_).

A real artist would have _grown_ a beard. (_Producing his knife._) He
must die.

    (_There is a loud noise without._)

_Noise without._ Open! Bang-bang. Open! Bow-wow, bow-wow.
    [_It is the police and the two dachshunds._

_Hallers._ Quick! The trap-door!

    [_They escape as the dachshunds enter._

LAST ACT.

_Scene:_ _Next morning at Judge Hallers._

_Dr. Ferrier._ Good morning, Judge. I've come with that other
thermometer. I have ventured to tie a piece of string to it, so that in
case the--er--temperature goes down again----But what's happened here?
You seem all upset.

_Hallers._ Burglary. I dropped asleep at my desk here last night, and
when I wake up I find that a criminal called The Baron and two
accomplices have burgled my house. The Baron escaped, but Heidegg caught
the others.

_Ferrier._ Extraordinary thing. What theatres have you been to lately?

_Hatters._ Only the Garrick. (_Enter_ Heidegg.) Well, anything fresh to
report, Inspector?

_Heidegg._ Yes, Judge. The prisoners say that you are The Baron. But
they say you had a muffler on last night. That might account for our
dachshunds missing the scent.

_Hallers._ Good heavens, what do you make of this, Doctor?

_Ferrier_ (_picking up programme_). Cases showing prevalence of this
mental disorder----

_Hallers._ You mean I am a dual personality! (_Covers his face with his
hands._)

_Ferrier._ Come, come, control yourself.

_Hallers_ (_calmly_). It is all right; I am my own man--I mean my own
two men again. What shall I do?

_Ferrier._ You must wrestle with your second self. I will hypnotise you.
(_He glares at him._)

_Hallers_ (_after a long pause_). Well, why don't you begin?

_Ferrier._ You ass, I'm doing it all the time. This is the latest
way.... There! Now then, wrestle!

    [_A terrible struggle ensues. After what seems about half an hour
    the Judge, panting heavily, gets The Baron metaphorically down on
    the mat, and----_

_Ferrier._ Time! (_Replacing his watch._) That will do for to-day. But
continue the treatment every morning--say for half an hour before the
bath. Good day to you.

_Hallers._ Wait a moment; you can't go like this. We must have a proper
curtain. Ah, here's my _fiancée_. Would you----Thank you!

    [_The Doctor leads her to the Judge, who embraces her._

CURTAIN.

  A. A. M.

       *       *       *       *       *

    "It was dark, and as he stumbled on his way he called out, 'Are you
    there, Fritz?' A French soldier with a knowledge of German shouted
    back, 'Here.'"--_Daily Mail._

At the critical moment his knowledge of German seems to have failed him.

       *       *       *       *       *

From the report of the Manchester Medical Officer of Health:--

    "An important step forward was taken in 1909, when an Order of the
    Local Government Board made Tuberculosis of the Lungs obligatory on
    the Medical Officers of the Poor Law Service; in 1911 a second Order
    extended the obligation to other Institutions."

So far, luckily, the Order has not been extended to journalists.
Regarding it, however, from the standpoint of the onlooker, we think
that the L. G. B. has gone a little beyond its powers.

       *       *       *       *       *

Illustration: WHY HAVE WE NO SUPERMEN LIKE THE GERMANS?

HOW THEY MIGHT BRIGHTEN REGENT STREET.

HOW THEY MIGHT WAKE UP OUR RESTAURANTS.

AND HONOUR US WITH THEIR GALLANTRY.

AND, BEST OF ALL, HOW AMUSING TO SEE THEM MEET A SUPER-SUPERMAN.

       *       *       *       *       *

Illustration: FACTS FROM THE FRONT.

STORM OF RIGHTEOUS INDIGNATION AT THE ENEMY'S HEADQUARTERS ON THEIR
BEING SHOWN A "BARBAROUS AND DISGUSTING ENGINE OF WAR" IN USE BY THE
ALLIES. [_The Germans have taken a strong objection to the French 75 m/m
gun._]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE GREAT SHOCK.

(_Or a tragic result of Armageddon as gleaned from the Evening Press._)

  No more the town discusses
    The Halls and what will win;
      Now stifled are the wags' tones
      On Piccadilly's flagstones,
  And half the motor-buses
    Have started for Berlin.

  New eyes to war adapting
    We stare at the Gazette;
      Yon eager-faced civilian,
      When posters flaunt vermilion
  And boys say "Paper, capting,"
    Replies "Not _captain_--yet."

  "Remains," I asked, "no station
    Of piping peace and sport?
      Oh yes. Though kings may tumble,
      No howitzers can rumble,
  No sounds but cachinnation
    Can boom from DARLING'S Court.

  "That garden of the Graces
    Can hear no cannon roar;
      From that dear island valley
      No bruit of arms can sally.
  But men must burst their braces
    With laughter as of yore.

  "While dogs of war are snarling
    His wit shall sweep away
      Bellona's ominous vapour;"
      Therefore I bought a paper
  To see what Justice DARLING
    Happened to have to say.

  In vain his humour sortied,
    In vain with spurts of glee
      Like field-guns on the trenches
      He raked the crowded benches;
  My evening print reported
    No kind of casualty.

  No prisoner howled and hooted,
    No strong policemen tore
      With helpless mirth their jackets,
      There was not even in brackets
  This notice: "(Laughter--muted
    In deference to the war.")

  EVOE.

       *       *       *       *       *

A Traitor Press.

    "BRITISH PRESS BACK THE ENEMY." _Manchester Courier._

_Punch_ anyhow backs the Allies.

       *       *       *       *       *

Cardiff claims the honour of having enlisted the heaviest recruit in the
person of a police constable weighing nineteen stone odd. He should
prove invaluable for testing bridges before the heavy artillery passes
across.

       *       *       *       *       *

A ROYAL CRACKSMAN.

  When the housebreaking business is slack
    And cracksmen are finding it slow--
  For all the seasiders are back
    And a great many more didn't go--
  Here's excellent news from the front
    And joy in Bill Sikes's brigade;
      Things are looking up since
      The German CROWN PRINCE
    Has been giving a fillip to trade.

  His methods are quite up to date,
    Displaying adroitness and dash;
  What he wants he collects in a crate,
    What he doesn't he's careful to smash.
  An historical château in France
    With Imperial ardour he loots,
      Annexing the best
      And erasing the rest
    With the heels of his soldierly boots.

  Sikes reads the report with applause;
    It's quite an inspiring affair;
  But a sudden idea gives him pause--
    _The Germans must stop over there!_
  So he flutters a Union Jack
    To help to keep Englishmen steady,
      Remarking, "His nibs
      Mustn't crack _English_ cribs,
    The profession is crowded already."

       *       *       *       *       *

Illustration: UNCONQUERABLE.

THE KAISER, "SO, YOU SEE--YOU'VE LOST EVERYTHING."

THE KING OF THE BELGIANS, "NOT MY SOUL."

       *       *       *       *       *

Illustration: MORE HORRORS OF WAR.

_Lady Midas_ (_to friend_). "YES, DO COME TO DINNER ON FRIDAY. ONLY I
MUST CAUTION YOU THAT IT WILL BE AN ABSOLUTE PICNIC, FOR MY FOURTH AND
SIXTH FOOTMEN HAVE JUST ENLISTED."

       *       *       *       *       *

WAR ITEMS.

The reiterated accusations made by Germany of the use of dum-dum bullets
by the Allies, although they are not believed by anyone else, appear to
be accepted without question by the German General Staff. New measures
of retaliation are being taken, which, while not strictly forbidden by
International Law, may at any rate be said to contravene the etiquette
of civilised warfare. We learn from Sir JOHN FRENCH'S Eye-witness that
numbers of gramophones have made their appearance in the German trenches
north of the Aisne River.

       *       *       *       *       *

Papers captured in the pocket of a member of the German Army Service
Corps contain bitter complaints of the enormous strain thrown upon the
already over-taxed railway system in Germany by the KAISER'S repeated
journeys to and fro between the Eastern and the Western Theatres of War.
He is referred to (rather flippantly) as "The Imperial Pendulum"
(_Perpendikel_). The writer, while recognising the eager devotion with
which the KAISER is pursuing his search for a victory in the face of
repeated disappointment, congratulates himself that the Imperial
journeys, though they are not likely to be discontinued, will at least
grow shorter and shorter as time goes on. Indeed, it is hoped that
before long a brief spin in the Imperial automobile-de-luxe will cover
the ground between the Eastern and Western Theatres.

       *       *       *       *       *

WORKS OF KULTUR.

In some respects, apparently, the enemy has been less affected by the
War than we have. While in England the book-trade has been slightly
depressed, in Germany it seems to be flourishing. We give samples from
the latest catalogues:--

POETRY.

The most interesting volume announced is _A Hunning We Will Go, and
Other Verses_, by WILLIAM HOHENZOLLERN, whose _Bleeding Heart_ attracted
so much attention.

HISTORY.

_Kaiser's Gallic War Books, I. & II._, a new edition, very much revised
since August by General VON KLUCK and other accomplished scholars, are
certain to be of great use for educational purposes.

NATURAL HISTORY.

In this department a work likely to be enquired for is _The Dogs of St.
Bernhardi_, by General VON MOLTKE.

FICTION.

The demand for fiction in Germany is said to be without parallel and the
supply appears to be not inadequate. Among forthcoming volumes there
should be a demand for _Der Tag; or, It Never Can Happen Again_.

GENERAL.

_Proverbial Philosophy_ contains the favourite proverbs of various
persons of eminence. From the Imperial FINANCE MINISTER comes: "It's
never too late to lend." From General MANTEUFFEL (the destroyer of
Louvain library): "Too many books spoil the Goth." The CROWN PRINCE
contributes: "Beware the rift within the loot."

       *       *       *       *       *

ZEITUNGS AND GAZETTINGS.

ROOSEVELT UNMASKED.

It is sad to relate, but persistent efforts to maintain the
disinterested claim on American friendship which we Germans have always
(when in need of it) advanced, continue to be misrepresented in that
stronghold of atheistical materialism and Byzantine voluptuousness, New
York. To the gifted Professor von Schwank's challenge, that he could not
fill a single "scrap of paper" with the record of acts of war on our
part which were incompatible with Divine guidance and the promulgation
of the higher culture, the effete and already discredited ROOSEVELT has
merely replied, "Could fill Rheims." This is very poor stuff and worthy
only of a creature who combines with the intellectual development of a
gorilla the pachymenia of the rhinoceros and the dental physiognomy of
the wart-hog. ROOSEVELT, once our friend, is plainly the enemy and must
be watched. Should he decide, however, even at the eleventh hour, to
fall in line with civilisation, he can rely on finding in Germany, in
return for any little acts of useful neutrality which he may be able to
perform, a generous ally, a faithful upholder of treaty obligations, and
a tenacious friend. There must surely be something that America
covets--something belonging to one of our enemies. Between men of honour
we need say no more.


BASE CALUMNY EXPOSED.

Let us speak plainly with regard to the Rheims affair. We have
successively maintained that this over-rated monument of Arimaspian
decadence (1) was not injured in any way; (2) was only blown to pieces
in conformity with the rules of civilised warfare; (3) was mutilated and
fired by our unscrupulous and barbaric opponents themselves; (4) was
deliberately pushed into our line of fire on the night of the 19th
September; (5) never existed at all, being indeed an elaborate but
puerile fiction basely invented by a baffled enemy with the object of
discrediting our enlightened army in the eyes of neutral Powers. Any of
these was good enough, but what now appears is better. Exact
measurements have since demonstrated beyond all question of cavil that
Rheims Cathedral had been built with mathematical accuracy to shield our
contemptible enemy's trenches around Chalons from our best gun positions
outside Laon. This act of treachery proves that, instead of Germany
being the aggressor, France has been cunningly preparing ever since 1212
A.D. for the war which at last even our chivalrous diplomacy has been
powerless to avert.

GENEROUS OFFER TO MONACO.

It is time for Monaco to reconsider its position. Should it maintain its
present short-sighted and untenable neutrality what has it to gain from
England, France, or Russia? Nothing that it has not already got. Monaco
very naturally wants something more. Let us be frank. We of Germany
speak very differently. It is not desirable to be specific, but short of
that we may say that whatever Monaco asks for it will be promised.
England, we would then repeat, is the enemy. Has Monaco forgotten the
sinister malignity of an article in an English paper disclosing "How to
Break the Bank at Monte Carlo." It is unnecessary to labour the point,
to which we will return in our next issue. Monaco, in short, like
Turkey, Bolivia, China, the United States, Hayti and Oman, is the
natural ally of Germany.

Illustration: "PFUTSCH! DEY VAS JUST A FEW TINGS VAT I USE TO FRIGHDEN
DER CATS FROM MEIN GARTEN!"

       *       *       *       *       *

    "After exhaustive research a Scotch scientist has decided that no
    trees are species is struck as often as another."

    _Vancouver Daily Province._

He must have a rest and then try some more research.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE SLUMP IN CRIME.

"Praise is due to criminals," remarked Mr. ROBERT WALLACE, K.C., at the
London Sessions, "for the self-control they are exercising during this
period of stress and anxiety."

It is to be feared that Mr. WALLACE'S views are not entirely shared by
the legal profession. As the junior partner in Mowlem & Mowlem confided
to our representative: "That's all very fine, but what's to become of
_us_? Not a burglar on our books for the last six weeks. Not a
confidence man; not a coiner; not a note expert. And they had the
opportunity of their lives with the JOHN BRADBURY notes! We shall have
to shut up our office, and then what's to become of our clerk? What's to
become of our charwoman? I ask you, what's to become of our charwoman's
poor old husband dependent on her? No, let's have patriotism in its
_right_ place!"

An old-established firm of scientific implement merchants showed even
more indignation. "We had taken our place in the firing-line in the War
on Germany's Trade," they declared. "We had made arrangements for home
manufacture to supplant the alien jemmy. No British burglar would need
to be equipped with anything but all-British implements, turned out in
British factories and giving employment to British workmen only. And now
what do we find? The market has gone to pot. Yes, Sir, to pot. And
that's the reward for our patriotic efforts!"

Opinions of other representative men in the criminological world have
reached us in response to telegrams (reply paid):--

Sir ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE: "Ruin stares me in the face."

Mr. GERALD DU MAURIER: "Have decided to suppress _Raffles_ for the
period of the War."

Mr. RAFFLES: "Have decided to suppress GERALD DU MAURIER for the period
of the war."

Mr. G. K. CHESTERTON: "Have always maintained that patriotism is the
curse of the criminal classes. Will contribute ten guineas to National
Fund for Indigent Burglars Whose Front Name Is Not William."

Crown Prince WILHELM: "Have nothing to give away to the Press."

Mr. GEORGE BERNARD SHAW: "My first telegram for three months. To be a
criminal needs brains. There are no English criminals."

       *       *       *       *       *

Illustration: _Nurse._ "GOODNESS ME! WHAT 'AVE YOU BEEN DOING TO YOUR
DOLLS?"

_Joan._ "CHARLIE'S KILLED THEM! HE SAID THEY WERE MADE IN GERMANY, AND
HOW WERE WE TO KNOW THEY WEREN'T SPIES?"

       *       *       *       *       *

WITH HIGH HEART.

The long line of red earth twisted away until it was lost in the fringe
of a small copse on the left and had dipped behind a hillock on the
right. Flat open country stretched ahead, grass lands and fields of
stubble, lifeless and deserted.

There was no enemy to be seen and not even a puff of smoke to suggest
his whereabouts. But the air was full of the booming of heavy guns and
the rising eerie shriek of the shrapnel.

Behind the line of red earth lay the British, each man with his rifle
cuddled lovingly to his shoulder, a useless weapon that yet conveyed a
sense of comfort. The shells were bursting with hideous accuracy--sharp
flashes of white light, a loud report and then a murderous rain of
shrapnel.

"Crikey!" said a little man in filthy rain-sodden khaki, as a handful of
earth rose up and hit him on the shoulder; "crikey! that was a narsty
shave for your uncle!"

The big man beside him grunted and shifted half an inch of dead
cigarette from one corner of his mouth to the other. "You can 'old my
'and," said he with a grin.

Four or five places up the trench a man stumbled to his knee, coughed
with a rush of blood and toppled over dead.

"Dahn and aht," said the big man gruffly. "Gawd! If we could get at
'em!"

The wail of a distant shell rose to a shriek and the explosion was
instantaneous. The little man suddenly went limp and his rifle rolled
down the bank of the trench.

His friend looked at him with unspeakable anguish. "Got it--in the
perishing neck this time, Bill," gasped the little man.

Bill leaned over and propped his pal's head on his shoulder. A large
dark stain was saturating the wounded man's tunic and he lay very still.

"Bill," very faintly; then, with surprise, "Blimey! 'E's blubbing! Poor
old Bill!"

The big man was shaking with strangled sobs. For some moments he held
his friend close, and it was the dying man who spoke first.

"Are we dahn-'earted?" he said. The whisper went along the line and
swelled into a roar.

The big man choked back his sobs. "No, old pal, no!" he answered, and
"No-o-o-o!" roared the line in unison.

The little man lay back with a contented sigh. "No," he repeated, and
closed his eyes for ever.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE SOUTHDOWNS.

  The Grey Men of the South
    They look to glim of seas,
  This gentle day of drouth
    And sleepy Autumn bees,
  Pale skies and wheeling hawk
    And scent of trodden thyme,
  Brown butterflies and chalk
    And the sheep-bells' chime.

  The Grey Men they are old,
    Ah, very old they be;
  They've stood upside the wold
    Since all eternity;
  They standed in a ring
    And the elk-bull roared to them
  When SOLOMON was king
    In famed Jerusalem.

  KING SOLOMON was wise;
    He was KING DAVID'S son;
  He lifted up his eyes
    To see his hill-tops run;
  And his old heart found cheer,
    As yours and mine may do
  On these grey days, my dear,
    Nor'-East of Piddinghooe.

       *       *       *       *       *

AT THE PLAY.

"THE COST."

_Mr. Samuel Woodhouse_, of the middle classes, being anxious to distract
his son _John_ during the critical moments of _Mrs. John's_ confinement,
relates how, in similar circumstances more directly affecting himself,
he had been playing tennis, and the strain of the crisis had quite put
him off his game. The little jest is, of course, adapted from the
familiar lines:--

    "I was playing golf the day: When the Germans landed ..."

It is of material interest not so much because it is borrowed (for it is
not the only joke that Mr. THURSTON has conveyed) as because it serves
as a brief epitome of the play. For the thing started with the War, and
we were getting on quite well with it when an element of obstetrics was
introduced and became inextricably interwoven with the original design.
Indeed it went further and affected the destinies of the country at
large. For England had to wait till the baby was born before it could
secure its father's services as the most unlikely recruit in the
kingdom.

But you must hear more about this _John_. He was an intellectual who
threatened to achieve the apex of literary renown with a work in two
volumes (a third was to follow) on the Philosophy of Moral Courage. At
the outbreak of the present war he was at once torn asunder between his
duty to his country and his duty to himself. The latter seemed to have
the greater claim upon him, and this view was encouraged by an officer
who found himself billeted upon the Woodhouse _ménage_. The dilemma had
already worried _John_ (and us) a good deal even before the extension of
the age limit made him roughly eligible for the army. Indeed I never
quite gathered what it was that ultimately decided him to enlist.
Anyhow, six months later he received a bullet in the head, and the
wound, though I am glad to say that he survived it, left him incapable
of any further intellectual strain.

That was "the cost" of the war to him. Its cost to us (in the play) was
almost as heavy. For _John's_ head still retained such a command of
brain power that he contrived to be very fluent over his theories of war
in general, theories not likely to be of any vital service at a time
when our men of fighting age are wanted to act and not think.

I give little for Mr. THURSTON'S generalities (his talk of "hysteria,"
which was never a British foible, showed his lack of elementary
observation), but the character of _John_ intrigued me as a fair example
of the type of egoist, very common among quite good fellows, who is more
concerned to satisfy his own sense of the proper thing to do than to
consider in what way, less romantic perhaps, he can best devote to the
service of his country the gifts with which nature has endowed him.

The play went very well for the first two Acts. The various members of
the _Woodhouse_ family were excellently differentiated. The father
(played with admirable humour by Mr. FREDERICK ROSS) bore bravely the
shock to his trade, and took a manly but quite ineffectual part in
household duties for which he had no calling. His lachrymose wife (Miss
MARY RORKE) was a sound example of the worst possible mother of
soldiers. _John_ we know, and Mr. OWEN NARES knew him too, and very
thoroughly. _John's_ wife (I can't think how she came to marry him) had
the makings of an Amazon and would gladly have spared her husband for
KITCHENER'S Army at the earliest moment. Her part was played very
sincerely and charmingly by Miss BARBARA EVEREST. _John's_ eldest sister
regretted the war because she had some nice friends in Germany, but she
caught the spirit of menial service from her sisters, of whom the
younger was a stage-flapper of the loudest. Finally the second son (Mr.
JACK HOBBS) was a nut who began with his heart in his socks but shifted
it later into the enemy's trench.

Perhaps the best performance of all--though it had little to do with the
war and nothing to do with child-birth--was that of Miss HANNAH JONES as
_Mrs. Pinhouse_, a perfect peach of a cook. There were also two
characters played off. One was a maid-servant who declined to come to
family prayers on the ground of other distractions. I admired her
courage. The other was _Michael_, the precious infant whose entry into
the world had occupied so much of our evening. Everybody on the stage
had to have a look at him. I felt no such desire. He bored me.

For a play that made pretence to a serious purpose there was far too
much time thrown away on mere trivialities. At first the exigencies of
the stage demanded compression. The news of the ultimatum to Germany,
the mobilisation, the rush to enlist, the attack on Germany's commerce,
were all stuffed into the space of a few minutes. But the whole of the
Third Act (laid in the kitchen) was wantonly wasted over the thinnest of
domestic humour.

There is a light side, thank Heaven, even to war; but Mr. THURSTON had a
great chance of doing serious good and he has only half used it. I am
certain (though he may call me a prig for saying it) that if he had set
himself to serve his country's cause through the great influence which
the theatre commands, he could have done better work than this; and he
ought to have done it.

O. S.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Ambassadors' Theatre is producing a triple bill which includes a
"miniature revue" entitled _Odds and Ends_. The cost of the production
may be gathered from the following note in the preliminary
announcement:--

"N.B.--Mr. C. B. COCHRAN has spared no economy in mounting this Revue."

       *       *       *       *       *

LITERARY GOSSIP.

Among the more notable novels announced for immediate publication is
_The Man in the Platinum Mask_ by Samson Wolf (Black and Crosswell). By
a curious and wholly undesigned coincidence the name of the hero is
ATTILA, while a further touch of actuality is lent to the romance by the
fact that the author's aunt's first husband fought in the Italian War of
Independence.

Another story strangely opportune in its title, which was however chosen
many months ago, is _With Nelson in the North_ by Hector Boffin (Arrow
and Long-i'-th'-bow). Its appeal to the patriotic reader will be further
enhanced by the interesting news that the author's wife's maiden name
was Collingwood, while he himself is a great admirer of HARDY.

The same publishers also announce a Life of ATTILA by Principal
McTavish, which was completed last March before the name of the
redoubtable Hun had come so prominently before the public--another
instance of the intelligent anticipation which is the characteristic of
the best and most selling _littérateurs_.

Few writers of romance appeal to the generous youth more effectively
than the Countess Corezeru, from whose exhilarating pen we are promised
a tale of the Napoleonic era under the engaging title of _The Green
Dandelion_ (Merry and Bright). The pleasurable expectations of her
myriad readers will be heightened when they learn the interesting fact
that the Countess recently visited Constantinople, where such thrilling
happenings have lately been in progress.

       *       *       *       *       *

    "The Petrograd correspondent of the 'Mesaggero' telegraphs that the
    Austro-German Army was yesterday completely defeated in the
    neighbourhood of Warsaw, and suffered unanimous losses."--_Liverpool
    Echo._

Carried, in fact, _nem. con._

       *       *       *       *       *

Illustration: _Boy Scout._ "'XCUSE ME, MUM. 'AV YER SEEN ANY GERMANS
ABOUT 'ERE?"

       *       *       *       *       *

UNWRITTEN LETTERS TO THE KAISER.

No. V.

(_From ALBERT, King of the Belgians._)


SIR,--This comes to you from France. Hospitably received and nobly
treated by the great and chivalrous French nation I must yet remember
that I am an exile on a foreign soil, that my country has been laid
waste and that my people, so laborious, so frugal and so harmless, have
seen their homes destroyed and have themselves been driven ruthlessly
forth to cold and hunger and despair.

Yes, your designs on Belgium have been accomplished--for the time. A
people of sixty-five millions has prevailed against a people of seven
millions; a great army has overwhelmed a little army; careful schemes
long since prepared have outmatched a trustfulness which you and your
Ministers fostered in order that in the dark you might be able to strike
a felon's blow with safety to yourself. No considerations of honour
hindered you. Indeed, I do not know how I can bring myself to mention
that word to one who has acted as you have acted. If I do so it is in
order that I may tell you that for an Emperor (or any other man) to be
honourable it is not enough that he should have great possessions,
glittering silver armour, and armies obedient to their War Lord's
commands. It is not enough that he should make resounding speeches and
call God to witness that he is His friend. It is not even enough that he
should succeed in carrying through his plans, and earn the applause of
those flatterers who, agreeing with you, believe that an Emperor crowned
with success and capable of bestowing favours can do no wrong. No, there
must be something more than this. What that something is I will not
discuss with you. To do so would be useless, for, since you will never
possess it, you can never satisfy yourself that I am right.

And even in regard to this "Success" with which you comfort yourself are
you so perfectly sure of it? How do you feel when you call VON MOLTKE to
you and question him about the progress of the war?

"How goes it," you say to him, "in the East?" "We hope," he replies, "to
hold the Russians in check, but they are very numerous and very brave."
"Presumptuous villains! And in the West?" "In the West the French and
English," he says, "still bear up against us. They have thrust us back
day after day." "May they perish! But, at any rate, there is Belgium.
Yes, we have crushed Belgium and taught the Belgians what it means to
defy our Majesty." And VON MOLTKE, no doubt, will murmur something that
may pass for approval and will withdraw from the conference.

I believe you admire SHAKSPEARE. Do you remember what _Macbeth_ says?

    "If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well
    It were done quickly: if th' assassination
    Could trammel up the consequence, and catch
    With his surcease, success; that but this blow
    Might be the be-all and the end-all here."

But that it cannot be. Blows have their consequences, immediate and
remote. You first, and then your memory, will be stained to all
generations by this deed of treachery and blood. How have you excused
it? "With necessity, the tyrant's plea." You had to hack your way
through, you said, and it was on my people that your battle-axe fell. So
when Louvain was burnt and its inhabitants were shot down you assured
the PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES that your heart bled for what
"necessity" had forced you to do. President WILSON is a man of high
principles and deep feelings. I wonder how he looked and how he felt
when he read your whimpering appeal.

You have destroyed Belgium, but Belgium will rise again; and, even if
fate should ordain that Belgium is to be for ever wiped away, so long as
one Belgian is left alive there will be a heart to execrate you and a
voice to denounce your deeds.

ALBERT R.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE SURPRISE.

A SEQUEL TO "THE CHOICE."

Mr. Julius Bannockburn hung up his hat with a bang and stepped angrily
into the drawing-room.

Mrs. Bannockburn was comfortably seated in an arm-chair, with the
tea-table at her side and a fire blazing.

"That's right," she said placidly, ignoring her husband's very obvious
mental disarray,--"just in time for a cup of tea."

"No tea for me," he said darkly.

"Oh, yes. It'll do you good," she replied, and poured some out.

"By the way, how much do you give for this tea?" Mr. Bannockburn sharply
inquired.

"Two-and-eight," she replied.

He grunted. "I get excellent tea in the City which retails at two
shillings a pound," he said. "Better than this."

"Well, dear," said Mrs. Bannockburn, "you don't often have this. This is
my tea. You prefer Indian."

"And why so many different kinds of cake?" Mr. Bannockburn went on.

"You wouldn't grudge me those?" she answered. "Surely, even with the
war, little things like that might go on?"

Mr. Bannockburn sent his eyes round the room on a tour of critical
exploration.

"Yes," he continued, "and how can you do with a fire--at any rate such a
fire--on a day like this? The room is like an oven." He scowled
murderously at the innocent flames and opened the window.

"I felt distinctly chilly," said Mrs. Bannockburn. "Besides, a fire is
so much more cheerful."

"Cheerful!" said Mr. Bannockburn with a snarl. "I'm glad something is
cheerful."

"My dear," said his wife soothingly, "you're over-worried. You've had a
hard day at the office. But I've got something to show you that will
make you happy again." She smiled gaily.

"Happy!" Mr. Bannockburn echoed with abysmal bitterness. "Happy!" He
groaned.

"Yes, happy," said his wife. "Now drink your tea," she added, "and then
light a cigar and tell me all about it."

"Cigars!" said. Mr. Bannockburn; "I've done with cigars. At any rate
with Havanas. We're on the brink of ruin, I tell you."

"Not any longer," said his wife with a little confident laugh. "That's
all right now. Taking the new name was to settle that, you know."

Mr. Bannockburn was attempting to eat a cake, but at these words he gave
it up. He struck a match angrily and lit a cigar--a Havana. "Well, what
is it you want to show me?" he asked.

"The cards," she said. "They look splendid. Here," and she handed a
visiting-card across the table and drew his attention to the delicate
copper-plate in which their new name had been inscribed: "Mrs. Julius
Bannockburn."

Mr. Bannockburn scowled afresh. "How many of these have you ordered?" he
asked anxiously.

"Five hundred for each of us," she replied. "And they're done. They all
came this morning."

Mr. Bannockburn groaned again. "What ridiculous haste!" he said. "Where
was all the hurry?"

Mrs. Bannockburn laughed. "Well, I must say!" she exclaimed. "You to
complain of things being done quickly! I've done all you told me," she
continued. "Everything. I sent a notice to the Post Office about the
telephone directory, telling them to alter the name. I sent to KELLY'S
about the London Directory. I told all the tradespeople. I got the
cards. I even went further and ordered a few silver labels for your
walking-sticks and umbrellas. I thought you would like that."

Mr. Bannockburn puffed at his cigar and said nothing.

"Aren't I a good head clerk?" she went on. "But, after all, when one
does change one's name it is wise to go right through with it, isn't
it?"

"Yes," said her husband ominously, "when one does change one's name."

"What do you mean?" Mrs. Bannockburn asked sharply. "Has anything gone
wrong?"

"Everything," he said. "I've had a notice forbidding changes of name
altogether. Everyone has had it."

"When did you get it?" his wife inquired with a flutter.

"To-day."

"Then it's all right," she said excitedly. "We made the change several
days ago."

"Yes," replied her husband, "but the notice goes on to say that everyone
who has changed since the war began must revert to the name he had
before the war commenced. You can't get away from that."

"But we paid for it," Mrs. Bannockburn exclaimed. "We paid for it. Why
did they take our money?"

"They didn't know then," said her lord. "It's only just decided by this
infernal Government."

Mrs. Bannockburn turned white. "This is terrible," she said. "And how
unfair! How grossly unfair! It's not as if we were Germans. I'm not a
German at all, and you are merely a German's son, and British to the
core. Of course they'll give the money back?"

"It says nothing about that," replied the Briton.

"How very unlike England!" she said.

"Yes," he agreed; "but the point is, apart from the horrible expense of
it all, that here we are, saddled with a name which is bound to keep
customers away and which we thought we had got rid of for ever. It's
horrible. It's wrong. It's a shame." He paced the room furiously.

Mrs. Bannockburn--or, as we now should say, Mrs. Blumenbach--looked in
the fire for a few moments in silence. "Well," she said at last, "we
must make the best of it, I suppose; we're not paupers anyway, and
things are never so bad as one fears. After all, we haven't been to so
very much expense. A few cards and so forth. You, dear, can hardly have
spent a penny over it."

"Eh," said Mr. Blumenbach sharply--"what?"

"I said that the cost to which we have gone since we changed our name is
very trifling," his wife repeated. "You yourself have been put to no
expense at all, except perhaps office paper."

Mr. Blumenbach looked suspiciously at her and resumed his walk. "No,
no," he said; "that's fortunate certainly."

At this moment a servant entered bringing the post, which included a
long roll of paper addressed to "Mrs. Julius Bannockburn."

"I wonder what this can be," she remarked as she reached for a
paper-knife.

Her husband snatched it and held it behind him. "Oh, I know all about
that," he said; "it's a mistake. It's meant for me, not you."

"But it's addressed to me," said his wife. "Please let me have it."

Mr. Blumenbach for a moment flashed lightning. "Oh, all right," he said,
"take it. I might as well confess to my folly, and, after all, I did it
as a pleasant surprise for you, even though it's a failure. But I heard
about some heraldic fellow, and I got him to draw me up a Bannockburn
pedigree. A Scotch one, you know. I was going to have it framed in the
hall. Burn the thing without looking at it."

"Was it--was it--very expensive?" his wife asked tremblingly.

"Fifty pounds," he said, half in pride at his own recklessness and half
as though having a tooth out.

"Fifty pounds!" Mrs. Blumenbach moaned, and burst into tears.

       *       *       *       *       *

Illustration: _Lady (diligent reader of spy articles and exposures of
Anglo-German businesses) to alien window-cleaner._ "LOOK HERE: YOU
NEEDN'T COME ANY MORE."

_Window Cleaner._ "ENDIRELY BRIDISCH GOMBANY, LADY."

_Lady._ "YES, I DARESAY. BUT FOR ALL I KNOW YOU MIGHT BE PART OF THE
FLOWER OF THE GERMAN ARMY."

       *       *       *       *       *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

(_By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks._)

I can imagine the feelings of a romantic maiden who, prone to choose her
novels by title, has set down on her library list _The Price of Love_
(METHUEN), and finds herself landed with one of Mr. ARNOLD BENNETT'S
intimate little guides to "Bursley" and the four other drab towns. And
yet if she will set her teeth and read the first fifty pages without
skipping she will discover that she is being let into real secrets of
real human hearts; that handsome _Rachel_ (penniless companion to a
benign old lady), and her debonair _Louis_ (who somehow never can run
straight where money is concerned), are becoming known to her as she
knows few, if any, of her friends; and that, because known, they are
extraordinarily interesting. She will see _Rachel_ drawn out of the
haven of her staunch and critical common sense by her infatuation for
_Louis_; threatened by the shipwreck of despair when she realises his
weakness and her irrevocable mistake, and again putting into a new
harbour of determination to pay the price of her love and make the best
of things. And I should not be altogether surprised if even our romantic
library-subscriber finds the next live-happily-ever-after story a little
flat by comparison. For there is no doubt that Mr. BENNETT has some
uncanny power of realising the conflict of human souls, and that there
is an astonishingly adroit method in his mania for unimportant and
unromantic detail. I refuse altogether to accept as adequate (or
appropriate) his explanations of the adventures of the banknotes on the
night of their disappearance, but I am grateful for every word and
incident of this enchanting chronicle and for the portrait of _Rachel_
in particular.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Modern Pig-Sticking_ (MACMILLAN) is a book that, appearing at this
particular moment, has an air of detachment not without its own charm.
Chiefly, of course, it appeals to a special and limited public--a
public, moreover, that is at present too busy to give it the attention
that it would otherwise command. Certainly Major A. E. WARDROP'S
spirited pages deserve to rank with the best that has been written about
this sport. As one frankly ignorant, I was myself astonished to find how
considerable a body is this literature. As for the gallant Major's own
contribution, it is sufficiently well-written to make tales of sporting
feats and adventures interesting to the outsider. Which is saying a lot.
At the same time his sense of humour is sufficiently strong to save
enthusiasm from becoming oppressive. Certainly he loves his theme, as I
suppose a good pig-sticker should. "To see hog and hunter charge each
other bald-headed with a simultaneous squeal of rage is," he says
youthfully, "always delightful." It is all, in these more strenuous
times, most refreshing and even a little wistful in its _naïveté_. The
honest and brave gentlemen whose exploits it records are about another
kind of pig-sticking now. One hopes that practice with the Indian
variety may help them in their chase of the Uhlan road-hog. Here's power
to their spears!

For all his good humour, Mr. PETT RIDGE can say a hard thing now and
then about humanity in general and point it with a touch of startling
sarcasm. Possibly it is this combination which makes him the favourite
author he is. While we get tired of the harsh satirist who is always up
against us, and pay little attention to his teaching, we not only profit
by the occasional home truths of the genial humourist, but thoroughly
enjoy hearing them. Certainly it is not Mr. RIDGE'S plots which so
attract everybody, including myself. _The Happy Recruit_ (METHUEN) might
as well (or even better) have been plotless. There is the central
figure, _Carl Siemens_, who comes to England from abroad in his youth
and has an unremarkable career, and there is a mysterious and rather
tiresome trunk which is mentioned from time to time and finally opened;
but apart from these the book is but a collection of little episodes
more or less about the same people, the _Maynard_ family in particular.
It is not the story that lends the charm but the people who come into
it, that upper-lower section of Londoners whose little peculiarities of
thought, word and deed Mr. Ridge so perfectly understands. Through their
mouths he utters his truest sayings, and they make his books always
worth reading. It should be added that this one has nothing to do with
present warfare; it is antedated by a reign and a half. In this the
title is misleading, for there are so many recruits about nowadays and
all of them are happy.

       *       *       *       *       *

After reading Messrs. HUTCHINSON'S announcement that the critics
describe Mr. F. BANCROFT as the most remarkable South African novelist
now at work, I searched for a talent that was too successfully hidden
for my finding. I was on the track of it two or three times, and once at
least the scent was so hot that I thought the quarry was mine; but it
got away. With _Dalliance and Strife_ the author completes a trilogy
upon the Boer War, but here we are given too much flirtation and too
little fighting. His liberality in the matter of heroines compensates me
not at all for his niggard accounts of the war. That he himself should
apparently take more interest in dalliance than in strife seems to
indicate sheer perversity, for, when once he has ceased to toy with
tennis-teas and trivialities, it is possible to respect the opinions of
those admiring critics even if it is impossible to agree with them. The
little fighting and the few whiffs of the veldt that we are given come
as welcome reliefs to the rather stuffy atmosphere that Mr. BANCROFT has
been at such pains to create. The British officer in his hours of
dalliance is in his hands merely a figure of fun, but the militant Boer
in field and camp is a faithful picture, so faithful, indeed, when
contrasted with the other, that it leaves me astounded at such a
combination of skill and futility.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Germaine Damien_ was a little girl with considerable force of
character. Having been told by a Socialist shoemaker that Squires were a
mistake, she endeavoured to correct this error by driving a large knife
into the first specimen of the race whom she met. This was _Miles
Burnside_, a decent young man enough, and one obviously qualifying to be
the hero of the story. So that when, quite early in its course,
_Germaine_ caught him asleep and apparently left him dead with a dagger
in his heart, I was for a little time considerably puzzled as to how
Mrs. BAILLIE REYNOLDS was going to get on with her tale. However, I need
not have worried. Of course _Miles_ was not dead; indeed the last six
words of the book tell you that "His smile was good to see." And
naturally he wouldn't have been smiling like that if he had not been
enfolding the heroine in his strong arms. But before this happy moment
we had a lot to get through. _Miles_ on recovery had told the properly
apologetic _Germaine_ that she must never, never let anybody else know
about the dagger business, and she said she wouldn't. Personally, if I
had been _Germaine_, I should have done the same. Later in life,
reflecting upon this injunction, and discovering that her grandfather
had also killed a man, _Germaine_ got it into her head that the habit
was inherited, and the idea worried her quite dreadfully. This, I
suppose, is why her story is called _The Cost of A Promise_ (HODDER AND
STOUGHTON). Eventually, however, when the thing had gone on long enough
and the revelation of her secret had scared away a superfluous rival,
_Miles_ informed her that her grandfather's record was (forgive me!) not
germane to the matter, and that she was as sane as anybody in the story.
M'yes. But Mrs. REYNOLDS has done better.

       *       *       *       *       *

Illustration: "IT 'TAIN'T 'ARF FINE TER BE A GENERAL, COS 'E CAN CALL A
BLOKE 'POODEN FICE,' AN' 'AVE 'IM SHOT IF 'E SORCES 'IM BACK."

       *       *       *       *       *

WILHELM.

  "No good thing comes from out of Kaiserland,"
    Says Phyllis; but beside the fire I note
    One Wilhehm, sleek in tawny gold of coat,
  Most satin-smooth to the caresser's hand.

  A velvet mien; an eye of amber, full
    Of that which keeps the faith with us for life;
    Lover of meal-times; hater of yard-dog strife;
  Lordly, with silken ears most strokeable.

  Familiar on the hearth, refuting her,
    He sits, the antic-pawed, the proven friend,
    The whimsical, the grave and reverend--
  Wilhelm the Dachs from out of Hanover.

       *       *       *       *       *

We are surprised to hear of police constables being accepted for service
abroad in view of the ban on the export of copper.

       *       *       *       *       *

Austrians are being urged to send newspapers to the front to serve as
chest-protectors for the troops. If possible the papers should be
German, as these lie best.

       *       *       *       *       *





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