E-text prepared by Neville Allen, Malcolm Farmer,
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PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOLUME 147.

November 18, 1914.

CHARIVARIA.

Contrary to the usual custom there were no official dinners on the eve of the opening of Parliament. The explanation of this is clear to the German Press. It was due to scarcity of food.

Upon receipt of the Japanese ultimatum, the Kaiser, it may be remembered, cabled to the commander of his Chinese fortress:—"Bear in mind that it would shame me more to surrender Kiaochau to the Japanese than Berlin to the Russians." The kind-hearted Russians will now, we feel sure, have less compunction in taking Berlin, seeing that the blow will have been softened to an anticlimax.

The Kaiser's hair, it is said, is now bleached: but this attempt to look like a white man will deceive no one.

Just as we go to press a report reaches us which certainly bears the impress of truth on the face of it. It declares that the Crown Prince has been shot for looting by a short-sighted brother-officer who did not recognise the son of God's Vice-regent on Earth.

"The British Navy is in hiding," says the Kölnische Zeitung. We beg our fragrant contemporary not to worry. In due course the Germans shall have the hiding.

It is so frequently stated that the leaders of the German Army attach no importance to the lives of their men that it seems only fair to point out that last week Brussels was fined £200,000 for wounding a couple of German policemen.

Neither the French, Russian, Belgian, nor British troops like the idea of fighting against the mere youths whom a paternal Kaiser is now sending into the firing line, and a humane suggestion has been put forward for correcting this embarrassment. Would it not be possible, it is asked, to arrange Boys' Own Battles, in which the German little ones would be opposed by the young of the Allies?

"Klopstock, one of our greatest geniuses," says the Hamburger Fremdenblatt, "taught us, 'Be not excessively just.' We shall endeavour now to follow that teaching." We should say that there is no great danger of the German nation breaking down under the strain of this effort.

"How ever do the Teutons manage to produce so many lies about us?" asks "A Lover of Truth." Our correspondent is evidently not much of a gardener or he would have heard of "Intensive Culture."

The reply published by the Vossische Zeitung to the protest of French clergymen against the destruction of Louvain and the shelling of Rheims Cathedral contained at least one unfortunate expression. It asserted that the German Emperor and the German People are both permeated with a burning love of peace.

The Rev. Mr. Edwards has resigned his assistant curacy at Tettenhall under somewhat peculiar circumstances, but we are sure the case is not so bad as The Wolverhampton Express would have us believe. According to our contemporary this gentleman exhorted his congregation "not to hate the Germans, but rather to pay for them."

A wounded Tommy in one of our London hospitals, on being asked, the other day, by a lady visitor what he thought of the French soldiers, replied that he very much admired the French Curaçaos.

When in Breslau, The Evening News tells us, the Kaiser promised that the Russian Army should be crushed. Fortunately in this case the undertaking was not even written on a scrap of paper.

"For thirty-two years," says the Vossische Zeitung, "Egypt has had to endure British rule." Curiously enough this bright little sheet does not go on to point out that during the same period the poor Egyptians have also had to put up with a good deal of prosperity.

"Wot's the Use of This 'ere Earlier Closing?"

"Wy in case of a Zeppelin raid. If the 'Un smells beer 'e'll 'ave it!"

A Beauty Spot.

"This photograph of the town of Pervyse, on the road from Nieuport to Dixmude, has been taken and retaken by both sides several times. Our photograph was taken just after it had again come into the possession of the Allies."—Daily Chronicle.

It is now the German photographer's turn again.

Another song for the Kaiser:— "Come Tsing Tau Me."

Translation of a letter received by The Morning Post:—

"By spring-time of the 6,000,000 German soldiers there will remain only three capable of fighting."

The Crown Prince and two privates.

"Patriotism for Pauper Children.—The Lambeth Guardians yesterday decided that in order that the Poor-law school children may have an opportunity of appreciating the position of national affairs the usual practice of allowing each child an egg for breakfast on Christmas morning be suspended this year."—Times.

If this doesn't learn them to love their country, it ought, at any rate, to encourage them to honour and respect the patriotic Lambeth Guardians.

"Pending operations for her capture, or destruction, effective steps have been taken to block the Königsberg in by inking colliers in the only navigable channel."--Birmingham Daily Mail.

Aren't they black enough already?

Examples of official enthusiasm are always welcome, and we therefore give further publicity to the following:—

"The Cossacks who have been mobilised in the Amur district have sent the following telegram to the Commander-in-Chief of the Russian forces:

'Your children are coming to your aid, father commander. They come shouting "Hurrah!"'

The Grand Duke Nicholas replied:

'I shall be very pleased to see you.'—Reuter."

TO THE BITTER END.

(A word with the War-Lord.)

A rumour comes from Rome (where rumours breed)

That you are sick of taking blow on blow,

And would inter with all convenient speed

The hatchet wielded by your largest foe.

Is it the shadow Christmas casts before

That makes the iron of your soul unbend,

And melt in prayer for this unholy war

(Meaning the part that pinches most) to end?

Is it your fear to mark at that high feast

The writing on the wall that seals your fate,

And where the Christ-star watches in the East

To hear the guns that thunder at your gate?

For on your heart no Christmas Peace can fall.

The chimes shall be a tocsin, and the red

Glow of the Yule-wood embers shall recall

A myriad smouldering pyres of murdered dead.

And anguish, wailing to the wintry skies,

Shall with its dirges drown the sacred hymn,

And round your royal hearth the curse shall rise

Of lowly hearths laid waste to suit your whim.

And you shall think on altars left forlorn,

On temple-aisles made desolate at your nod,

Where never a white-robed choir this holy morn

Shall chant their greeting to the Birth of God.

Peace? There is none for you, nor can be none;

For still shall Memory, like a fetid breath,

Poison your life-days while the slow hours run,

Till it be stifled in the dust of Death.

O. S.

WHY I DON'T ENLIST.

[Curiosity is often expressed regarding the causes which have prevented young men from enlisting. Considerable interest, therefore, should attach to the following replies to enquiries, an inspection of which has been permitted us by the Secretary of the Patriotic League, an organisation which seeks to stimulate recruiting by writing to young healthy and unmarried men and asking them why they do not join the colours.]

My Dear Sir,—I fully understand your views—in fact I am in cordial agreement with them. It would be quite fair to say of most young unmarried men that they could and should be spared. But this cannot be said of all young men. There is a small section of literary and other artists whose lives must continue to be immeasurably precious to the nation which has given them birth. From this company it is impossible for me to exclude myself. There is a higher patriotism, to the dictates of which I must respond. With infinite regrets, and thanks for what is doubtless a well-meant endeavour,

I am, dear Sir, yours sincerely,

Endymion Browne.

P.S.—If you should be in town on the 24th, I am giving a reading from my own works at the United Intensities Club—"A Night with Endymion Browne."

Dear Sir,—What you say is O.K. Kitchener must have men and all that sort of thing. Show the Kaiser who's boss, and so on. But there are some men who can't possibly go. And I'm one. It's all very well to say "Go," but if I go—let me ask you quite seriously—how on earth is Smoketown Tuesday F.C. to lift the English pot? I don't want to shout about myself, but it is a known fact that I'm positively the only centre forward they've got. I'm worth £200 a week to the gate alone. If you don't care to accept my word, that it is absolutely impossible for me to go, I'll refer you to what our secretary says at foot.

Yours,

Alf Booter.

Note by Secretary—What Booter says is quite true. He is indispensable. We paid £1,000 for his transfer, and could not possibly sanction his leaving us. Besides, some of his many thousand admirers might want to follow his example, and where would our gate be then?

Dear Sir,—If I was to go and enlist, how could I follow the Occident and help 'em to win the League Championship? There it is, quite short—how? And if I didn't follow, and if others like me didn't follow, how'd the club stick it? How'd it keep going? What price duty of staying at home?

I am, yours truly,

Bert Socksley.

[Dictated.]

Sir,—I snatch a moment to answer your letter, "Why don't I go to fight the Germans?" I am fighting them. I cleared £500 this morning which, before the war, would have gone into a German pocket. My motto is "Business as usual," and I have no complaints whatever against the Germans so long as I can go on fighting them some more in my own way.

Yours faithfully,

George Crabbe.

My Dear Sir,—Your letter for my brother, John Halton, has reached me by mistake, but I'll answer it. "Why don't I go?" Just send me a recipe for turning me into a boy, and you'll not have to ask me twice.

Yours very sincerely,

Joan Halton.

Dear Sir,—I know what my job is, so don't you come poking your nose in where it isn't wanted. I'm for England, I am. And I'm doing my bit. The Evening Wiper said only the other day that a Britisher's duty was to keep cheerful, and that the man who did that was serving his country. Well, I am cheerful—I didn't turn a hair even over Mons—slept exactly the same, and had bacon and tomato for my breakfast. Then they say, "Carry on." And I do carry on. I go out as usual, dress just as carefully—spats, fancy waistcoat, buttonhole, etc. One night it's the Imperial and another it's the Cinema. Men are wanted to cheer the patriotic songs and to sing the chorus of "Tipperary." I help here. Then I spend my money freely—freely, I tell you. Any Tommy I meet can have a drink—half a dozen at my expense, and no return expected. I got two quite blind last night, and never asked 'em for a sou. Then again, I've spent quite a lot on flags. I always wear six on the front of my bike when I scorch through the crowds coming out of church on Sundays. I've got portrait buttons, too, of Joffre and Kitch., and I'm never ashamed to wear 'em. And I'm always urging chaps to go and enlist. So you see I am doing my bit.

Yours truly,

Albert Spottle.

In a Good Cause.

A Matinée will be given at the Empire on Thursday, the 26th, in aid of The Daily Telegraph's Belgian Relief Fund. Among the patrons are The Japanese Ambassador, the Belgian Minister and the Grand Duke Michael.

Many popular artistes have offered their services, including Miss Phyllis Bedells, Miss Gladys Cooper, Miss Ethel Levey, Miss Irene Vanbrugh, Miss Wish Wynne, Mr. Wilkie Bard, Mr. Will Evans, Mr. Alfred Lester, Mr. James Tate, Mr. Lewis Waller and Mr. James Welch.

Mr. Punch very heartily commends the cause and its advocates to his gentle readers.

GOOD HUNTING.

A CHIP OF THE OLD BLOCK.

"Mother, Look at That Poor Soldier: Wounded in Both Feet."

WITH ALL RESERVE.

Departing from the time-honoured custom of believing everything they see in print, the British people are learning in these times that one should only run the risk of believing printed news that has passed the Censor. By the time the war is over the new habit will have become established, and we may look for items like the following in our daily papers:—

The right hon. gentleman went on to say that so long as the people of this country permitted the present Government to remain in power, so long would this country be governed in a manner which could never win the approval of the Opposition.

[The above having been passed by the Censor may be accepted as correct.—ED.]

The weather yesterday varied throughout the country. While in the extreme north it was warm and sunny, in the south snow fell. A violent hailstorm swept Battersea from end to end; yet in Stornoway the day was marked by a sky of cloudless blue. Once more the climate of these islands showed itself to be a fickle and unstable thing.

[The above has been submitted to the Censor, who sees no reason why it should be withheld from the public; and it may therefore be taken that in the main it is moderately accurate.—ED.]

Lady A.'s dinner-party at the Ritz Hotel last evening was not a great success. The decorations of pink carnations were but moderately admired by her undistinguished guests. The Blue Petrogradese Orchestra played without particular brilliance. Among those absent without reason assigned were the Duke and Duchess of W., the Earl and Countess X., the Bishop of Y., and Mr. Z., the unknown poet.

[The above has been submitted to the Censor, who possessed no official knowledge of the facts, but considered that the report had an air of sufficient probability.—Ed.]

TO THE UNDYING HONOUR OF A SUPER-PATRIOT.

Commemorate, ye gods, the noble mind

Of Brown (A. J.), a youth of classic parts,

Whose soul was ever faultlessly inclined

To music, verse, and all the gracious arts;

At things of taste, in fact, Augustus John

Was always, and is yet, a perfect don.

But lately I have fathomed deeps unknown

Before in my incomparable friend;

No mere artistic trifler, he has shown

A patriot heart of high heroic trend,

And showered sacrifice with fearless hand

Upon the altar of his Motherland.

I haled him to a "music" hall to hear

The Great Recruiting Song, and watched him wince

And writhe throughout, as though his end were near;

But now I learn that, every evening since,

Brown has been there, in England's sacred cause,

To greet that patriot song with loud applause!

AUNT LOUISA'S SONG SCENA.

Just as adversity sometimes brings out men's strongest characteristics, hitherto unsuspected, so can amateur theatricals lead to surprising discoveries of humour and resource. Everyone must have noticed it.

No one had ever credited Aunt Louisa with any dramatic sense whatever. She is so gentle and so placid. She was always something of a knitter, and, like all essential knitters, given to sitting a little outside of life; but since the war broke out she has knitted practically without ceasing; and who would dream of going to a knitter for stage effects?

Therefore we were astonished when, in talking over the projected Saturday night's entertainment, Aunt Louisa ventured the statement that she had thought out a scheme for a little interlude, and might she be permitted to carry it out? Just a mere fill up, but topical, or possibly even more than topical—prophetic.

Of course she might.

"Is it a tableau?" our stage manager inquired.

"No, I shouldn't call it a tableau," said Aunt Louisa; "I should call it a song scena."

How on earth did she hear that phrase? She never goes to music-halls. I would as soon expect to hear her speak of "featuring."

"A song scena," she went on, "the hero of which is the Kaiser; and I shall want half-a-dozen gentlemen to assist."

The busy fingers knitted away and the gold spectacles were fixed on us with bland benignity. Aunt Louisa writing a song scena and ordering a chorus, just like Mr. George Edwardes, was not the least of the miracles produced by this war.

A company of six of us volunteered, of whom I was one. Another was Mr. Herbert Foley, who has made private theatricals his life study.

"Anything I can do to help you in coaching the performers and so on," he said, "I shall be only too pleased to do. You know I'm no chicken at this sort of thing."

"Thank you," said Aunt Louisa, "but I think I can manage."

"All right," replied Mr. Foley, "but, of course——. Want of experience——"

"First of all," said Aunt Louisa, "I must choose a Kaiser. Someone who can act."

We all became very self-conscious. Our expressions said severally, "No one can act as well as I, but it's rotten form to push oneself forward."

Aunt Louisa scanned us narrowly and, much to everybody else's surprise, picked out Tommy Thurlow. To my mind she could not have made a worse choice; but, as it happened, her judgment was sound.

Foley seemed piqued. "Then what do we do?" he asked.

"You are chorus men," said she.

"Chorus!" said Foley.

"Isn't that the right word? I know so little about these things. Perhaps I ought to have said 'supers.'"

She then told us what to do, knitting all the while.

On the evening Aunt Louisa's song scena was the success of the show. It was called "The Haunted Kaiser," and it began with a distracted demented Tommy Thurlow, with the familiar Potsdam moustache and an excellent wig from London, rushing on with his fingers in his ears. No doubt as to who it was—the War Lord in a state bordering on delirium. Having calmed down a little, he began to sing:—

For years and years I'd waited,

Preparing for The Day——

The day that meant for Germany

A universal sway.

Alas, alack,

For my set back!

At this point a number of tea-trays were smitten resonantly "off." Tommy dramatically heard them and sang:—

What's that that smites upon my ear,

The sound of cruel guns I hear,

That sound of fear?

More tea-tray.

The British, French and Russians

They are murdering my Prussians:

Why did I make this war?

They're in my way by day, by night:

In vain, in vain I take to flight,

I'll hear them evermore——

Those guns! Those guns!

Tremendous applause, while Tommy prepared for the second verse and Aunt Louisa's great effect.

Alas! for my ambition,

My glory passed away!

What is there left of Germany

But misery to-day?

Alack, alas,

For such a pass!

Here on several concertinas in different parts of the hall, as well as upstairs, was heard, "It's a long way to Tipperary." Tommy began to behave like a maniac. He rushed about more wildly than before. He stopped his ears. He tried to hide. Then he began to sing again:—

What's that that bursts upon my ear,

That overwhelming song I hear,

That sound of fear?

Though brave my men and wary,

They've been done by "Tipperary;"

Why did I make this war?

It's in my brain by day, by night,

In vain, in vain I take to flight,

I'll hear it evermore—

That song! That song!

Now came the great dramatic effect. On to the stage climbed, in the latest revue manner, from all parts of the house, the army of which I had the honour to be one, all pointing the finger of doom at the cringing Tommy Thurlow. Having got him well into our midst and broken to the world, we sang at him these stirring lines to a too familiar tune:—

It's a long way to get to Paree,

It's a long way to go;

It's the wrong way through little Belgium,

The wrongest way we know.

Good-bye, Kaiser Billy;

Farewell, O mein Herr;

It's a long, long way to St. Helena,

But your home's right there!

Terrific success; and, after some moments of reluctance, Aunt Louisa, still knitting a sock, was induced to bow.

But it wasn't a bad first effort at drama by an old lady in gold spectacles, was it? I have seen worse by professional writers.

Patriotic Wife. "Now, Richard, Before You Go, Let Me Hear You Repeat My Instructions."

Richard. "I Must Remember I'm the Husband of An Englishwoman, and I'm Not To Come Back Without The Kaiser!"

Mr. Thespian Jones, the famous Animal Impersonator, offers his services as "Collecting Dog" under the auspices of a relief committee—

—But suddenly forgets himself on the arrival of good news from the front.

THE KAISER'S "HATE."

[The feeling in Germany, it appears, is now quite friendly towards France and Russia, and all the fury of the Press is concentrated on England.]

When first the champions were listed,

When first the shells began to fall,

Some trace of animus existed

Between the Teuton and the Gaul;

King William was extremely callous,

Nay, even found a certain zest

In riding from his Potsdam palace

To show his purple to the West.

But what a charm the Frenchman carries!

His compliments how wide they range!

Before King William got to Paris

His feelings underwent a change:

"Our ancient feud against the Latin,"

He said, "has sensibly decreased;"

And rising from the trench he sat in

He moved his umbrage to the East.

He trampled on the Polish border;

He cried that Russia was the foe;

The German Press received the order

And answered meekly, "That is so;"

But when King William met the Tartar

His soul sustained another wrench,

He found the Slavs were even smarter

At entertainments than the French.

They gave him such a royal greeting

With Cossack horsemen making curves

That William asked them, on retreating,

To try his Prussian game preserves;

"Duke Nicholas is not the canker,"

He told his German scribblers then;

"His treatment has disarmed my rancour"

(It certainly disarmed his men).

"Out yonder in the circling billows

There lies the object of my scorn,

We hate these English armadilloes,

We wish they never had been born;

Their name to us is rank and fetid,

And on their sins our rage is fed;"

And all the German Press repeated

Precisely what the Kaiser said.

Eh well. That water is a worry!

And doubtless, if the iron glove

Should meet us here in Kent or Surrey,

Its clasp might soften into love;

We might despatch him with a grey grin,

And all the German Scribes would vow

"Our bugbear is the Montenegrin;

We do not hate the English now."

But better still to cool his dudgeon

Where week by week our nobler sons

Have proved Britannia's no curmudgeon

By salvoes of applauding guns;

To save him toil without his landing,

To meet him with more warm advance,

And help to share that "understanding"

He has with Russia and with France.