The Princes and the Peers depart, and the Doctors are following suit.
Bethmann-Hollweg, immortalised by one fatal phrase, has been at last hunted
from office by the extremists whom he sought to restrain, and Dr.
Michaelis, a second-rate administrator, of negligible antecedents, succeeds
to his uneasy chair, while the Kaiser maintains his pose as the friend of
the people. He has congratulated his Bayreuth Dragoons on their prowess,
which has given joy "to old Fritz up in Elysian fields":
Perhaps; but what if he is down below?
In any case, what we should like to know
Is how his modern namesake, Private Fritz,
Enjoys the fun of being blown to bits
Because his Emperor has lost his wits.
[Illustration: THE SCRAPPER SCRAPPED]
_Delirant reges_: but there are bright exceptions. On July 17 our King
in Council decreed that the Royal House should be known henceforth as the
House of Windsor. Parliament has been flooded with the backwash of the
Mesopotamia Commission, and at last on third thoughts the Government has
decided not to set up a new tribunal to try the persons affected by the
Report. Mr. Austen Chamberlain has resigned office amid general regret. The
Government have refused, "on the representations of the Foreign Secretary,"
to accept the twice proffered resignation of Lord Hardinge. The plain
person is driven to the conclusion that if there are no unsinkable ships
there are some unsinkable officials. For the rest the question mainly
agitating Members has been "to warn or not to warn." The Lord Mayor has
announced that he will not ring the great bell of St. Paul's; but the Home
Secretary states that the public will be warned in future when an air raid
is actually imminent.
[Illustration: BUSY CITY MAN TO HIS PARTNER (as one of the new air-raid
warnings gets to work): "If you'll leave me in here for the warnings I'll
carry on while you take shelter during the raids."]
During these visitations there is nothing handier than a comfortable and
capacious Cave, but the Home Secretary has his limitations. When Mr. King
asked him to be more careful about interning alien friends without trial,
since he (Mr. King) had just heard of the great reception accorded in
Petrograd to one Trotsky on his release from internment, Sir George Cave
replied that he was sorry he had never heard of Trotsky.
Lord Rhondda reigns in Lord Devonport's place, and will doubtless profit by
his predecessor's experience. It is a thankless job, but the great body of
the nation is determined that he shall have fair play and will support him
through thick and thin in any policy, however drastic, that he may
recommend to their reason and their patriotism. This business of
food-controlling is new to us as well as to him, but we are willing to be
led, and we are even willing to be driven, and we are grateful to him for
having engaged his reputation and skill and firmness in the task of leading
or driving us.
The War has its _grandes heures_, its colossal glories and disasters,
but the tragedy of the "little things" affects the mind of the simple
soldier with a peculiar force--the "little gardens rooted up, the same as
might be ours"; "the little 'ouses all in 'eaps, the same as might be
mine"; and worst of all, "the little kids, as might 'ave been our own."
Apropos of resentment, England has lost first place in Germany, for America
is said to be the most hated country now. The "morning hate" of the German
family with ragtime obbligato must be a terrible thing! General von Blume,
it is true, says that America's intervention is no more than "a straw." But
which straw? The last?
[Illustration:
GRANDPAPA (to small Teuton struggling with home-lessons): "Come, Fritz, is
your task so difficult?"
FRITZ: "It is indeed. I have to learn all the names of _all_ the
countries that misunderstand the All-Highest."]
It is reported that ex-King Constantine is to receive £20,000 a year
unemployment benefit, and Mr. Punch, in prophetic vein, pictures him as
offering advice to his illustrious brother-in-law:
Were it not wise, dear William, ere the day
When Revolution goes for crowns and things,
To cut your loss betimes and come this way
And start a coterie of exiled Kings?
In the words of a valued correspondent (a temporary captain suddenly
summoned from the trenches to the Staff), "there is this to be said about
being at war--you never know what is going to happen to you next."
_August, 1917_.
With the opening of the fourth year of the War Freedom renews her vow,
fortified by the aid of the "Gigantic Daughter of the West," and undaunted
by the collapse of our Eastern Ally, brought about by anarchy, German gold
and the fraternisation of Russian and German soldiers. The Kaiser, making
the most of this timely boon, has once more been following in Bellona's
train (her _train de luxe_) in search of cheap _réclame_ on the
Galician front, to witness the triumphs of his new Ally, Revolutionary
Russia:
But though she fail us in the final test,
Not there, not there, my child, the end shall be,
But where, without your option, France and we
Have made our own arrangements in the West.
[Illustration: RUSSIA'S DARK HOUR]
It is another story on the Western Front, where the British are closing in
on the wrecked remains of Lens, and the Crown Prince's chance of breaking
hearts along "The Ladies' Way" grows more and more remote.
[Illustration: THE OPTIMIST
"If this is the right village, then we're all right. The instructions is
clear--'Go past the post-office and sharp to the left afore you come to the
church.'"]
A recent resolution of the Reichstag has been welcomed by Mr. Ramsay
MacDonald as the solemn pronouncement of a sovereign people, only requiring
the endorsement of the British Government to produce an immediate and
equitable peace. But not much was left of this pleasant theory after Mr.
Asquith had dealt it a few sledge-hammer blows. "So far as we know," he
said, "the influence of the Reichstag, not only upon the composition but
upon the policy of the German Government, remains what it always has
been--a practically negligible quantity."
The Reminiscences of Mr. Gerard, the late German Ambassador in Berlin, are
causing much perturbation in German Court circles. In one of his
conversations with Mr. Gerard, the Kaiser told him "there is no longer any
International Law."
Little scraps of paper,
Little drops of ink,
Make the Kaiser caper
And the Nations think.
The real voice of Labour is not that of the delegates who want to go to the
International Socialist Conference at Stockholm to talk to Fritz, but of
the Tommy who, after a short "leaf," goes cheerfully back to France to
fight him. And the fomenters of class hatred will not find much support
from the "men in blue." Mr. Punch has had occasion to rebuke the levity of
smart fashionables who visit the wounded and weary them by idiotic
questions. He is glad to show the other side of the picture in the tribute
paid to the V.A.D. of the proper sort:
There's an angel in our ward as keeps a-flittin' to and fro,
With fifty eyes upon 'er wherever she may go;
She's as pretty as a picture, and as bright as mercury,
And she wears the cap and apron of a V.A.D.
The Matron she is gracious, and the Sister she is kind,
But they wasn't born just yesterday, and lets you know their mind;
The M.O. and the Padre is as thoughtful as can be,
But they ain't so good to look at as our V.A.D.
Not like them that wash a teacup in an orficer's canteen,
And then "Engaged in War Work" in the weekly Press is seen;
She's on the trot from morn to night and busy as a bee,
And there's 'eaps of wounded Tommies bless that V.A.D.
Our Grand Fleet keeps its strenuous, unceasing vigil in the North Sea. But
we must not forget the merchant mariners now serving under the Windsor
House Flag in the North Atlantic trade:
"We sweep a bit and we fight a bit--an' that's what we like the best--
But a towin' job or a salvage job, they all go in with the rest;
When we ain't too busy upsettin' old Fritz an' 'is frightfulness blockade
A bit of all sorts don't come amiss in the North Atlantic trade."
"And who's your skipper, and what is he like?" "Oh, well, if you want to
know,
I'm sailing under a hard-case mate as I sailed with years ago;
'E's big as a bucko an' full o' beans, the same as 'e used to be
When I knowed 'im last in the windbag days when first I followed the sea.
'E was worth two men at the lee fore brace, an' three at the bunt of a
sail;
'E'd a voice you could 'ear to the royal yards in the teeth of a Cape
'Orn gale;
But now 'e's a full-blown lootenant, an' wears the twisted braid,
Commandin' one of 'is Majesty's ships in the North Atlantic trade."
"And what is the ship you're sailin' in?" "Oh, she's a bit of a terror.
She ain't no bloomin' levvyathan, an' that's no fatal error!
She scoops the seas like a gravy spoon when the gales are up an' blowin',
But Fritz 'e loves 'er above a bit when 'er fightin' fangs are showin'.
The liners go their stately way an' the cruisers take their ease,
But where would they be if it wasn't for us with the water up to our
knees?
We're wadin' when their soles are wet, we're swimmin' when they wade,
For I tell you small craft gets it a treat in the North Atlantic trade!"
"An' what is the port you're plying to?" "When the last long trick is
done
There'll some come back to the old 'ome port--'ere's 'opin' I'll be one;
But some 'ave made a new landfall, an' sighted another shore,
An' it ain't no use to watch for them, for they won't come 'ome no more.
There ain't no harbour dues to pay when once they're over the bar,
Moored bow and stern in a quiet berth where the lost three-deckers are.
An' there's Nelson 'oldin' is' one 'and out an' welcomin' them that's
made
The roads o' Glory an' the Port of Death in the North Atlantic trade."
[Illustration:
DOCTOR: "Your throat is in a very bad state. Have you ever tried gargling
with salt water?"