(It is anticipated in astronomical circles that the new star, _Nova
Aquilae_, will shortly disappear.)]
The long struggle between von Kühlmann and the generals has ended in the
fall of the Minister; but not before he had indicated to the Reichstag the
possibility of another Thirty Years' War, and asserted that no intelligent
man ever entertained the wish that Germany should attain world-domination.
There was a time when this frank reflection on the Hohenzollern
intelligence would have constituted _lèse-majesté._ Coming from a
Minister it amounts to a portent. Now he has gone, but the growing belief
that military operations cannot end the war has not been scotched by his
fall, and Herr Erzberger vigorously carries on the campaign against
Chancellor Hertling and the generals. Austria has been at last goaded into
resuming the offensive on the Italian Front and met with a resounding
defeat. It remains to be seen how Turkey and Bulgaria will respond to the
urgent appeals of their exacting master.
The ordeal of our men on the Western Front is terrible, but they have at
least one grand and heartening stand-by in the knowledge that they have
plenty of guns and no lack of shells behind them. This is the burden of the
"Song of Plenty" from an old soldier to a young one:
The shelling's cruel bad, my son,
But don't you look too black,
For every blessed German one
He gets a dozen back--
But I remember the days
When shells were terrible few
And never the guns could bark and blaze
The same as they do for you.
But they sat in the swamp behind, my boy, and prayed for a tiny shell,
While Fritz, if he had the mind, my boy, could give us a first-class
hell;
And I know that a 5.9 looks bad to a bit of a London kid,
But I tell you you were a lucky lad to come out when you did.
* * * * *
Up in the line again, my son,
And dirty work, no doubt,
But when the dirty work is done
They'll take the Regiment out--
But I remember a day
When men were terrible few
And we hadn't reserves a mile away
The same as there are for you,
But fourteen days at a stretch, my boy, and nothing about relief; Fight and
carry and fetch, my boy, with rests exceeding brief; And rotten as all
things sometimes are, they're not as they used to be, And you ought to
thank your lucky star you didn't come out with me.
* * * * *
Our mercurial Premier lays himself open to a good deal of legitimate
criticism, but for this immense relief, unstinted thanks are due to his
energy and the devoted labours of the munition workers, women as well as
men.
The Admiralty have decided not to publish the Zeebrugge dispatches for fear
of giving information to the enemy. All he knows at present is that a score
and more of his torpedo-boats, submarines, and other vessels have been
securely locked up in the Bruges Canal by British Keyes. The Minister of
Pensions has told the House the moving story of what has already been done
to restore, so far as money and care can do it, the broken heroes of the
War, and Lord Newton's alleged obstructiveness in regard to the treatment
and exchange of prisoners has been discussed in the Lords. Mr. Punch's own
impression is that Lord Newton owes his unmerited position as whipping boy
to the fact that he does not suffer fools gladly, even if they come in the
guise of newspaper reporters; and that, unlike his illustrious namesake, he
has no use for the theory of gravity. Meanwhile the Kaiser, with a sublime
disregard for sunk hospital-ships and bombed hospitals, continues to
exhibit his bleeding heart to an astonished world.
[Illustration: A PITIFUL POSE
TEUTON CROCODILE: "I do so feel for the poor British wounded. I only wish
we could do more for them."
"We Germans will preserve our conception of Christian duty towards the sick
and wounded"--_From recent remarks of the Kaiser reported by a German
correspondent_.]
Now that the Food Controller has got into his stride, the nation has begun
to realise the huge debt it owes to his firmness and organising ability,
and is proportionately concerned to hear of his breakdown from overwork.
The queues have disappeared, supplies are adequate, and there are no
complaints of class-favouritism.
[Illustration: BOBBY (at the conclusion of dinner): "Mother, I don't know
how it is, but I never seem to get that--that--nice sick feeling
nowadays."]
It is remarkable how the British soldier will pick up languages, or at
least learn to interpret them. Only last week an American corporal stopped
a British Sergeant and said: "Say, Steve, can you put me wise where I can
barge into a boiled-shirt biscuit-juggler who would get me some eats?" And
the Sergeant at once directed him to a café. The training of the new
armies, to judge by the example depicted by our artist, affords fresh proof
of the saying that love is a _liberal_ education.
The situation on the Parliamentary Front has been fairly quiet. The popular
pastime of asking when the promised Home Rule Bill is to be introduced is
no longer met by suitably varied but invariably evasive replies. The
Government has now frankly admitted that the policy of running Home Rule
and Conscription in double harness has been abandoned, and expects better
things from the new pair: Firm Government and Voluntary Recruiting. But
sceptics are unconvinced that the Government will abandon the leniency
prompted by "the insane view of creating an atmosphere in which something
incomprehensible is to occur."
[Illustration: MISTRESS (as the new troops go by): "Which of them is your
cousin?"