Read Ebook: Punch or the London Charivari Vol. 147 September 23 1914 by Various

Font size: 10 px 15 px 20 px 25 px 30 px 35 px

Background color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Text color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Apply/Save settings

Ebook has 227 lines and 16400 words, and 5 pages

"Not about anything? Not to make the Government buck up about blankets or squashing German lies, or allowing Correspondents at the Front, or anything like that?"

"No."

"But surely you have views as to the better management of things? The Press Bureau, for instance. Haven't you pitched into that?"

"No."

"Not even clamoured for all Germans in this country, even the naturalised ones, to be shot? Surely you've harried MCKENNA a bit?"

"No."

"Well, you must at least have published a scheme for the partition of Europe after the war?"

"No; I never wrote to the papers in my life."

I shook his hand.

"Good heavens!" I said, "and this is the man who grumbles because he has done nothing for his country."

THE NEW SCHOOL OF DIVINITY.

"As the ghostly adviser Of WILHELM our Kaiser I think this erection Is simply perfection. No censure can dim it, Because it's the limit In massive proportions And splendid distortions. To compare it with Ammon, Whose temple's at Karnak, Is the veriest gammon," Exclaims Dr. HARNACK.

Dr. DRYANDER.

THE WATCH DOGS.

DEAR CHARLES,--I hope you haven't been worrying yourself to death because you haven't heard from your Territorial for a fortnight. The Germans haven't got us yet, and what is more we haven't yet shot each other. There is a private who comes down into the butts under my charge who ought to be especially grateful to Providence on this account, for I cannot induce him to make use of the red "Cease Fire!" flag before he ascends from the safety-pit; even when he does, he drags it out behind him so that the first thing those on the firing-point see is himself, and the second thing is the flag. I think he must have been an ammunition-monger in private life and mixed with bullets in their less dangerous moods.

Everybody has got somebody to look after him here. There was an instance on the range yesterday. The men were firing their standard tests and there were rumours of an inspection. The N.C.O.'s in charge, being a bit anxious themselves, were seeing to it that the privates did their duty. Be sure we kept a relentless eye on the N.C.O.'s, and the Major in charge of the whole Musketry Detachment did not deal gently with us. Then the Adjutant loomed up, and the Major had to explain himself as best he could; next came the Brigadier, and the Adjutant was on his defence. Just as the Brigadier was getting into his stride, "The General, Sir," whispered the Brigade-Major, and it was then for the Brigadier to account for things being as they were and to promise that very shortly they should be otherwise. You'd have thought that a man so mature and beribboned as our Divisional Commander would be immune from attack; but not so, for up rolled a motor which had come all the way from London and the War Office and even the dear old General was found to be capable of error. You may imagine that the five rounds which were being shot all this while by a mere private were somewhat spasmodic, especially as he was used by all parties as an illustration of their particular meanings. Standing by myself all the time while this unhappy man was severally instructed by N.C.O., Lieutenant, Major, Adjutant, Brigadier, General and Permanent Staff, I was a little amused to note that even so he failed to pass his test! And they all told him on no account to be nervous about it.

You know the song, "Where the wind blows, we'll go"? It is a great favourite on the march; and full marching kit, together with eighty rounds of ball ammunition carried by each man, cannot stop it. It is not a beautiful thing in itself, and it is not made more attractive by being sung when the band is playing something else. But it takes little to turn a bad thing into a good one. This morning Lieut. Wentworth, not usually mounted, took out a party for a route march, borrowing the Adjutant's horse for the purpose. As the party marched away at ease, some of their friends asked them where they were going. They answered to music: "Where the horse goes, we'll go." Wentworth tells me that this opinion was not ill-founded.

You want to know what is to become of us. I will tell you on absolutely reliable information. We are going to Cherbourg to stand by as a reserve force; to Paris to act as a protection against surprise attacks; to Ostend to relieve the Casino; to Antwerp to resist Zeppelins; to the French frontier to guard lines of communication; to Leicester to supervise German prisoners; to Africa to conduct a show of our own; to India, Malta, Gibraltar and Egypt for garrison duty; to the North of Scotland to protect coast towns ; and to the right of the Allies' first, the centre of the Allies' second, and the left of the Allies' third fighting line. That, Charles, is our official programme: when we have completed it we shall be getting near Christmas. Then, of course, we proceed for rest and recreation to Berlin; our one fear being that when we get there we shall be turned on to military police duty, and the protection of German women and children against their own men-folk.

Yours ever, HENRY.

"TRADING WITH THE ENEMY BILL."

We prefer to say , "Settling accounts with the KAISER."

A FOOD WAR.

Some folk believe that wars commence From greed of gain or self-defence; But Austrian sages have divined Incitements of a different kind.

The Servian Army Has run completely out of bread, And every day the hungry souls Fight Austria for Vienna rolls.

The Austrian battles with the TSAR Because he dotes on caviare, And must that monarch's realm invade Because he likes it freshly made.

The German confidently thinks That absinthe is the prince of drinks, And therefore must attack the land That keeps the most seductive brand.

The Briton, vexed by rules austere, Has heard the fame of German beer, And nought his onward march can stop While Munich holds a single drop.

THE CATCH.

I have a friend who is a Special Constable. He has had an experience which by no means casts any discredit upon him; but he would rather not write about it himself, he says; so I take up the pen on his behalf.

My friend is an artist, and as such is accustomed to use his eyes. The other day he saw a smartly dressed man whom he conceived to be a German spy, for, besides wearing an alien aspect, he carried a walking-stick which tapered suspiciously on the way down, and near the top of it was an obvious little catch. "A sword stick!" said the Special Constable to himself.

He followed the man. The man ultimately entered the purlieus of a police station and joined a queue of exotics who were waiting to be registered.

The Special Constable then accosted a pukka Police Inspector who was standing at the door and explained his suspicion as to the walking-stick and its probable contents. The Police Inspector also thought there might be something in it. He beckoned to the German. The alien enemy, trembling palpably, came up to him.

"Any arms?" asked the Inspector.

"No," replied the alien enemy, still trembling.

"Undo the catch of that stick," commanded the Inspector. With fumbling fingers the alien enemy did so--and drew forth a silk umbrella.

"Lost, Sunday, Ring, with G.H.E. stamped on it."

"Why Lose Articles? Name, or initials engraved, 6d."

"Dash it," said G.H.E., one of the first to pay his sixpence, "I've been had."

BOBS' WAY.

He knew, none better, how 'twould be, And spoke his warning far and wide; He worked to save us ceaselessly, Setting his well-earnt ease aside.

We smiled and shrugged and went our way Blind to the swift-approaching blow; His every word proves true to-day, But no man hears, "I told you so!"

"We wash in a bucket--one bucket for eight men. We fall in when the bugle calls."

And then climb out again and look for the towel.

AS ENGLAND EXPECTS.

When the war broke out and Big Ben had boomed the hour which marked the rejection of the ultimatum, Bates was full of fire. He had bought a penny flag, and in a spirit of grim determination had walked the streets, processing with the processionists. There was no brag or bounce about him, no hideousness of noise or mafficking, no hatred of foreigners or cruelty of uncharity, but a grim steadfastness of determination which meant that, so far as he might, Bates would do or die.

He returned to his third-floor back in St. Pancras, and, lighting his lamp and a candle to ensure as much illumination as possible, looked with brooding earnestness at his reflection in the worn uncertain looking-glass.... He began to realise the truth of things. The flag was in his button-hole, his eye had a glint of lingering excitement, his brain was ruffled; he saw himself as he was. England must fight, Englishmen must help, for England could not fail. On her rested the truest and noblest concerns of humanity.

Bates removed his coat. He was five-foot two; his chest measurement was less than proportionate to his height. His muscles, so far as they existed, were flabby. He moved his arms to exercise their powers; then, realising his weariness, went slowly to bed. Bates was a little tiny man, but his heart was large.

He was restless throughout the night, rose but little refreshed, and breakfasted badly. He went forth to his labours--he was a ledger-clerk in some Stores--feeling greatly depressed. Gradually, however, that sense of oppression passed. The world was full of sunshine, and, though the faces of the passers-by were anxious and unsmiling, there was no despondency about them. Where no despondency is, there surely is hope. Bates began to feel hopeful. The sight of a Territorial with a kitbag completed his recovery. He strode out with an unusual vigour, squared his poor chest, swung his arms, and whistled softly to himself the chorus of some piece of music-hall patriotism--

"They can't build boys of the bull-dog breed!"

The days that followed were full of emotions and excitements. Three of Bates's colleagues went the Khaki way, and every hour brought some discussion of international problems. The counting-house thrilled with arguments of high strategy. What KITCHENER should do, and where CHARLIE BERESFORD should be sent, were questions confidently settled. Bates, whose want of stature made him too insignificant to speak with confidence in these discussions, held his peace, but listened with both ears. What was the good of this talk? It was incumbent on Englishmen to do.

That night he was one of a multitude who stood at the entrance of the local drill-hall hoping to become Territorials. He rather expected to be chaffed for his pains, but, though there was plenty of jollity among those waiting, there was no unkindness; and at last, thanks to squeezing and patience, he was able to get within the charmed gate. So far and no farther; not so far even as to the medical officer. A watchful sergeant grasped him by the shoulder, and, smiling with earnest eyes, said:

Share on: WhatsApp @Hash Facebook Tweet