Christmas, 1918, was more than "the Children's Truce." Our bugles had "sung
truce," the war cloud had lifted, the invaded sky was once more free of
"the grim geometry of Mars," and though very few households could celebrate
the greatest of anniversaries with unbroken ranks, the mercy of reunion was
granted to many homes. Yet Mr. Punch, in his Christmas musings on the
solemn memory of the dead who gave us this hour, could not but realise the
greatness of the task that lay before us if we were to make our country
worthy of the men who fought and died for her. The War was over, but
another had yet to be waged against poverty and sordid environment; against
the disabilities of birth; against the abuse of wealth; against the mutual
suspicions of Capital and Labour; against sloth, indifference,
self-complacency, and short memories.
So the Old Year passed, the last of a terrible _quinquennium,_
bringing grounds for thankfulness and hope along with the promise of unrest
and upheaval: with Alsace-Lorraine reunited to France, with the British
army holding its Watch on the Rhine, and with all eyes fixed on Paris, the
scene of the Peace Conference, already invaded by an international army of
delegates, experts, advisers, secretaries, typists, 500 American
journalists, and President Wilson.
Great Expectations and their Tardy Fulfilment, thus in headline fashion
might one summarise the story of 1919, with Peace, the world's desire,
waiting for months outside the door of the Conference Chamber, with civil
war in Germany, Berlin bombed by German airmen, and anarchy in Russia, and
here at home impatience and discomfort, aggravated in the earlier months by
strikes and influenza, the largely increased numbers of unemployed
politicians, the weariest and dreariest of winter weather.
[Illustration: RECONSTRUCTION: A NEW YEAR'S TASK]
Yet even January had its alleviations in the return of the banana, the
prospect of unlimited lard, a distinct improvement in the manners of the
retail tradesman, the typographical fireworks of the _Times_ in honour
of President Wilson, and the retreat of Lord Northcliffe to the sunny
south. Lovers of sensation were conciliated by the appointment of "F.E." to
the Lord Chancellorship, the outbreak of Jazz, and the discovery of a
French author that the plays usually attributed to Shakespeare were written
by Lord Derby, though not apparently the present holder of the title. The
loss, through rejection or withdrawal, of so many of his old Parliamentary
puppets was a serious blow to Mr. Punch, but the old Liberals, buried like
the Babes in the Wood beneath a shower of Coalition coupons, already showed
a sanguine spirit, and the departure of the freaks could be contemplated
with resignation. The great Exodus to Paris began in December, but it
reached its height in January. The mystery of the Foreign Office official
who had _not_ gone was cleared up by the discovery that he was the
caretaker, a pivotal man who could not be demobilised. Another exodus of a
less desirable sort was that of the Sinn Fein prisoners, which gave rise to
the rumour that the Lord Lieutenant had threatened that if they destroyed
any more jails they would be rigorously released. Sinn Fein, which refused
to fight Germany, had already begun to play at a new sort of war. Australia
was preparing to welcome the homing transports sped with messages of
Godspeed from the Motherland:
Rich reward your hearts shall hold,
None less dear if long delayed,
For with gifts of wattle-gold
Shall your country's debt be paid;
From her sunlight's golden store
She shall heal your hurts of war.
Ere the mantling Channel's mist
Dim your distant decks and spars,
And your flag that victory kissed
And Valhalla hung with stars--
Crowd and watch our signal fly:
"Gallant hearts, good-bye! _Good-bye!"_
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