Punch/Volume 148/Issue 3856
CHARIVARIA.
"Prince von Bülow," an Exchange telegram informs us, "is keenly distressed and humiliated at the failure of his diplomatic mission." Somehow or other we had a sort of presentiment that it would not please him.
⁂
"The Italian Admiralty has refused the application of Signor d'Annunzio, the poet, to enlist in the Navy, but the War Office has offered him a commission in the light horse." The light horse, we imagine, includes our old friend Pegasus.
⁂
It is not, we believe, generally known that, as a result of the German official instructions to the Press to show Italy goodwill to the very last second, quite a number of German editors broke out in spots all over.
⁂
The practical nature of the Teuton has once inore been asserting itself. Busy men in Germany, we hear, are now allowed, in order to save time, to greet their friends with the abbreviations "G. S. E." and "G. S. I.," instead of saying at length, "Gott strafe England" and "Gott strafe Italien."
⁂
We hear that the only persons in Germany who are thoroughly pleased at Italy's entry into the War are the schoolboys there. They have resolved never to let a word of Latin pass their lips again.
⁂
A writer in the Münchener Post refers to the "hang-dog look" of the British officers in France. It evidently is not realised that this hang-dog look means a determination to suspend the mad dog of Potsdam.
⁂
The King of Saxony prohibited all public celebrations of his fiftieth birthday last week. This is taken to signify that His Majesty wishes he had not been born.
⁂
Referring to Lord Kitchener and Mr. Lloyd George and their respective spheres The Pall Mall Gazette remarks, "Each part of the work in this war is big enough for a giant." Physically, of course, Mr. Lloyd George is one of the smallest giants in the world.
⁂
It is possible, we hear, that, with a view to the nation's devoting its entire energies and attention to the war against Germany, the anti-fly campaign may be dropped.
⁂
"Not a hair on the head of a single foreigner who has thrown in his lot with Germany, and lives in our midst as a German citizen," says the Deutsche Tageszeitung, "has been touched since the war began." This certainly shows wonderful self-restraint on the part of the German barbers.
⁂
A German Professor of Theology, Herr D. Baumgarten, has been delivering a remarkable sermon on the righteousness of the German cause. The destruction of the Lusitania," says this holy man, "should be greeted with jubilation and enthusiastic cheering, and everybody who does not cheer is no real or true German." Many harsh things have been said of the Germans, but nothing quite so bitter as this suggestion for a test of nationality.
⁂
"Is the world," asks the Berlin Lokalanzeiger, "so helplessly shackled under the English hypnotism that it cannot see the hideous monster of despotism which, at England's beck, is crouching on their very shoulders, and under which they are surely doomed to be crushed." The answer is in the affirmative. Isn't it awful?
⁂
The Paris Matin states that a consignment of preserved food in tins, which was seized during transit to Germany, was found to contain 4,000 revolvers. This—which points to gross carelessness on the part of somebody—is by no means the first occasion on which foreign matter has been found in canned foods, as witness the Chicago revelations of some years back.
⁂
Leather is now becoming scarce in Germany, and an appeal is being made to parents to allow their children to go to school in wooden shoes. In return, we take it, the children would not be leathered by the schoolmaster.
⁂
The latest, suggestion from Germany, the home of Culture, is, we hear, that captured flying men should be placed in cages.
⁂
It seems very strange, after all that we have heard of the thoroughness of the enemy's methods, that not a single case of scalping has hitherto been brought to our notice.
THE DAMOSEL I LEFT BEHIND ME.
Recruiting Poster in the style of the new Decorative School.
"New York, Wednesday.—I learn from a Washing source which is usually of the best authority that the German Government has ordered the suspension of its submarine activities against neutral commerce."—Manchester Evening News.
These things always come out in the wash.
From a review:—
"The book is revolting. It is an insult to every patriotic and fine feeling. It ridicules all that is noble and good. It is fit meat for the common hangman."—Globe.
This appears under the headline, "Books Worth Reading." Well, Disgustibus non est disputandum.
New theory of the origin of the War. From Dublin University:—
"Changes in French Honor Courses necessitated by the War made with the authority of the Council during Michaelmas Term, 1914, and approved as permanent changes by the Committee of the School of Modern Languages and Literature."
"Aigues Mortes, the historic little port on the Mediterranean from which St. Louis sailed on his two crusades in 1848 and 1870."
The Graphic.
These episodes in the after-life of St. Louis had not been previously recorded. One cannot wonder, however, that he preferred to be out of his native land in those particularly strenuous years.
LIBERTY: THE FALSE AND THE TRUE.
OUR WHITSUN CAMP.
Our Commandant is very pleased about it. Nearly all the photographs came out very well and the Censor has passed some of them for publication. I think that the snapshot of the Adjutant misjudging the width of a trench was rightly censored. It is a pity that some of the villagers, including three boys and two of the oldest inhabitants, got into the group of officers entitled "not too old to fight."
A battalion of regulars, who, also taking advantage of the fine weather and holiday season, had pitched their tents in our neighbourhood, took a great interest in us, especially in our red armlets. It cost us a long time to convince them that we weren't a flock of budding staff officers out for a picnic or a battalion in quarantine. It wasn't until they saw us manœuvring that they understood that the armlet scheme was to prevent the possibility of the Germans missing any of us if we went into action.
Our ceremonial parade was marred by the conduct of the leading Platoon Commander who was guilty of three breaches of military etiquette on the march past, none of which was excusable even if a mosquito did bite him under the left eye at a critical moment. He said something that was not in the Infantry Training Book, threw the battalion out of step and finished his salute before passing the post.
The camp pastimes consisted largely of trench digging and tactical manœuvres. The ungrudging manner in which one of our Platoon Commanders in the course of swinging a pick sacrificed his near fourth rib to the common good was voted a sporting effort; but Holroyd's double event with his neighbour's shoulder and his own shin in one swing was considered clumsy. Considerable ingenuity was shown in disguising the trenches. In spite of our Commandant's disparaging remarks I still think that my idea of laying out our parapet as a potato bed was most practical, and that it was churlish and unsporting of the original potato-planter to complain to our Commandant. A man is not much of a man who cannot give up a few unripe potatoes for his country.
My first idea was mustard and cress, and after consultation with a local gardener I came to the conclusion that the best plan would be to start the seeds growing on flannel. As I hadn't got enough flannel I had to use Higgs's blanket and rug. I watered the blanket and rug well before spreading the seeds, and I am sure that the scheme would have been a success but for Higgs's lack of co-operation. I was just going to explain the matter to him when "lights out' sounded and he went hurriedly to bed with my seeds. Of course he discovered his mistake at once, but the damage was done, and we were both reprimanded by the Section Commander for creating a disturbance in billets. I think that I shall try for strawberries if we entrench in the summer. Bailey's river scene, with bulrushes and waterlilies, would have been all right if his trench had not been on the rise of a hill and if the scene had harmonised with the next trench, which was adorned with gorse and tulips.
A grand finale to the camp was provided by an exhibition battle between the infantry and the motor squadron. Our operations—I am infantry—were considerably hampered by the insubordination of the Commandant's horse. First, he refused to bring back his hay cart in time and was late for parade; secondly, he was insulting to the Adjutant, who had waited for him and wanted to exhibit his knowledge of the haute école, and thirdly he objected to the Commandant unfolding the plan of campaign to our officers from his back. While the Commandant was endeavouring to explain that the motor squadron was going to make a surprise attack on us, the attack happened and the surprise was complete. Considering the number of conflicting orders which were given we did fairly well, and most of us found some kind of cover. I concealed myself in a furze bush which I hadn't noticed until I got there. Bailey found cover for one leg in a rabbit hole, and this helped him to lie down very quickly; he kept lying down until the ambulance came up. Having fired five rounds rapid into our officers and one another we had leisure to look for the motor squadron. We felt that they had taken a mean advantage in attacking when our Commandant's horse was entertaining us by giving an exhibition cake-walk, so we decided to charge them. This figure was a great success, as they imagined that we had practically annihilated ourselves. They didn't know that our infantry is as resilient as the Russian army. We could have captured them all if we hadn't wanted the spectators to see them retreat along the road. We had a crowd of spectators whom our ex-Adjutant had invited to motor down to see us perform. He had posted them on a hill commanding a view of the whole operations, and doubtless they would have been much impressed if he hadn't told them beforehand everything that was going to happen. Unfortunately, owing to the conduct of the Commandant's horse nothing happened that he had told his friends about, and his reputation as a military prophet is ruined.
We didn't go back to camp after wiping out the motor squadron, but marched straight on the railway station. The motor squadron tried to attack us again on the way, but we weren't going to fight dead men, and there were too many regulars about, so we just told them not to be silly and took no further notice of them.
REINFORCED CONCRETE.
John Bull. "IF YOU NEED ASSURANCE SIR, YOU MAY LIKE TO KNOW THAT YOU HAVE THE LOYAL SUPPORT OF ALL DECENT PEOPLE IN THIS COUNTRY."
THE STAMPS OF FORTUNE.
Our Great New War Serial.
A Romance of Love, War and Philately.
[Synopsis of preceding chapters and characters in the story, which takes place in the autumn of 1914.
Emilia Watermark, a sweet young English girl, possessor of a magnificent Stamp Collection inherited from her father, which includes a unique set of San Salvador 1896 issue (unused). She is in love with
Harold Pootwink, a splendid young English athlete and enthusiastic philatelist, employed in Steinart's Grand Emporium.
Steinart, a wealthy naturalised merchant, only interested in stamps as a side-line on which money might be made. He presses his unwelcome attentions on Emilia, but has no real love for her, his only wish being to obtain possession of the priceless Salvadors.
He really loves
Magda Ivanovitch, a beautiful adventuress whom he employs to abstract valuable stamps from famous collections. She cherishes a secret passion for Harold, and hopes to tempt him from his Emilia by pandering to his craving for hitherto unobtainable specimens.
Steinart, having discovered that his employé dares to be his rival with Emilia, has sent him on a special mission to Germany to buy Teddy Bears for the Toy Department. and hopes to attain his object before Harold can return.
Read on from here—if you have any strength left.]
Chapter XLVI.
Steinart was shown into Emilia's boudoir, tastefully decorated with glass cases containing the famous Collection, among which he saw with a spasm of joy the exquisite designs and colours of the Salvador gems.
The fair occupant was bending over a table on which lay a sheet of stamps of the 1823 issue of Kamschatka.
She was deep in the absorbing task of separating those with the full-stop after the "A" (value sixteen a penny) from those without the full stop (Catalogue value 39s. 6d. each), and did not at first observe him.
When she at last did so she bowed coldly, at the same time tactfully stifling a yawn with her pocket magnifier.
She made a pretty picture as she stood in her 5 cent French 1906 issue green evening wrap, trimmed with fur of the peculiar shade seen to such advantage in the background of the Russian 2 kopeck of 1875.
Her features had all the natural grace observable in the early Colonial attempts at the presentment of Her Majesty Queen Victoria, but a close observer might have noticed that the pupil of one of her eyes was badly centred, while a fairly well defined watermark was visible in the shading of her neck.
"Why do you force yourself, on me like this?" exclaimed the beautiful girl. "You must know that you are more worthless in my eyes than even the ten pfennig stamp of the country which had the misfortune to give you birth."
"Ha! you haf then not yet heard the news," hissed Steinart. "War has been declared between England and Germany, and every Stamp Collector in the country is wringing his hands over the 'worthless' German stamps he has so often contemptuously thrown away, each one of which is now worth at least double its weight in three-penny-bits!"
"And Harold! What of him? shrieked Emilia, as she suddenly realised the horror of the situation.
"Interned in Germany as an English spy," returned Steinart with guttural glee.
Emilia fell over in a swoon, fortunately landing on a large sack of Portuguese Colonials (surcharged "Republica") which had just arrived and so escaping injury.
When she recovered the German had disappeared, and on going to the window she observed him some distance down the street with a large flat parcel under his arm.
For a few seconds she hardly realised what had occurred; then, with a wild cry and a despairing look at the empty space on the wall, she sank to the floor in a second merciful access of unconsciousness.
The priceless case of San Salvadors had disappeared!
Chapter XLVII.
In a lonely turret cell in the grim prison fortress of Schweinoberundunterwolfenberg Harold Pootwink had now been immured for over two months.
Late one evening he was seated over the remains of a miserable meal, with his precious Stamp Album, of which even the brutality of his gaolers had not deprived him, propped against a loaf of war bread.
Forgetful of his sordid surroundings he was feasting his eyes on the matchless beauty of the new English "Postage Dues" he had recently acquired, when the door opened noiselessly and a figure in the long cloak of a German officer stood before him.
Harold rose to his feet as the cloak was thrown aside, revealing the magnificent form of Magda Ivanovitch.
"Cruel boy!" she whispered; "see what dangers I have passed through for your sake. Come; my private airship lies moored at the window outside your cell. We have but to fly together to some far land where this frightful war cannot reach us, and in savage solitude live for love and stamps alone."
Harold made a gesture of refusal, but the lovely Magda, sinking on her knees before him, cried, "Ah! do not spurn me. I can make you famous, the possessor of stamps which Kings have fought for."
With these words she drew from her valise and exposed before Harold's fascinated gaze some specimens that might well have tempted any philatelist—a superb example of the Costa Rican issue of 1892, but bluish green instead of greenish blue, being the only example known with this peculiarity; a beautiful early Afghanistan which looked even more like an intoxicated Catherine-wheel than any previously discovered, and a handful of "Post Office" Mauritius which, if thrown on the market, would have instantly brought the price of this famous stamp down to a few paltry thousands.
Harold took a step towards her with outstretched hands. But just in time he recalled that his affections were centred in the beautiful girl he had left in England.
Regaining command of himself with an effort he turned away from the temptress, exclaiming in a broken voice, "Enough! even for these I cannot give up my Emilia."
Magda's features grew as white as a plain embossed stamp as she cried, "Your Emilia, forsooth! Do you still dream of that baby-faced child while such a woman as I plead for your love? Fool! months ago she forgot you, and already when I left London her engagement to Steinart was rumoured in the Society papers."
Harold's iron manhood almost failed him, but only for a moment. Drawing himself up as nearly to his full height as the ceiling of his cell would permit, he retorted, "You say her engagement is rumoured; I refuse to believe it until it is officially passed by the Press Bureau."
The face of the adventuress instantly flushed as dark as an old English penny red. Rushing to the table she seized the stamp album, and, ere Harold could intervene, heaved it through the open window. A sullen splash far below told that the loving work of a lifetime was lost for ever in the depths of the Dummereselbach.
Then with a vicious slam of the door she disappeared, while the unhappy prisoner buried his face in the war loaf and burst into sobs.
(To be continued.)
Evviva!
"The King and Queen waved the Italian flag, and the King shouted 'Long Live Italy!' The crowd shouted, 'Long Live the War!'"
The Star.
This was perhaps carrying enthusiasm a little too far.
Mrs. Henry Throgmorton. "Harry's getting on so well in the National Guard. They've made him a company promoter."
LADY TU-TI.
"Boxers (Experienced female) wanted."—Daily Chronicle.
Bombardier Wells is stated to have rejoined the army, and his brother-pugilists should now have no hesitation in following his lead, since there are experienced ladies ready to fill their places in the ring.
"I hear you've had some of your horses commandeered."
"Yes, I have, zur, an' all on account o' this 'ere Kayser. But I tell 'ee wot: I've kep' on wi' my work as if nothin' 'ad 'appened—jest ter spite 'im!"
MULLINS.
"This 'ere War," began Bill Corrigan, and the opening was so familiar that the line of men leaning against the factory-wall scarcely looked up from their pipes and papers, "may be right enough for them as was born with the martial instink, but for them as wasn't it's jest silly!"
They agreed with him, though languidly. The sentiment was in entire accordance with their mood: the sole objection to it was that they had heard it expressed by Bill many times before.
"Slackers?" he had echoed amiably, in reply to a persistent recruiting-sergeant in the early days, "oo's denyin' of it, mate? No, we ain't reg'lars, nor territorials, nor nash'nal volunteers, nor yet speshuls, an' we don't manufacture as much as a bootlace for the bloomin' troops, an' we're about the only crowd in England as ain't ashamed to say so!"
And the rest, following Bill's heroic lead, were quite remarkably proud of the fact that they also weren't ashamed to say so. The thing had become a cult, a sort of fetish. They regarded each new recruiting-poster with amused interest; passed the barracks at the corner with light and careless steps, and made a decent bit overtime.
"'Eard yest'day," said Alf Chettle, "that they've got a noo recruiting-sergeant, name o' Cheem, at the barracks. Reckons 'e's goin' to wake us up. Got an ideer that the other fellers that tried to make rookies o' me an' Bill didn't understand our temp'ryments."
There was a chorus of chuckles.
A little man in khaki who had been listening to the dialogue came nearer hesitatingly.
"Any o' you chaps live in Ponter Street?"
"I do," said Bill, suspiciously. "Why?
"Met a feller at the Front that used to live in this neighbourhood, an' 'e sent a message. Larky sort o' boy, e was, not more than sixteen, though 'e wouldn't own it. 'E was wounded in the ankle while we was retreatin', an' the Huns got 'im before we could carry im off. Late that night 'e crawled into camp, an' the things 'e told us before 'e died———"
"What name?" asked Alf, sharply.
"Mullins—Tim Mullins."
"Recollect 'im skylarkin' with my lads," said an older man. "Game little beggar, all freckles an' grin."
"'E was. 'Remember me to the old crowd in Ponter Street, if ever you're down that way,' 'e says; 'I bet the Fact'ry's workin' short-'anded just tnow. I ain't done 'alf what I meant to,' 'e says, catchin' 'is breath, but there's plenty more, thank Gawd, to carry on. Guess there won't be many slackers in England when they reads the papers—only poor beggars as ain't got strength enough to fire a rifle or dig a trench.'"
There was a short silence while the man in khaki filled his pipe.
"I can see all the fightin' I wants at a picture palace," said Bill gruffly.
"Maybe," said the man in khaki. "But I'm goin' out again soon's I get the chance... Can't forget the look on young Mullins' face when 'e died. No, 'e wasn't no bloomin' martyr. But 'e'd done 'is bit, an' that was all that mattered."
"Last I saw o' the beggar," said the older man. "'e was playin' marbles with my Tom, 'When I grows up.' 'e says, 'I'm goin' to buy a farm, an' grow apples."
"An' now—'e won't never grow up," said Alf.
"No," said the man in khaki, "nor won't die, neither. There's life, mate, an' there's death, an' there's another thing they calls immortality, an' that's what Mullins found."
The hoarse roar of the factory hooter filled the air, and the men began to drift towards the entrance. Within the yard Bill came to a sudden halt.
"Anyone care to look in at the barracks to-night?" he demanded huskily.
"Don't mind if I do," said Alf. A dozen others straggled across and said they felt like coming to join them.
The man in khaki watched them. If Bill had made a discovery, so had he—a discovery uncommon among those whose talk is of the elemental things of life. His subject had been greater than he had suspected.
Turning away, he came face-to-face with an officer. He saluted briskly.
"Well," said the officer, "any luck?"
"Pretty fair, Sir," said Cheem.
"The tramway marched from Edmonton to the factory singing and cheering, under an escort of a strong body of police."—Evening News.
The tramway seems to have set a fine example to the discontented employés.
"The conduct of our troops throughout the day was splendid, and they literally clung to the edge of the cliffs on both sides of the fatal beach, for the tows on the left, which had made for the shelter of ape Tekeh, also got ashore and hung on in the same tenacious manner."—Daily Express.
We are glad to have the name of this friendly animal preserved for us. Not content with sheltering our troops, it appears to have communicated to them its well-known prehensile abilities, thus enabling them to hang on by their tows.
"Red Cross Society.—Mrs. ——— has material for sand pyjamas for the wounded who come to Derby Infirmary and are then drafted on to local hospitals. She would be glad to hear from those willing to undertake to make any garments, the material being provided."
Ashbourne Telegraph.
These are presumably supplemental to the sand-bags which are in so great demand for the protection of our troops at the Front.
THE ALIEN QUESTION.
Sympathetic Stranger (after lady's repeated calls of "John! John! John!"). "John doesn't seem to be a very obedient little dog."
Lady. "Well, you see, his name isn't John; (faintly) it's really Fritz.
OUR COUNTRY'S LOSS.
I will call them A, B and C. This is for convenience, and not for fear that they might recognise themselves under their own names, for they are the kind who would never recognise themselves in print.
By an odd chance I met them all on the same day, one at a club, one in the street, and one in a train. All are between forty and fifty; in fact, contemporaries of my own. All are fairly well-to-do, or were before the War started. To-day no one knows what he is worth. And to-morrow———?
A was walking along Cockspur Street when I met him, or, to be more exact, when he met me. He was in that dangerous mood when a man says, "Which way are you going? I've nothing much to do. I'll go along with you."
I said I was going to the Albany.
"You're just the man I wanted to see," he said. "I want your advice. The fact is, the War is gettin' on my nerves and I really think I ought to be doin' somethin'. Somethin' real, I mean. I'm too old to fight; even if I could scrape through with a lie about my age. What do you say? Couldn't you suggest some organisin' I could do? I hate to praise myself, but if there's one thing I can do, it's to organise. Look at the things I've done in that way. Look at our golf club. Works like a clock. Look at my billiard room lamps; my own idea, and everyone notices them. Ever since I was at school I have been an organiser. I ran all the various societies there. Now don't you think there ought to be a vacancy for me in one of the departments?"
I said I had an idea that they preferred trained men; amateurs can be a nuisance.
"I know that," he said. "But mine's a different case. There's always room at the top, and for a real organiser too—a born administrator. Now do promise to think of something for me. And let me know. Here's my new address; we've just moved to a most delightful place in Devonshire."
I promised.
B came up to me in the club.
"Lunching alone?" he asked.
I had to admit it.
"You don't mind if I join you?" he added.
I could not tell the truth.
"I wanted to see you," he said. "You know several Government people, I know. Well, I've been talking it over with my wife, and we're sure that with my gift of organisation there must be some post I could fill just now to help old England. I'd fight if I could, but I'm too old. But my brain's in perfect order and there's nothing I can't do with underlings. I've proved it again and again. You should see how I keep my gardeners hopping about; and, although I say it as shouldn't, my clerks adore me. Now surely there's some vacancy for me somewhere. Not this week and not next, because we've got people till then; but after that. Can't you think of anything? What about this Push and Go business? Couldn't I be useful there? Think about it, won't you?"
I said I would.
C looked in at my carriage window a second too soon. A second later and my Pall Mall would have covered my face.
"Ah, that's right," he said. "I was hoping I should find you. Now if we can only keep the bores out we're all right."
I laid aside the paper—and I was in the very midst of the Garvinelles too—and prepared for the worst.
"It's like this," he said. "All my friends tell me I've got very unusual abilities as an organiser, and upon my soul I believe they're right, though it may sound like swanking to say so. My head's in pigeon-holes, you know. I can keep things clear and distinct. I never forget. Well, up to the present I've done nothing for the country in its time of stress. When I say nothing, I don't exactly mean that. A façon de parler, don't you know? But nothing very practical. I've written a cheque or two, of course, and housed some Belgians, poor devils! But I've done nothing with myself; I haven't put my own peculiar talent into it. But now I feel that the time's come; and with this organising gift of mine, of which my friends speak so highly, I think I ought really to be of great service to those in power. Can't you suggest anything for a born organiser to do? I don't mind whether it's in Downing Street, or Pall Mall, or where it is. In fact, I don't mind if it's in France, so long as expenses are paid. I think it's only right to ask for them, don't you? A labourer and his hire, don't you know? And what costs nothing is too often worth nothing, eh? But it must be sound organising work—armaments, stirring up the country, registering the slackers—I don't mind what. You'll try to think of something, won't you?"
I undertook to do so.
My regret is that I did not meet also D or even E and F. Because if I had I should have won their admiration and respect for the rest of their lives by my amazing skill as a clairvoyant.
"Hullo," I should have said, "I know what you are thinking. You are thinking that possibly might be of some use in helping you to a post as organiser of some kind in connection with the War. Because organising has always been your long suit. Munitions or something; it matters little so long as your organising genius (and genius is not too strong a word) could have play."
And the odd thing is that all the time I had been thinking of applying for some organising position for myself. But now I shall not.
Wounded Soldier. "Pretty rotten luck being pipped without even seeing a German."
Friend. "Don't let that worry you, old chap. When you get fit I'll show you hundreds of them over here."
THE ENEMY IN OUR MIDST.
"As Barmaid, a respectable young man."
Advt. in "Morning Advertiser."
Shirkers should take up this idea and disguise themselves as women. It ought not to be difficult.
 | An image should appear at this position in the text. If you are able to provide it, see Wikisource:Image guidelines and Help:Adding images for guidance. |
| An image should appear at this position in the text. If you are able to provide it, see Wikisource:Image guidelines and Help:Adding images for guidance. |
THE TWO-HANDED SWORD.
Intensely patriotic Squire (mustering remnant of farm-hands). "Now, then, lads, pull yourselves together. Kitchener may extend the age limit yet."
THE SENSITIVE.
THE COMING OF THE COALITION.
[With acknowledgments to Guido Reni's fresco of Phoebus, Aurora and the Hours in the Palazzo Rospigliosi at Rome.]
FIELD KIT ALLOWANCE.
(How to earn £7 10s.)
Extracts from the diary of a subaltern:—
Sept. 1st.—Received commission in His Majesty's Forces. Gazetted temporary sub-lieutenant R.F.A.
Oct. 1st.—Decided to apply for £7 10s. Field Kit Allowance.
Oct. 2nd.—Wrote to local Paymaster demanding £7 10s.
Oct. 10th.—Received letter from Paymaster requesting receipted bill for articles bought.
Oct. 10th.—Forwarded receipted bill.
Oct. 21st.—Letter returned from Paymaster with memorandum referring me to Messrs. Charing and Cross, Government Agents.
Oct. 21st.—Wrote to local Paymaster requesting return of receipted bill.
Nov. 1st.—Received bill.
Nov. 1st.—Wrote to Messrs. Charing and Cross enclosing receipted bill and requesting payment of £7 10s.
Nov. 5th.—Received communication from Messrs. Charing & Cross, stating that only Government grant and salary passed through their hands, Field Kit Allowances being paid by Regimental Paymaster at Land's End.
Nov. 5th.—Wrote to Regimental Paymaster at Land's End, enclosing receipted bill, and requesting £7 10s.
Nov. 22nd.—Received memorandum from Regimental Paymaster stating that Field Kit Allowances must be claimed within two months of receiving commission. If claimed after two months, certified statement that claim has not already been made must be enclosed.
Nov. 22nd.—Wrote to Regimental Paymaster enclosing certified statement.
Dec. 7th.—Memorandum from Regimental Paymaster stating that under Army Order X02Y Central, on and after Dec. 4th, Field Kit Allowances are paid into Messrs. Charing and Cross. Receipted bill and certified statement returned.
Dec. 7th.—Wrote to Messrs. Charing and Cross, enclosing receipted bill and certified statement, and asking if Field Kit Allowance had been paid into account.
Dec. 12th.—Communication from Messrs. Charing and Cross, stating that Army Order X02Y Central only applies to officers gazetted on or after Dec. 4th. Officers gazetted previously obtain Field Kit Allowance from Regimental Paymaster at Land's End.
Dec. 13th.—Ordered ten days' sick-leave by Medical Officer on account of nervous breakdown.
Dec. 23rd.—Wrote a full and detailed and moderately calm letter to Regimental Paymaster at Land's End. Wished him a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year, and requested payment of £7 10s. Field Kit Allowance. Enclosed receipted bill, certified statement and Christmas card.
Jan. 2nd.—Received sympathetic letter from Regimental Paymaster, stating that all claims for Field Kit Allowance must be accompanied by Certificate K.Y.O. 7635, to be obtained from Commanding Officers.
Jan. 2nd.—Wrote to C.O. requesting Certificate.
Jan. 21st.—Wrote to C.O. requesting Certificate.
Feb. 7th.—Wrote to C.O. requesting Certificate.
Feb. 19th.—Received crushing letter from Adjutant enclosing Certificate.
Feb. 19th.—Wrote to Regimental Paymaster demanding Field Kit Allowance. Enclosed Certificate K.Y.O. 7635.
Mar. 2nd.-Received cheque for £7 10s.
June 1st.—Able to sit up and take a little nourishment.
Horti-Kultur.
"There are tales of snipers being captured with their faces and hands stained green, and their clothes hung about with leaves in order to stimulate the vegetation in which they hide."—Morning Post.
But we are glad to say that despite this expedient the "plant" did not flourish long.
"The German Catholic Deputy, Herr Erzberger, who took refuse in the Vatican... has hastily left Rome in secret."
Daily Record and Mail.
To prevent any repetition of the incident the Vatican authorities would be wise to put up a notice, "Rubbish may not be shot here."
"For years there was a prejudice in this country against ready-made clothes—in fact, that description is still disliked—but of course there is no reason why a man of 'stock size' should not be able to clad himself in this way."
The Observer.
Unless, of course, he has a prejudice against ready-made verbs.
A CIVILIAN GUIDE TO THE ARMY.
Why not use the moustache to indicate military rank?
A SEA-CHANGE OF MIND.
Twickenham, May 3rd.
My dear Tanker,—It is all right. Batson says the fishing is excellent, and the house is at my disposal; the caretaker will look after us and the bailiff will show us the ropes. I can get away for a fortnight, and if you can travel by the Irish Mail Boat on the 20th I will complete arrangements.
Ever yours, Brandon Quinn.
Hampstead, May 4th.
My dear Quinn,—Right you are. I'm your man for the 20th. I feel sorry for your Batson's salmon already. How big are they, and are they fat ones and fairly tame? What is their favourite fly, and do they like a single or a double hook best? or shall I bring prawns? and what about waders and a harpoon?
Ever yours, P. S. Tanker.
Twickenham, May 5th.
My dear Tanker,—Batson says it's all bank fishing, and prawns are no use. Fly and spinners, which can be got locally, are what are wanted.
Yours ever, Brandon Quinn.
P.S.—What do you think about this submarine scare?
Twickenham, May 9th.
Dear Tanker,—You did not answer my question about the submarines. There is no doubt that there are lots about, and they mean mischief. I feel that to risk our lives in the pursuit of pleasure is, perhaps, a little uncalled-for just now. Will you let me know what you think?
Ever yours, Brandon Quinn.
Hampstead, May 10th.
My Dear Quinn,—The line I take is that no German, in or out of a submarine, is going to interfere with any holiday of mine. It would be an admission of defeat. Besides the risk is practically nil.
Yours, P. S. Tanker.
Twickenham, May 11th.
Dear Tanker,—I quite agree that this country ought not to admit that the German blockade is successful, but we are too old to fight, and I do not see what benefit it would be to the country if we were blown up. Besides, I have the office to think of, and the Lawn Tennis Club, of which I am Secretary and Treasurer. Who could take my place? Then again, the risk is a real one. The news of the past few days leaves no doubt on that point. It seems to me that we ought seriously to consider whether it is right for us to go.
Yours, Brandon Quinn.
Twickenham, May 11th.
Dear Tanker,—Since writing this morning I have seen a lady who came from Ireland two days ago. She says it was a "most unpleasant" experience and one that she would not face again for "love or money." The boat went the whole way under full steam, zigzagging about with lights out. I have decided that 1 should be failing in my duty to my numerous relations and friends, and to the office and Tennis Club, etc., if I risked my life for a few days' salmon fishing. Besides, salmon fishing is all a matter of luck, and we might get very few fish or none at all.
Yours sincerely, Brandon Quinn.
Hampstead, May 12th.
Dear Quinn,—I do not feel inclined to give ground to any piratical German marauders. Your letter astonished me. We know that there are submarines about, but your only objection appears to be that adequate precautions are taken to elude them. I understand that if the boat steamed slowly on a direct course, with lights burning brightly, you would be ready to go in her. You remind me of the lady who refused to make a voyage in a ship because she saw a lifebelt in her cabin. By staying below you need not know how the ship is being steered or whether lights are burning or not. You want to know too much. Your job is to be properly seasick and to leave the rest to the captain. It is quite probable that you are not nearly so popular at the office as you suppose, and the Tennis Club will struggle along without you all right, never fear. If we are blown up we shall only fall into water; fibre waistcoats that will float one like a cork can be obtained; watertight sandwich cases can be got for a few shillings, and I know you already possess a flask for keeping liquor hot. If you dislike the idea of getting wet, you can smear yourself with axlegrease, which is quite cheap, and I will gladly lend you a watch that keeps better time wet than dry.
Yours very truly, P. S. Tanker.
Twickenham, May 14th.
Dear Tanker, I have been considering your letter, and in spite of its uncalled-for levity I agree with you that one ought not to admit that the German blockade is achieving its purpose by interfering with our holiday; still one must not be unduly self-indulgent. I hear that a submarine was seen off Holyhead only two days ago. I have made enquiries about insurance rates, and they are prohibitive when one's purpose is nothing but a little fishing. I am sure you must agree with me. It is not as if one had only oneself to consider.
Yours, Brandon Quinn.
Hampstead, May 15th.
Dear Quinn,—It must be all bosh about the submarine off Holyhead. Someone has been frightened by a lobster pot. However, you seem to have made up your mind, so it is no good saying any more on the subject.
Yours truly, P. S. Tanker.
Twickenham, May 16th.
Dear Tanker,—Oh, all right. If you are going to be huffy about not going, let's go. I'm sure I don't mind the risk if you don't.
Yours truly, Brandon Quinn.
Hampstead, May 17th.
My Dear Quinn,—I did not mean to be "huffy." In point of fact I am reconciled to giving up the holiday, for when I got your previous letter I showed it to a friend, and he made the suggestion that if anything happened to you and I felt when I got back that it was due to my having persuaded you from your better judgment I should feel very uncomfortable indeed; and I am bound to say that I think I should. It was a point that had not occurred to me. Added to all this, I have just consented to second a motion in favour of a new stove-pipe at our annual parish meeting, and I cannot very well let them down as we are up against a most formidable reactionary movement. So I'm afraid there is no chance of my being able to come with you. I am sorry. You see how it is, don't you? It's not my fault, I mean; I have all along expressed my willingness to go, as you know.
Ever, my dear Quinn,
Yours, P. S. Tanker.
From a report of the Gaming Raid:—
"The principal male defendant was remanded on boil."—Yorkshire Post.
That should teach him not to get into hot water again.
"Germans boast that submarines are being turned out at the rate of one a fortnight. That is probably an exaggeration, but I know for a fact that within the last three or four months twelve have been constructed at the Hoboken works at Antwerp."
Mr. James Dunn in "The Daily Mail."
Let us hope that his information is no better than his arithmetic.
"2. Saluting the Fag. 'This ceremony,' says the leaflet, 'will doubtless appeal with deeper and clearer meaning than ever before to the children. It is suggested that it should be made as general as possible."
Daily Telegraph.
This part of the Empire Day celebrations was very widely observed by the male juveniles at least; and we noticed that with patriotic discrimination they usually selected the American and not the Turkish variety.
THE STARLING.
A Way they have at Southend.
"'During the raid Southend,' said one eyewitness, 'looked more or less as it does in holiday times. The people were out, many of them in their night attire, with an overcoat hastily put on.'"—Morning Post.
"We owe to Sir John French the leadership which has enabled a handful of men from the British Islands, the Dominions, and India to hold back the mightiest army in the world."
Daily Mail.
Still, it would have been only fair to mention that some assistance was received from General Joffre and his platoon.
"Cheesemakers are in high spirits. They are finding a keen demand for newly made cheese at prices well over 80s. per cwt., and indeed the cheese is moving off as fast as it is made."—Glasgow Herald.
Headed by the Gorgonzolas, whose agility is well-known.
Title for Munitions Minister.
LORD HIGH EXPLOSIVE.
"Not many people away holiday-making in war-time, I suppose, milkman?"
"Well, mum, you'd be surprised; at least five gallons of my customers were away last week-end."
JONES SUPER-PATRIOT.
Jones (I'm very sorry, but his name is really Jones) is a true patriot, every inch of him; but unfortunately he hasn't many inches. Nevertheless, the War wasn't a week old before Jones placed all sixty-one of them at the disposal of the nation. And they threw him out because sixty-one was not enough. Later, when the official altitude-scale was reduced, he offered them again; but on this occasion they threw him out because his teeth came from Welbeck Street. And when subsequently the War Office decided that false teeth were not necessarily a barrier to a military career; were, in fact, a valuable asset in connection with bully-beef, they threw him out because he saw nineteen spots on a card that only possessed seven. And then, when the authorities at last came to look upon pince-nez with a more benignant eye, they threw him out because, while they had been busy rejecting him for paucity of inches, falsity of teeth, and debility of eyes, Jones had passed the age-limit; and when he wanted to argue the point with the Recruiting Officer they threw him out once more for luck.
Then he tried for the Special Constabulary, and the first night he was on duty he contracted pneumonia, bronchitis, influenza and laryngitis. And they threw him out of that because they wanted Special Constables and not collectors of germs.
When he got better—and his convalescence was a long business notwithstanding that his sentences ran concurrently—he applied to join the A.A.C. and would have got in if the Medical Officer had not rung him up on the stethoscope in order to hear his wheels go round. As it was, the M.O. informed Jones that he couldn't pass him into the A.A.C; but if he was really anxious to "serve" he might try and get taken on at an A.B.C.; and it finally took a retired Rear-Admiral, a Chief Petty Officer, a Sergeant of Marines and an Elder Brother of Trinity House to throw him out on that occasion.
Disappointed but undaunted Jones next attempted to qualify as a stretcher-bearer in the Home Service Branch of the Red Cross. There, at any rate, they didn't seem so particular whether his lungs squeaked or not. But even they threw him out when they found that Jones's end of the stretcher was always six inches nearer to the ground than the opposite end.
In desperation he tried to join his local Defence Corps, but they wouldn't have him there because, they said, he completely spoilt the look of their parade. And when Jones expostulated, and urged that the question of appearance was a matter of individual taste, and that for his part he would be ashamed to be found dead wearing a face like that of the Commander of X Company, they fell upon him with eager hands and drill-toughened feet, and threw him out yet once again.
Then, having done his best, Jones went back to his business. A few days ago I met him and he related the foregoing experiences to me. "But I've found a way to help," he concluded, "and it's a help which they can't refuse however overaged, undersized, weak-eyed and false-toothed I may be."
"Taking a course of elementary surgery at one of the hospitals?" I asked.
"No."
"Making recruiting speeches?"
"No."
"Putting in overtime and Sundays at the Arsenal?"
"No."
"What then?"
"Something I've never done before," said Jones, a little shamefacedly. "I—I—I'm returning my Income Tax Form to the Assessors with the correct amount of my Income filled in."
Other patriots please copy.
"The formation of a black battalion has been under consideration for some time, and a number of coloured red men, many of them born in Cardiff, have offered their services."
Daily Mail.
They will have to begin by dyeing for their country.
A TERRITORIAL IN INDIA.
VIII.
My dear Mr. Punch,—Immense and portentous events are taking place in Europe as I write, but among us the great subject of discussion is moustaches, upon which, it would appear, the strength and military glory of the British Empire ultimately depend.
When the War broke out many of us who are accustomed to go clean-shaven in civilian life foolishly imagined that King's Regulation Number One-thousand-and-something would not in our case be strictly enforced. In a period of desperate emergency, we told ourselves, the authorities would concentrate their efforts upon making us fit for active service in the field in the shortest possible time, and, recognising that we were merely temporary soldiers, would ignore our smooth upper lips.
During all these months we have clung to this pleasant delusion, but at last we have been undeceived. Someone in authority, I take it, has been reviewing the situation after nine months of war, and has found cause for dissatisfaction. Everything was not as it should be. Some undiscovered influence was hindering the full success of our arms. What could it be? As he was pondering, there was brought to him the staggering information that a number of Territorials in India were shaving their upper lips. No wonder the Germans had not yet been driven out of Belgium.
So the fiat went forth, and now every man of us, under the threat of hideous penalties, is allowing the abhorred fungus to sprout as freely as nature permits, and the final defeat of the Huns is doubtless in sight.
We of course accept this facial disfigurement for the period of the War with the same resignation that we have displayed with regard to our other discomforts. If the maintenance of the Empire depends upon hairy upper lips, then the Territorials will never shrink from their duty. Thus a suggestion that we should show public resentment by taking advantage of another provision of the same Regulation and growing side-whiskers was at once rejected from motives of pure patriotism.
When I expressed the opinion, some little time ago, that the tales about the Indian climate with which we had been regaled were much exaggerated, I omitted to take the simple and obvious precaution of touching wood. The result is great heat, or, to employ the more expressive language of the country, pukka garmi. We are sweltering inside the walls of our Fort like twopenny loaves in a baker's oven.
But every cloud has a silver lining, and the hot weather has already worked one beneficent miracle—we are allowed to do certain of our guards, if we wish, in shirtsleeves. To show the profound nature of this revolution, let me describe the authentic experience of a friend of mine on Salisbury Plain in the far-away days before we left England.
He was on guard one night, pacing up and down in full marching order, when it began to rain heavily. My friend had never been in such a situation before, and it seemed to his unsophisticated intelligence that it was foolish to get wet through while a neatly-rolled overcoat was strapped to his shoulders. On the other hand he knew enough to refrain from taking such a grave step as to unroll the overcoat on his own initiative, and he therefore called out the Corporal of the Guard to consult him on the matter. Unfortunately the Corporal misunderstood the situation and turned out the Guard, a proceeding which made my friend for a time the most unpopular man in the South of England.
When this difficulty had been adjusted, an animated discussion on the problem took place between the Corporal and the Sergeant of the Guard. The former was of opinion that nothing could be done. If the Guard paraded with rolled overcoats he felt positive that overcoats must be carried rolled for the next twenty-four hours, whatever happened.
The Sergeant, on the contrary, was not quite sure. He had an idea that there were circumstances in which it was permissible to unroll an overcoat and actually wear it. But he was not prepared to take the responsibility upon himself, and he accordingly sent the Corporal to request the Officer of the day to step down to the guard tent.
The Officer of the day was frankly nonplussed, but, being young, was prepared to take the risk. He therefore sent out a very unwilling substitute for my friend, while the latter (now wet through) came into the tent to put on his coat.
Both the Sergeant and the Corporal were extremely horrified at my friend's idea that he should merely slip on the coat outside his equipment until the rain stopped. Such a costume was not provided for in Army Regulations, and could not be tolerated for a moment, even in the middle of the night. So he had to remove his belt, bandolier, water-bottle, haversack, etc. (we were not provided with the new webbing equipment), and put them all on again (properly adjusted) outside the overcoat.
Then arose another difficulty. The Sergeant asserted that, if the Officer was of opinion that the weather conditions were such as to necessitate the wearing of overcoats, all the men on guard must wear theirs, so as to be dressed alike. He was not the man to shirk an unpleasant duty, and he woke up the harassed Guard again and made them go through the same performance, to a steady accompaniment of muttered profanity. Then the dripping substitute was called in, and my friend went out to his post, to find the storm over and the night full of stars.
Thus you can understand why we smile happily to ourselves as we leave the guardroom to go on sentry in our greybacks (if we wish), even though the heat as we step outside seems to leap up from the ground and hit us with a bang in the face.
Another circumstance which marked the arrival of the heat-wave proves that we are still strangers in a strange land. Man after man a short time ago. used to return from his evening stroll with the conviction that he was in for a severe bilious attack. Each had received that unmistakable warning—the dancing of bright spots before the eyes.
Our education proceeds. We know now, when the familiar symptom appears, that it is not biliousness but fireflies.
Life is of necessity a very dull affair for us here, but the authorities, solicitous as ever for our physical and mental welfare, have recently devised a pastime to keep us occupied during the long hours of the day when it is too hot to leave the barracks. They have served out mosquito nets and have given us peremptory instructions to keep them in proper repair. Now these nets are so constructed that if one breathes heavily they fly into holes. Consequently we spend all our spare time busily plying needle and cotton.
I should never have believed that material of such excessive flimsiness could possibly be manufactured. The other evening, I was lying on my bed, watching a mosquito outside the net busily seeking an entrance. At length, weary of flying, he decided for a change to continue his investigations on foot. In landing (if you will believe me) he broke clean through the net and fell on my face with a crash.
Yours ever,
One of the Punch Brigade.
"The toe of the Berlin press obviously causes concern at Washington."
Manchester Guardian.
Can it be that it suggests the approach of the Prussian jack-boot?
Sergeant. "'Ere, Brown, what are you knockin' your 'orses about for?"
Brown. "Please, Sergeant, they're always 'angin' back. If it wasn't for them two bloomin' 'orses we'd 'a' bin in Berlin months ago."
OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
(By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks.)
Mr. Galsworthy has never been much in love with the plain Englishman. He has often dealt him very shrewd and cutting strokes. Perhaps he might plead that the cruelty of deftly turning the knife in the wound cannot be so very great, seeing that the victim (as happens rather from the nature of the victim than the operation) makes no general sign of taking notice. In The Little Man and other Satires (Heinemann) he is at his old task again. "The Little Man" is, in form of a playlet, a fantastic study of an odd, insignificant, pathetic idealist who finds himself, by accident of travel, left with a strange woman's baby, and faces with equanimity the typhus with which it is thought to be infected. Of course you can't state the case in such bald terms without injustice to what is actually a very amusing and effective trifle. But the meat of the book is in the other satires, and chiefly "The Plain Man" and "The Perfect One" (who is in fact merely the Superplain One). For, though Mr. Galsworthy scarifies The Artist, The Critic and The Writer, the studies of these latter types seem rather academic essays in the gentle art of flaying alive, whereas the others express the author's characteristic attitude towards life. His hand has not lost its cunning, but one feels that this is pre-eminently one of the many books written before the War which the War throws out of key. In the matter of the plain man, for instance, I doubt if Mr. Galsworthy will ever again write or think of him in quite the same way; so obviously and so often in these grim months has this simple, substantial type done the plain, hard, right thing in the heroically right way; and little shafts, such as "his eyes, with their look of out-facing Death, fixed on the ball that he had just hit so hard," flutter lamely to the ground.
Most fervently I hope that the title of Dr. J. William White's book will not prevent it from achieving an enormous circulation in this country. A Text-Book of the War for Americans (Winston) is not exactly a seductive title, but when that obstacle has been overcome you will thank me for recommending one of the most illuminating books that the War has brought forth. Dr. White is a modest man, out to tell the truth. He is surprised at the success that his earlier work on the same subject has already gained in America, but there is really no reason for wonder that so lucid a statement of his case should attract and convince countless readers. As everyone knows, the strong point of the Allies' cause is that they have been able to lay their facts upon the table of the world, and to ask that they may be judged wholly and solely by them. But knowing the justice of their cause they may occasionally have been impatient with those who have not instantly and actively recognised it. As regards America, for instance, some of us may have been amazed that the invasion of Belgium and the atrocities following upon that wanton act should have called forth no official protest. Dr. White makes no excuse for this attitude of his country's government; indeed he deplores it deeply and is anxious, both for practical and sentimental reasons, that the States should come at once into the open and join the Allies. Had I ever whispered a quarter as much on the subject of America's policy as Dr. White has openly said here, I should have expected hornets to buzz around my ears, but I shall now fearlessly admit that I agree with every word he has written. Out of their own mouths Dr. White proves the Germans again and again to be liars as reckless as they are futile, and the efforts these mealy-mouthed apologists for Gorman crimes have been compelled to make in their attempts to explain away Bethmann-Hollweg's famous excursion into truth leave me with such a feeling of nausea that for once I find myself almost applauding Maximilian Harden when he writes, " May the Teuton devil throttle those whiners whose pleas for excuses make us ludicrous in these hours of lofty experience." What this "lofty experience" consists of Dr. White can tell you with proof irrefutable and absolutely damning.
In Unofficial (Secker) Mr. Bohun Lynch has chosen to study, with more sympathy than public opinion would be likely to sanction, that type whose world fell crashing about it at the first shock of war—in a sense not easily comprehended by the normal man. It is the type—artist, philanthropist, philosopher, dilettante—to whom visions, dreams, disquisitions, a perception and expression of beauty, seemed the all-important pattern upon a rather tiresome, ugly and unnecessary background of common life. The background is suddenly smashed with a dreadful violence, and the patterns are left, as it were, "bombinating in a vacuum," like the Schoolmen's chimera. It is a real tragedy of the spirit, and many of our modern young men have had their hour of agony before their great decision. And it is in this fateful day an agony peculiar to the youth of England; for all who know anything of self-mastery know that to make is an immeasurably harder thing than, however heroically, to accept difficult decisions. To their great honour they have, even the least likely among them, so often made them unflinchingly, like that young poet whose ashes now lie in Lemnos. Mr. Lynch has complicated his hero's decision by involving him in an honourable obligation to look after a helpless young wife deserted by a blackguard husband. Naturally everyone diagnoses the usual relationship, but the fact that it is so far a Quixotic tie (liable, no doubt, to dissolve into the other kind) complicates the problem. The question lies: Is it this man's duty to enlist or to protect the life he has so far sheltered? The author is not the less true to life as it is, in distinction to what it is supposed to be, in making him determine on the final decision for enlistment in a momentary mood of exaltation which has a swift reaction of doubt. The play of motive and argument on a subtle and fundamentally honest mind and temperament is very skilfully suggested. It is the most real war novel I have yet struck.
Summer Friendships (Grant Richards) is an agreeable specimen of the touring story, as inaugurated by the late William Black. I am not saying that Dorothy Muir has a pen as skilful as that of the chronicler of the Phaeton, but she manages to make her travellers and their very mild adventures sufficiently entertaining. There are some seven or eight persons—the number varies—voyaging through Scotland in two caravans; and by an ingenious device they tell the tale in a series of letters addressed to the mother of two of them, who is also a mutual friend of the others. I liked especially the rather subtle way in which this unseen personage is drawn in at the end to have her share in the inevitable engagements. But you needn't bother about the story, which is of the slightest. The characters are the charm of the book; they all write exceedingly pleasant letters with a somewhat feminine tone to them. They write, indeed, as clever women talk, delightfully, but a little too much. What seems most to have impressed the publishers are the illustrations, "forty-eight pages of them on a new plan." All that this means is that somebody had a camera, and that the resulting snap-shots are reproduced. They are very good ones, even if the continued reappearance of the caravan as the central object makes a little for monotony; but as for being on a new plan, well, any one who has ever endured the album of "What-we-took-when-we-were-away " could contradict this flatly. Still, I repeat that Summer Friendships is an agreeable holiday book; and one, moreover, that might be of practical use to those about to caravan without previous experience of the art.
I have lately suffered some genuine disappointment in reading "Richard Dehan's" volumes of short stories, so that her triumphant return to novel-writing in The Man of Iron (Heinemann) fills me with the purest pleasure; and in spite of my personal conviction that the most wholesome literature for war-time is to be found in the works of Jane Austen or in Cranford, I confess that I make an exception in favour of this vigorous tale of Bismarck and 1870. The author tells us that the subject was long chosen and the book nearly finished when the August of 1914 came to give it an extraordinary aptness. "Richard Dehan" really knows her subject, and there are telling scenes in England, in Germany and in France, especially in the zone of war. In fact, the hero and heroine, whose duty it is to hold the plot together, find it a task nearly, if not quite, too much for them. But in any case, though the interest necessarily centres round the giant figures of Bismarck and Moltke, who bulk huge through the book, I never forgot or wished to forget the young Irishman, Patrick Breagh, and his charming lady, Juliette, true daughter of France. How they cross the path of the Man of Iron, and know him in his strength and weakness, is fully told—much too well, indeed, for me to spoil things by telling you about it. The last nine months may possibly have given you an unusual, even a professional, interest in wars in general and the German way with them in particular; in which event you will be as grateful as I am to "Richard Dehan" for a romance so well woven into a piece of living history.
"THE RIGHT TO KILL. LAST WEEKS."
Surely an optimistic view of the duration of the War.
Antique Dealer (to grandson, who had made a new placard). "Genius, my child—genius! Put it in the window at once."