The British troops have met Sir Douglas Haig's appeal as we knew they would:

Their will to win let Boches bawl As loudly as they choose, When once our back's against the wall 'Tis not our wont to lose.

Those who have gone back at the seventh wave are waiting for the tide to turn. To the fainthearted or shaken souls who contend that no victory is worth gaining at the cost of such carnage and suffering, these lines addressed "To Any Soldier" may serve as a solvent of their doubts and an explanation of the mystery of sacrifice:

If you have come through hell stricken or maimed, Vistas of pain confronting you on earth; If the long road of life holds naught of worth And from your hands the last toil has been claimed; If memories of horrors none has named Haunt with their shadows your courageous mirth And joys you hoped to harvest turn to dearth, And the high goal is lost at which you aimed;

Think this—and may your heart's pain thus be healed— Because of me some flower to fruitage blew, Some harvest ripened on a death-dewed field, And in a shattered village some child grew To womanhood inviolate, safe and pure. For these great things know your reward is sure.

The Germans have reached Sevastopol, but the Kaiser's Junior Partner in the South is only progressing in the wrong direction. While Wilhelm is laboriously struggling to get nearer the sea, Mehmed is getting farther and farther away from it. The attitude of Russia remains obscure. Mr. Balfour tells us that it is not the intention of the Government to appoint an Ambassador to Russia. But there is talk of sending out an exploration party to find out just where Russia has got to. Russia, however, is not the only country whose attitude is obscure. The Leader of the Irish Nationalist Party is reported to have said to a New York interviewer: "We believe that the cause of the Allies is the cause of Freedom throughout the world." At the same time, while repudiating the policy of the Sinn Feiners, he admitted that he had co-operated with them in their resistance to the demand that Ireland should defend the cause of Freedom. The creed of Sinn Fein—"Ourselves Alone"—is at least more logical than that of these neutral Nationalists:

And is not ours a noble creed With Self uplifted on the throne? Why should we bleed for others' need? Our motto is "Ourselves Alone."

Why prate of ruined lands out there, Of churches shattered stone by stone? We need not care how others fare, We care but for "Ourselves Alone."

Though mothers weep with anguished eyes And tortured children make their moan, Let others rise when Pity cries; We rise but for "Ourselves Alone."

Let Justice be suppressed by Might, And Mercy's seat be overthrown; For Truth and Right the fools may fight, We fight but for "Ourselves Alone."

Meanwhile, the gentle Mr. Duke has retired from the Chief Secretaryship to the Judicial Bench; Mr. Shortt, his successor, recently voted against conscription for Ireland; Lord French, the new Viceroy, is believed to favour it. The appointments seem to have been made on the cancelling-out principle, and are as hard to reconcile as the ministerial utterances on the recent German push. Thus Mr. Macpherson declared that the crisis came upon us like a thief in the night, while on the same day Mr. Churchill observed that the German offensive had opened a month later than we had calculated, and consequently our reserves in munitions were correspondingly larger than they would have been. Anyhow, it is a good hearing that the lost guns, tanks, and aeroplanes have all been more than replaced, and the stores of ammunition completely replenished, while at the same time munition workers have been released for the Army at the rate of a thousand a day. These results have been largely due to the wonderful work of the women, who turned out innumerable shells of almost incredible quality—not like that depicted by our artist.



Mr. Bonar Law has brought in his Budget and asked for a trifle of 842 millions. We are to pay more for our letters, our cheques, and our tobacco. The Penny Postage has gone, and the Penny Pickwick with it. For the rest we have had the Maurice Affair, which looked like a means of resurrecting the Opposition but ended in giving the Government a new lease of life, and Sir Eric Geddes has given unexpected support to the allegations that the German pill-boxes were made of British cement. At least he admitted that the port of Zeebrugge was positively congested with shiploads of the stuff. Proportional Representation has been knocked out for the fifth time in this Parliament; and we have to thank Sir Mark Sykes for telling us that the Whip's definition of a crank is "a wealthy man who does not want a Knighthood, or a nobleman who does not want to be an Under-Secretary."

War is a great leveller. The Carl Rosa Company are about to produce an opera by an English composer. And war is teaching us to revise our histories. For example, "'Nelson,' the greatest naval pageant film ever attempted, will," says the Daily News, "tell the love story of Nelson's life and the outstanding incidents of his career, including the destruction of the Spanish Armada." No scandal about Queen Elizabeth, we trust. The Daily News, by the way, is much exercised by Mr. Punch's language towards the enemy, which it describes as being in the Billingsgate vein. In spite of which rebuke, and at the risk of offending the readers of that patriotic organ, Mr. Punch proposes to go on saying just what he thinks of the Kaiser and his friends.

The price of tobacco, as we have seen, is becoming a serious matter, but Ireland proposes to grapple with the problem in her own way. The Ballinasloe Asylum Committee, according to an announcement in the Times of May 14, have decided, with the sanction of the authorities, to grow tobacco leaf for the use of their inmates. "A doctor said that if the patients were debarred from an adequate supply of tobacco there would be no controlling them."

As a set-off to the anti-"Cuthbert" campaign in the Press the War Cabinet has in its Report declared that "the whole Empire owes the Civil Service a lasting debt of gratitude." It looks as if there was something in red tape after all. We must not, however, fail to recognise the growth of the new competitive spirit in the sphere of production, and Mr. Punch looks forward to the establishment of Cup Competitions for Clydesdale Riveters and London Allotment workers. Woman's work in munition factories has already been applauded; her services on the land are now more in need than ever.



June, 1918.

The danger is not past, but grounds for hope multiply. The new German assault between Montdidier and Noyon has brought little substantial gain at heavy cost. The attacks towards Paris have been held, and Paris, with admirable fortitude, makes little of the attentions of "Fat Bertha." "The struggle must be fought out," declared the Kaiser in the recent anniversary of his accession to the throne. In the meanwhile no opportunities of talking it out will be overlooked by the enemy. He is once more playing the old game of striving to promote discord between the Allies. At the very moment when the official communiques announced the capture of 45,000 prisoners, the Chancellor began a new peace-offensive, aimed primarily at France, and supported by mendacious reports that the French Government were starting for Bordeaux, Clemenceau overthrown, and Foch disgraced. But the campaign of falsehood has proved powerless to shake France or impose on the German people. Commandeered enthusiasm is giving place to grave discontent. The awakening of Germany has begun, and the promise of a speedy peace falls on deaf ears. In the process of enlightenment the Americans have played a conspicuous part, in spite of the persistent belittlement of the military experts in the official German Press. The stars in their courses have sometimes seemed to fight for Germany, but they are withdrawing their aid.



The long struggle between von Kuehlmann 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 lese-majeste. 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.



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.



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 cafe. 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."



The lavish and, in many cases, inexplicable distribution of the Order of the British Empire bids fair to add a peculiar lustre to the undecorated. The War has produced no stranger paradox than the case of the gentleman who within the space of seven days was sentenced to six months' imprisonment for a breach of the Defence of the Realm regulations and recommended for the O.B.E. on account of good services to the country. The fact that the recommendation was withdrawn hardly justified the assumption of a Pacificist Member that a sentence under the Defence of the Realm Act was regarded as the higher honour of the two.

There is one thing, however, that war at its worst cannot do. It cannot make an Englishman forgo that peculiar and blessed birthright which enables him to overthrow the Giant Despair with the weapon of whimsical humour—in other words, to write, as a young officer has written for Mr. Punch, such a set of verses as the following in June, 1918:

THE BEST SMELL OF ALL

When noses first were carved for men Of varied width and height, Strange smells and sweet were fashioned then That all might know delight— Smells for the hooked, the snub, the fine, The pug, the gross, the small, A smell for each, and one divine Last smell to soothe them all.

The baccy smell, the smell of peat, The rough gruff smell of tweed, The rain smell on a dusty street Are all good smells indeed; The sea smell smelt through resinous trees, The smell of burning wood, The saintly smell of dairies—these Are all rich smells and good.

And good the smell the nose receives From new-baked loaves, from hops, From churches, from decaying leaves, From pinks, from grocers' shops; And smells of rare and fine bouquet Proceed, the world allows, From petrol, roses, cellars, hay, Scrubbed planks, hot gin and cows.

But there's a smell that doth excel All other smells by far, Even the tawny stable smell Or the boisterous smell of tar; A smell stupendous, past compare, The king of smells, the prize, That smell which floods the startled air When home-cured bacon fries!

All other smells, whate'er their worth, Though dear and richly prized, Are earthy smells and of the earth, Are smells disparadised; But when that smell of smells awakes From ham of perfect cure, It lifts the heart to heaven and makes The doom of Satan sure.

How good to sit at twilight's close In a warm inn and feel That marvellous smell caress the nose With promise of a meal! How good when bell for breakfast rings To pause, while tripping down, And snuff and snuff till Fancy brings All Arcady to Town!

But best, when day's first glimmerings break Through curtains half withdrawn, To lie and smell it, scarce awake, In some great farm at dawn; Cocks crow, the milkmaid clanks the pails, The housemaid bangs the stairs; And BACON suddenly assails The nostrils unawares.

Noses of varied width and height Doth kindly Heaven bestow, And choice of smells for our delight, That all some joy may know; Noses and smells for all the race That on this earth do dwell, And for a final act of grace The astounding bacon smell.

But the War has its drawbacks, and owing to its unexpected prolongation there is a rumour that Mr. H.G. Wells will readjust his ideas on the subject quarterly instead of twice a week as before.



July, 1918.

"France's Day" was held on July 14 under the auspices of the British Red Cross Committee. But this has been France's month, the month in which the miracle of the first battle of the Marne has been equalled by the second, and the Germans have been hurled back across the fatal river by the tremendous counterstroke of General Foch.



On the 15th the Germans launched their great offensive. On the 20th they recrossed the Marne, and are now entitled to complain that General Foch not only took over the French and British armies, but has recently started taking over a good part of the German army. The neighbourhood has never been a healthy one for the Huns since the days of Attila.

Fritz has crossed the Marne and recrossed it—according to plan—and is already on the way to the Aisne. The battle of the rivers has begun again, but on new lines. Yet this amazing turn of the tide has been taken very quietly in France and England. The Allies have rung no joy-bells; they are content with doing their best to give Germany no occasion for further indulgence in that form of jubilation. And Germany is meeting them more than half way, their authorities having ordered a supplementary requisition of those church-bells which were exempted when the first confiscation was made. "At this heavy hour," said von Kuehlmann to the Reichstag, "none of us fully realise what we owe to the German Emperor." That was a month ago; the realisation of their indebtedness has since advanced by leaps and bounds. There are now 1,000,000 Americans in France. But the Kaiser and his War-lords are still passing their victims through the fire to the Pan-German Moloch, and threatening to send German generals to teach the Austrian Army how to win offensives. It is even reported that the Germans contemplate placing the ex-king of Greece on the throne of Finland. Fantastic rumours are rife in these days; but there is only too good reason to believe the report that the ex-Tsar, the Tsaritsa, and their daughters have all been murdered by their brutal captors at Ekaterinburg. It seems but yesterday when Nicholas was acclaimed as the Saviour and regenerator of his people, and now Tsardom, irrevocably fallen from its high estate, has gone down amid scenes of butchery and barbarity that eclipse the Reign of Terror in France.

Little has happened at Westminster to indicate a consciousness on the part of the members of the great and glorious events in France. The Irish Expeditionary Force, after an absence of three months and a severe training at home, has returned to the Parliamentary Front, and their war-cry is "Devlin's the friend, not Shortt!" But the Chief Secretary was able to make the gratifying announcement that the voluntary recruiting campaign is to be assisted by several Nationalist M.P.'s, including Captain Stephen Gwynn, who has been serving in the trenches, and Colonel Lynch, who, having raised one Irish brigade to fight against us in the Boer War, and been sentenced to death for doing it, has now, with an inconsistency we cannot too gratefully recognise, undertaken to raise another to fight on our side. Mr. Bonar Law has revealed the interesting fact that only 288 members of the House of Commons have received titles, decorations, or offices of profit since it was elected in December, 1910. The unnoticed residue are probably wondering whether it is their own modesty or the shortsightedness of Ministers that has caused them to be passed over. Mr. Billing, after several pathetic but futile efforts to regain his place in the limelight, has at last succeeded in getting himself named, suspended, and forcibly assisted by four stalwart officials in his exit from the House—the most salutary movement, in the opinion of most members, with which he has yet been connected.

Admiral Sir Rosslyn Wemyss, in a recent speech, said that the association between the two Services, the Royal Navy and the Mercantile Marine, had been so close during the War, whatever that association might have been before, that it seemed to him almost incredible that it could ever be broken asunder. The First Sea Lord's statement is welcome and natural. But there is nothing really new in this solidarity of the seas. The Secret of the Ships is an old story:

On their ventures in the service of a Tudor King or Queen All the ships were just as like as they could be, For the merchantman gave battle, while the Royal ship was seen As a not too simple trader over-sea: Being heirs to ancient customs, when their upper sails came down As a token of respect in passing by, They would add the salutation in a language of their own, "God speed you, we be sisters, thou and I."

As the centuries receded came a parting of the ways Till in time the separation went so far That a family was founded who were traders all their days, And another who were always men-of-war; But whene'er they dipped their colours, one in faith, they understood— And the sea, who taught them both, could tell you why— That the custom never altered, so the greeting still held good, "God speed you, we be sisters, thou and I."

Then in days of common sacrifice and peril was it strange That they ratified the union of the past? While their Masters, unsuspecting, greatly marvelled at the change, But they prayed with all their souls that it would last; And the ships, who know the secret, go rejoicing on their way, For whatever be the ensign that they fly, Such as keep the seas with honour are united when they pray, "God speed you, we be sisters, thou and I."



England deplores the death of Lord Rhondda, who achieved success in the most irksome and invidious of offices. He undertook the duties of Food Controller in broken health, never spared himself, and died in harness. It is to be hoped that he realised what was the truth—that he had won not only the confidence but the gratitude of the public.

Spain has rendered herself unpleasantly conspicuous by developing and exporting a new form of influenza, and a Spanish astrologer predicts the end of the world in a few months' time. But we are not going to allow those petty distractions to take our minds off the War. Here we may note that Baron Burian's recent message indicates that but for the War everything would be all right in Austria. Our artists are certainly determined not to let us forget it. But the most valuable pictures do not find their way into galleries, though they do not lack appreciative spectators.



No record of the month would be complete without notice of the unique way in which the Fourth of July has been celebrated by John Bull and Uncle Sam in France. Truly such a meeting as this does make amends.



August, 1918.

July was a glorious month for the Allies, and August is even better. It began with the recovery of Soissons; a week later it was the turn of the British, and Sir Douglas Haig struck hard on the Amiens front; since then the enemy have been steadily driven back by the unrelenting pressure of the Allies, Bapaume and Noyon have been recaptured, and with their faces set for home the Germans have learnt to recognise in a new and unpleasant sense the truth of the Kaiser's saying, "The worst is behind us." The 8th of August was a bad day for Germany, for it showed that the counter-offensive was not to be confined to one section; that henceforth no respite would be allowed from hammer-blows. The German High Command endeavours to tranquillise the German people by communiques, the gist of which may thus be rendered in verse:

In those very identical regions That sunder the Marne from the Aisne We advanced to the rear with our legions Long ago and have done it again; Fools murmur of errors committed, But every intelligent man Has accepted the view that we flitted According to plan.

The French rivers have found their voice again:

'Twas the voice of the Marne That began it with "Garn! Full speed, Fritz, astarn!" Then the Ourcq and the Crise Sang "Move on, if you please." The Ardre and the Vesle Took up the glad tale, And cried to the Aisne "Wash out the Hun stain." So all the way back from the Marne the French rivers Have given the Boches in turn the cold shivers.



Hindenburg has confided to a newspaper correspondent that the German people need to develop the virtue of patience. According to the Berliner Tageblatt he has declared that he was not in favour of the July offensive. Ludendorff, on the other hand, may fairly point out that it isn't his offensive any longer. Anyhow, Hindenburg is fairly entitled to give Ludendorff the credit of it since Ludendorff's friends have always said that he supplied the old Mud-Marshal with brains. The amenities of the High Command are growing lively, since the Navy is also concerned, and the failure of the U-boats to check the influx of American troops needs a lot of explaining away. The good news from the Front has been received at home with remarkable composure, when one considers the acute anxiety of the last four months. But it is the way of England to endure felicity with calmness and adversity with fortitude. In the House of Lords Lord Inchcape and Lord Emmott have been propitiating Nemesis by their warnings of the gloomy financial future that is in store for us, while in the Commons the Bolshevist group below the gangway are apparently much perturbed by the prospect that Russia may be helped on to her legs again by the Allies. Mr. Dillon's indictment of the Government for their treatment of Ireland has had, however, a welcome if unexpected result. Mr. Shortt, the new Chief Secretary, an avowed and unrepentant Home Ruler, has been telling Mr. Dillon's followers a few plain truths about themselves: that they have made no effort to turn the Home Rule Act into a practical measure; that instead of denouncing Sinn Fein they had followed its lead; that they had attacked the Irish executive when they ought to have supported it, and by their refusal to help recruiting had forfeited the sympathy of the British working classes. Mr. Lloyd George, in his review of the War, warned the peacemongers not to expect their efforts to succeed until the enemy knew he was beaten, but vouchsafed no information as to his alleged intention to go to the country in the political sense. In spite of the Premier's warning the Pacificists made another futile attempt on the very next day to convince the House that the Germans were ready to make an honest peace if only our Government would listen to it. They were well answered by Mr. Robertson, who was a Pacificist himself until this War converted him, and by Mr. Balfour, who declared that we were quite ready to talk to Germany as soon as she showed any sign of a change of heart. Up to the present there has been no sign of it.

Food is still the universal topic. Small green apples, says a contemporary, are proving popular. A boy correspondent, however, desires Mr. Punch to say that he has a little inside information to the contrary. Nottingham children, it is stated, are to be paid 3d. a pound for gathering blackberries, but they are not to use their own receptacles. Captain Amundsen is on his way to the Pole, but we fear that he will not find any cheese there. The vocabulary of food control has even made its way to the nursery. A small girl on being informed by her nurse that a new little baby brother had come to live with her promptly replied: "Well, he can't stay unless he's brought his coupons."



Yet one of Mr. Punch's poets, in prophetic and optimistic strain, has actually dared to speculate on the delights of life without "Dora"; Dickens, with the foresight of genius, wrote in "David Copperfield" how his hero "felt it would have been an act of perfidy to Dora to have a natural relish for my dinner."

The enterprise of The Times in securing the reminiscences of the Kaiser's American dentist (or gum-architect, as he is called in his native land) has aroused mingled feelings. But the Kaiser is reported to have stated in no ambiguous terms that if, after the War, any Americans are to be given access to him, from Ambassadors downwards, they must be able neither to read nor write. The Times is also responsible for the headline: "The Archangel Landing." There was a rumour of something of this kind after Mons, but this is apparently official.

One prominent effect of the War has been to make two Propagandist Departments flourish where none grew before, and it is to be feared that the reflection on the industry of our new officials implied in the picture on the previous page is not without foundation.

War has not only stimulated the composition, but the perusal of poetry, especially among women:

When the Armageddon diet Makes Priscilla feel unquiet, She prescribes herself (from Pope) An acidulated trope.

When the lard-hunt ruffles Rose Wordsworth lulls her to repose, While a snippet from the "Swan" Stops the jam-yearn of Yvonne.

When the man-slump makes her fretty Susie takes to D. Rossetti, Though her sister Arabella Rather fancies Wilcox (Ella).

When Evangelina swoons At the sound of the maroons, Mrs. Hemans comes in handy As a substitute for brandy.

And when Auntie heard by chance That the Curate was in France, Browning's enigmatic lyrics Helped to save her from hysterics.



September, 1918.

Since July 15th, when the Kaiser mounted a high observation post to watch the launching of the offensive which was to achieve his crowning victory, but proved the prelude of the German collapse, the conflict has raged continuously and with uninterrupted success for the Allied Armies. The Kaiser Battle has become the Battle of Liberation. The French bore the initial burden of the attack, but since August 8 "hundreds of thousands of unbeaten Tommies," to quote the phrase of a French military expert, have entered into action in a succession of attacks started one after the other all the way up to Flanders. Rawlinson, Home, and Byng have carried on the hammer work begun by Mangin, Gouraud, and Debeney. Peronne has been recovered, the famous Drocourt-Queant switch-line has been breached, the Americans have flattened out the St. Mihiel salient. The perfect liaison of British and French and Americans has been a wonderful example of combined effort rendered possible by unity of command. "Marshal Foch strikes to-day at a new front," is becoming a standing headline. And this highly desirable "epidemic of strikes" is not confined to the Western Front. As Generalissimo of all the Allied Forces the great French Marshal has planned and carried out an ensemble of operations designed to shatter and demoralise the enemy at every point. The long inaction on the Salonika Front has been ended by the rapid and triumphant advance of the British, French, Serbians, and Greeks under General Franchet d'Esperey. Eight days sufficed to smash the Bulgarians, and the armistice then granted was followed four days later by the surrender of Bulgaria. In less than a fortnight General Allenby pushed north from Jerusalem, annihilated the Turkish armies in Palestine, and captured Damascus. And by the end of the month the Hindenburg line had been breached and gone the way of the "Wotan" line. Wotan was not a happy choice:

But even super-Germans are wont at times to nod, And to borrow Wotan's aegis was indubitably odd; For dark decline o'erwhelmed his line: he saw his god-head wane, And his stately palace vanish in a red and ruinous vain.



Well may the Berlin Tageblatt say that "the war stares us in the face and stares very hard." When a daily paper announces "Half Crown Prince's army turned over to another General," we are curious to know how much the Half Crown Prince thinks the German Sovereign worth. But the end is not yet. Our pride in the achievements of our Armies and Generals, in the heroism of our Allies and the strategy of Marshal Foch does not blind us to the skill and tenacity with which the Germans are conducting their retreat. Fritz is a tough fighter; if only he had fought a clean fight we could look forward to a thorough reconciliation. But that is a far cry for those who have been in the war, farthest of all for our sailormen, who can never forget certain acts of frightfulness.

Hans Dans an' me was shipmates once, an' if 'e'd fought us clean, Why shipmates still when war was done might Hans an' me 'ave been; The truest pals a man can have are them 'e's fought before, But—never no more, Hans Dans, my lad, so 'elp me, never no more!

Austria has issued a Peace Note, and the German Chancellor has declared that Germany is opposed to annexation in any form. The German Eagle, making a virtue of necessity, is ready to give the bird of Peace an innings.



The two Emmas, Ack and Pip, are naturally furious at the adoption of the twenty-four hours' system of reckoning time, which means that their occupation will be gone, and that like other old soldiers they will fade away. Amongst other innovations we have to note the spread of "bobbing," the further possibilities of which are alarming to contemplate.

Ferdinand, Tsar of Bulgaria, great grandson of Philippe Egalite, finding Sofia unhealthy, has been recuperating at Vienna. His future plans are vague, but it is thought he may join the ex-Kings' Club in Switzerland. Lenin, the Bolshevist Dictator, has recently experienced an attempt on his life, and retaliated in a fashion which would have done credit to a mediaeval despot. England still refuses to indulge in joy bells or bunting, but the London police have seized the occasion to strike on the home front. Their operations have been promptly if inconsistently rewarded by the removal of their chief and his elevation to the baronetcy.

Parliament is not sitting, and the voice of the Pro-Boche and the Pro-Bolsh is temporarily hushed. We have to note, however, a most welcome rapprochement between Downing and Carmelite Streets—the Daily Mail has praised the Foreign Office for an "excellent piece of work," and the scapegoat, unexpectedly caressed, is sitting up and taking nourishment.

The harvest has been a success, thanks to the energy of the new land-workers, the armies behind the army:

All the talent is here—all the great and the lesser, The proud and the humble, the stout and the slim, The second form boy and the aged professor, Grade three and the hero in want of a limb.

Four years of war have brought curious changes to "our village":

Our baker's in the Flying Corps, Our butcher's in the Buffs, Our one policeman cares no more For running in the roughs, But carves a pathway to the stars As trooper in the Tenth Hussars.

The Mayor's a Dublin Fusilier, The clerk's a Royal Scot, The bellman is a brigadier And something of a pot; The barber, though at large, is spurned; The Blue Boar's waiter is interned.

The postman, now in Egypt, wears A medal on his coat; The vet. is breeding Belgian hares, The vicar keeps a goat; The schoolma'am knits upon her stool; The village idiot gathers wool.



The husbandman and his new help have undergone mutual transformation. And our cadet battalions are making themselves very much at home at Oxford and Cambridge.



The Navy still remains the silent Service, but, as the need for reticence is being relaxed by the triumph of our arms, we are beginning to learn something, though unofficially as yet, of that "plaything of the Navy and nightmare of the Huns"—the Q-boat:

She can weave a web of magic for the unsuspecting foe, She can scent the breath of Kultur leagues away, She can hear a U-boat thinking in Atlantic depths below And disintegrate it with a Martian ray; She can feel her way by night Through the minefield of the Bight; She has all the tricks of science, grave and gay.

In the twinkle of a searchlight she can suffer a sea-change From a collier to a Shamrock under sail, From a Hyper-super-Dreadnought, old Leviathan at range, To a lightship or a whaler or a whale; With some canvas and a spar She can mock the morning star As a haystack or the flotsam of a gale.

She's the derelict you chartered north of Flores outward-bound, She's the iceberg that you sighted coming back, She's the salt-rimed Biscay trawler heeling home to Plymouth Sound, She's the phantom-ship that crossed the moon-beams' track; She's the rock where none should be In the Adriatic Sea, She's the wisp of fog that haunts the Skagerrack.

Recognition of services faithfully done is an endless task; but Mr. Punch is glad to print the valedictory tribute of one of the boys in blue to a V.A.D.—a class that has come in for much undeserved criticism.

While willy-nilly I must go A-hunting of the Hun, You'll carry on—which now I know (Although I've helped to rag you so) Means great work greatly done.

Among the minor events of the month has been the christening of a baby by the names of Grierson Plumer Haig French Smith-Dorrien, as its father served under these generals. The idea is, no doubt, to prevent the child when older from asking: "What did you do in the Great War, Daddy?"

England, as we have already said, endures its triumphs with composure. But our printers are not altogether immune from excitement. An evening paper informs us that "the dwifficuplties of passing from rigid trench warfare to field warfare are gigantic and perhaps unsurmountable." And only our innate sense of comradeship deters us from naming the distinguished contemporary which recently published an article entitled: "The Importance of Bray."



October, 1918.

THE growing crescendo of success has reached its climax in this, the most wonderful month of our annus mirabilis. Every day brings tidings of a new victory. St. Quentin, Cambrai, and Laon had all been recaptured in the first fortnight. On the 17th Ostend, Lille, and Douai were regained, Bruges was reoccupied on the 19th, and by the 20th the Belgian Army under King Albert, reinforced by the French and Americans, and with the Second British Army under General Plumer on the right, had compelled the Germans to evacuate the whole coast of Flanders. The Battle of Liberation, which began on the Marne in July, is now waged uninterruptedly from the Meuse to the sea. Only in Lorraine has the advance of the American Army been held up by the difficulties of the terrain and the exceptionally stubborn resistance of the Germans.

Elsewhere the "war of movement" has gone on with unrelenting energy according to Foch's plan, which suggests a revision of Pope:

Great Foch's law is by this rule exprest, Prevent the coming, speed the parting pest.

The German, true to his character of the world's worst loser and winner, leaves behind him all manner of booby-traps, some puerile, many diabolical, which give our sappers plenty of work, cause a good many casualties, and only confirm the resolve of the victors.

According to a German paper—the Rhenish Westphalian Gazette—ex-criminals are being drafted into the German Army. But the Allies propose to treat them without invidious distinction. The Crown Prince recently observed that he had "many friends in the Entente countries"; as a matter of fact, we seem to be getting them at the rate of about twenty-five thousand a week. The criminals in the German Navy have again been busy, adding to their previous exploits the sinking of the passenger steamer Leinster, in the Irish Channel, with heavy loss of life, the worst disaster of the kind since the torpedoing of the Lusitania. Yet it is Germany that is the sinking ship. Ferdinand of Bulgaria has joined the League of Abdication, and according to a Sofia telegram, will devote himself to scientific pursuits. His only regret is that the Allies thought of it first. Prince Friedrich Karl of Hesse says that his accession to the throne of Finland will not take place for two years, and for the first time since his emergence into publicity we find ourselves in agreement with this monarch-elect. Ludendorff has resigned. Austria is suing for peace; Count Tisza asks: "Why not admit frankly that we have lost the War?" The Italians have crossed the Piave, and the Serbians have reached the Danube. Turkey has been granted an armistice, and with the daily victories of the Allies comes the daily report that the Kaiser has abdicated.



Prince Max of Baden, the successor of Hertling in the Chancellorship, whose appointment hardly bears out the promise of popular government, has issued a pacific Manifesto which inspires an "Epitaph in anticipation":

In memory of poor Prince Max, Who, posing as the friend of Pax, Yet was not noticeably lax In the true Teuton faith which hacks Its way along; forbidden tracks, Marks bloody dates on almanacs And holds all promises as wax; Breeding, where once we knew Hans Sachs, A race of monomaniacs.... But now illusion's mirror cracks, The radiant vision fades, the axe Lies at the root. So farewell, Max!

Certain people have proclaimed their opinion that the German nation ought not to be humiliated. When all is said, Mr. Punch saves his pity for our murdered dead.

Parliament has met again, not that there is any very urgent need for their labours just now. With a caution that seemed excessive Mr. Bonar Law has thought it premature to discuss a military situation changing every hour—though happily always for the better—or even to propose a formal Vote of Thanks to men who are daily adding to their harvest of laurels. On better grounds discussion of Mr. Wilson's famous "fourteen points" and of demobilisation has been deprecated. The suggestion—made opportunely on Trafalgar Day—for securing marks of distinction for our merchant seamen gained a sympathetic hearing, and the proposal to make women eligible for Parliament has been carried after a serious debate by an overwhelming majority in which the ci-devant anti-suffragists were as prominent as the others. Five years ago such a motion would have furnished an orgy of alleged humour, and been laughed out of the House. Mr. Dillon and his colleagues have put a great many questions about the torpedoing of the Leinster and the lack of an escort. But it is unfortunate that their tone suggested more indignation with the alleged laches of the Admiralty than horror at the German crime. Irish indignation over the outrage, according to a Nationalist M.P., is intense; but not to the point of expressing itself in khaki.



The woes of the Irish harvest labourers in England have not yet been fully appreciated, and seem to demand a revised version of "Moira O'Neill's" beautiful poem:

THE IRISH EXILE

Over here in England I'm slavin' in the rain; Six-an'-six a day we get, an' beds that wanst were clane; Weary on the English work, 'tis killin' me that same— Och, Muckish Mountain, where I used to lie an' dhrame!

At night the windows here are black as Father Murphy's hat; 'Tis fivepence for a pint av beer, an' thin ye can't get that; Their beef has shtrings like anny harp, for dacent ham I hunt— Och, Muckish Mountain, an' my pig's sweet grunt!

Sure there's not a taste av butthermilk that wan can buy or beg, Thin their sweet milk has no crame, an' is as blue as a duck-egg; Their whisky is as wake as wather-gruel in a bowl—Och, Muckish Mountain, where the poteen warms yer sowl!

'Tis mesilf that longs for Irish air an' gran' ould Donegal, Where there's lashins and there's lavins and no scarcity at all; Where no wan cares about the War, but just to ate an' play— Och, Muckish Mountain, wid yer feet beside the say!

Sure these Englishmin don't spare thimselves in this thremenjus fight; They say 'tis life or death for thim, an', faith, they may be right; But Father Murphy tells me that it's no consarn av mine— Och, Muckish Mountain, where the white clouds shine!

Over there in Ireland we're very fond av peace, Though we break the heads av Orangemin an' batther the police; For we're all agin the Governmint wheriver we may be— Och, Muckish Mountain, an' the wild wind blowin' free!

If they tuk me out to Flandhers, bedad I'd have to fight, An' I'm tould thim Jarman vagabones won't let ye sleep at night; So I'm going home to Ireland wid English notes galore— Och, Muckish Mountain, I will niver lave ye more!

By way of contrast there is the mood of the Old Contemptibles, but it is only fair to add that there are Irishmen among them:

THE OLD-TIMER

'E aint't bin 'ung with medals, like a lot o' chaps abaht; 'E's wore a little dingy but 'e isn't wearin' aht; 'Is ole tin 'at is battered, but it isn't battered in, An' if 'e ain't fergot to grouse, 'e ain't fergot to grin.

I fancy that 'e's aged a bit since fust the War begun; 'E's 'ad 'is fill o' fightin' an' 'e's 'ad 'is share o' fun; 'Is eyes is kind o' quiet an' 'is mouth is sort o' set, But if I didn't know 'im well I wouldn't know 'im yet.

I recollec' the look of 'im the time o' the retreat, The blood was through 'is toonic an' the skin was orf 'is feet; But "Come aboard the bus," say 'e, "or you'll be lef be'ind!" An' takes me weight upon 'is back—it 'asn't slip me mind.

It might 'ave 'appened yesterday, it comes to me so plain; 'E's dahn an' up a dozen times, a-reeling through the rain; It might 'ave bin lars' Saturday I seem to 'ear 'im say: "There's plenty room a-top, me lad, an' nothin' more to pay."

'E ain't bin 'ung with medals like a blackamore with beads; 'E doesn't figure on the screen a-doin' darin' deeds; But reckon I'll be lucky if I gets to Kingdom Come Along o' that Contemptible wot wouldn't leave a chum.



Amongst other items of news we have to chronicle the appointment of Mr. Arnold Bennett as a Director of Propaganda, the steady growth of goat-keeping, and the exactions of taxi-drivers. It is now suggested that if one of these pirates should charge you largely in excess of his legal fare, you should tell him that you have nothing less than a five-pound note. If you have an honest face and speak kindly he will probably accept the amount.



Mr. Bonar Law has been making trips to and from France by aeroplane. The report that a number of members of the Opposition have been invited by the Admiralty to make a descent in a depth-charge turns out to be unfounded. The prospects of peace are being discussed on public platforms, but, as yet, with commendable discretion. Mr. Roberts, our excellent Minister of Labour, has made bold to say that "the happenings of the last six weeks justify us in the belief that peace is much nearer than it was during the earlier part of the year." And a weekly paper has offered a prize of L500 to the reader who predicts the date when the War will end. Meanwhile, Hanover is said to have made Hindenburg a birthday present of a house in the neighbourhood of the Zoological Gardens in that city, and we suggest that before this gift is incorporated in the peace-terms the words "the neighbourhood of" should be deleted.



November, 1918.

The end has come with a swiftness that has outdone the hopes of the most sanguine optimists. In the first eleven days of November we have seen history in the making on a larger scale and with larger possibilities than at any time since the age of Napoleon, perhaps since the world began.



To take the chief events in order, the Versailles Conference opened on the 1st; on the 3rd Austria gave in and the resolve of the German Naval High Command to challenge the Grand Fleet in the North Sea was paralysed by the mutiny at Kiel; on the 5th the Versailles Conference gave full powers to Marshal Foch to arrange the terms of an armistice, and President Wilson addressed the last of his Notes to Germany; on the 6th the American Army reached Sedan; on the 9th Marshal Foch received Erzberger and the other German Envoys, the Berlin Revolution broke out, and the Kaiser abdicated; on the 10th the Kaiser fled to Holland, and the British reached Mons. The wheel had come full circle. The Belgian, British, French, and American Armies now formed a semi-circle from Ghent to Sedan, and threatened to surround the German Armies already in retreat and crowded into the narrow valley of the Meuse. Everything was ready for Foch's final attack; indeed, he was on the point of attacking when the Germans, recognising that they were faced with the prospect of a Sedan ten times greater than that of 1870, signed on November 11 an armistice which was equivalent to a military capitulation, and gave Marshal Foch all that he wanted without the heavy losses which further fighting would have undoubtedly involved. He had shown himself the greatest military genius of the War. Here, in the words of one of his former colleagues at the Ecole de Guerre, he proved himself free from the stains which have so often tarnished great leaders in war, the lust of conquest and personal ambition. Not only the Allies, but the whole world owes an incalculable debt to this soldier of justice, compact of reason and faith, imperturbable in adversity, self-effacing in the hour of victory. Glorious also is the record of the other French Generals: the strong-souled Petain, hero of Verdun; the heroic Maunoury; Castlenau and Mangin, Gouraud. Debeney, and Franchet d'Esperey, Captains Courageous, worthy of France, her cause, and her indomitable poilus. In the record of acknowledgment France stands first since her sacrifices and losses have been heaviest, and she gave us in Foch the chief organiser of victory, in Clemenceau the most inspiring example of intrepid statesmanship. But the War could not have been won without England and the Empire; without the ceaseless vigil in the North Sea; without the heroes of Jutland and Coronel, of the Falkland Isles and Zeebrugge, of the Fleets behind the Fleet; without the services of Smith-Dorrien at Mons, French at Ypres; without the dogged endurance, the inflexible will and the self-sacrificing loyalty of Haig; the dash of Maude and Allenby; the steadfast leadership in defence and offence of Plumer and Byng, Home and Rawlinson and Birdwood.



These are only some of the heroes who have added to the glories of our blood and State, but the roll is endless—wonderful gunners and sappers and airmen and dispatch riders, devoted surgeons and heroic nurses, stretcher-bearers and ambulance drivers. But Mr. Punch's special heroes are the Second Lieutenants and the Tommy who went on winning the War all the time and never said that he was winning it until it was won.

As for the young officers, dead and living, their record is the best answer to the critics, mostly of the arm-chair type, who have chosen this time to assail our public school system. In the papers of one of them killed on August 28 there was found an article written in reply to "The Loom of Youth," ending with these words: "Perhaps the greatest consolation of these attacks on our greatest heritage in England (for we are the unique possessors of the Public Schools) is the conviction that they will have but little effect. Every public school boy is serving, and one in every six gives up his life. They cannot be such bad places after all."

Of the great mistakes made by Germany perhaps the greatest was in reckoning on the detachment of the Dominions. The Canadians have made answer on a hundred stricken fields before and after Vimy Ridge. Australia gave her goodliest at Gallipoli, crowning the imperishable glory of those who died there by her refusal to make a grievance of the apparent failure of the expedition, and by the amazing achievement of her troops in the last six months of the War.

The immortal dead, British, Australians, New Zealanders, who fell in the great adventure of the narrow straits are not forgotten in the hour of triumph.

GALLIPOLI Qui procul hinc ante diem perierunt.

Ye unforgotten, that for a great dream died, Whose failing sense darkened on peaks unwon, Whose souls went forth upon the wine-dark tide To seas beyond the sun, Far off, far off, but ours and England's yet, Know she has conquered! Live again, and let The clamouring trumpets break oblivion!

Not as we dreamed, nor as you strove to do, The strait is cloven, the crag is made our own; The salt grey herbs have withered over you, The stars of Spring gone down, And your long loneliness has lain unstirred By touch of home, unless some migrant bird Flashed eastward from the white cliffs to the brown.

Hard by the nameless dust of Argive men, Remembered and remote, like theirs of Troy, Your sleep has been, nor can ye wake again To any cry of joy; Summers and snows have melted on the waves. And past the noble silence of your graves The merging waters narrow and deploy.

But not in vain, not all in vain, thank God; All that you were and all you might have been Was given to the cold effacing sod, Unstrewn with garlands green; The valour and the vision that were yours Lie not with broken spears and fallen towers, With glories perishable of all things seen.

Children of one dear land and every sea, At last fulfilment comes—the night is o'er; Now, as at Samothrace, swift Victory Walks winged on the shore; And England, deathless Mother of the dead, Gathers, with lifted eyes and unbowed head, Her silent sons into her arms once more.

Crowns and thrones have rocked and toppled of late, but our King and Queen, by their unsparing and unfaltering devotion to duty, by their simplicity of life and unerring instinct for saying and doing the right thing, have not only set a fine example, but strengthened their hold on the loyalty of all classes. And King Albert, who defied Germany at the outset, shared the dangers of his soldiers in retreat and disaster, and throughout the war proved an inspiration to his people, has been spared to lead them to victory and has gloriously come into his own again. His decision to resist Germany was perhaps the most heroic act of the War, and he has emerged from his tremendous ordeal with world-wide prestige and unabated distaste for the limelight. The liberation and resurrection of Belgium and Serbia have been two of the most splendid outcomes of the World War, as the debacle in Russia and the martyrdom of Armenia have been its greatest tragedies.

Parliament has been seen at its best and worst. When the Prime Minister rose in the House on the afternoon of the 11th to announce the terms of the Armistice signed at 5 A.M. that morning, members from nearly all parts of the House rose to acclaim him. Even "the ranks of Tuscany" on the front Opposition bench joined in the general cheering. Only Mr. Dillon and his half-dozen supporters remained moody and silent, and when Mr. Speaker, in his gold-embroidered joy-robes, headed a great procession to St. Margaret's Church, and the ex-Premier and his successor—the man who drew the sword of Britain in the war for freedom and the man whose good fortune it has been to replace it in the sheath—fell in side by side, behind them walked the representatives of every party save one. Mr. Dillon and his associates had more urgent business in one of the side lobbies—to consider, perhaps, why Lord Grey of Falloden, in his eve-of-war speech, had referred to Ireland as "the one bright spot." This Irish aloofness is wondrously illustrated by the Sunday Independent of Dublin, which, in its issue of November 10, spoke of a racing event as the only redeeming feature of "an unutterably dull week." We have to thank Mr. Dillon, however, for unintentionally enlivening the dulness of the discussion on the relations of Lord Northcliffe to the Ministry of Information and his forecast of the peace terms. Mr. Baldwin, for the Government, while endeavouring to allay the curiosity of members, said that "Napoleons will be Napoleons." Mr. Dillon seemed to desire the appointment of a "Northcliffe Controller," but that is impracticable. All our bravest men are too busy to take on the job. Better still was the pointed query of Lord Henry Bentinck, "Is it not possible to take Lord Northcliffe a little too seriously?" But there are other problems to which the House has been addressing itself with a justifiable seriousness—and demobilisation, the shortage of food and coal, and the question how at the same time we are to provide for the outlay of coals of fire and feed the Huns and not the guns.

And how has England taken the news? In the main soberly and in a spirit of infinite thankfulness, though in too many thousands of homes the loss of our splendid, noble and gallant sons—alas! so often only sons—who made victory possible by the gift of their lives, has made rejoicing impossible for those who are left to mourn them. Yet there is consolation in the knowledge that if they had lived to extreme old age they could never have made a nobler thing of their lives. Shakespeare, who "has always been there before," wrote the epitaph of those who fell in France when he spoke of one who gave

His body to that pleasant country's earth, And his pure soul unto his captain, Christ, Under whose colours he had fought so long.



And it is a source of unspeakable joy that our children are safe. For though to most of them their ignorance has been bliss, they have not escaped the horrors of a war in which non-combatants have suffered worse than ever before. Only the healing hand of time can allay the grief of those for whom there can be no reunion on earth with their nearest and dearest:

At last the dawn creeps in with golden fingers Seeking my eyes, to bid them open wide Upon a world at peace, where Sweetness lingers, Where Terror is at rest and Hate has died.

Loud soon shall sound a paean of thanksgiving From happy women, welcoming their men, Life born anew of joy to see them living. Mother of Pity, what shall I do then?

Of the people at large Mr. Punch cannot better the praise of one, the late Mr. Henry James, who was nothing if not critical, and who proved his love of England by adopting her citizenship in the darkest hour of her need: "They were about as good, above all, when it came to the stress, as could well be expected of people. They didn't know how good they were," and if they lacked imagination they stimulated it immensely in others.

Apart from some effervescence in the great cities, Armistice Day was celebrated without exultation or extravagance. In one village that we know of the church bells were rung by women. In London our deliverance was to many people marked in the most dramatic way by the breaking of his long silence by Big Ben:

Gone are the days when sleep alone could break War's grim and tyrannous spells; Now it is rest and joy to lie awake And listen to the bells.

So the Great War ended. But there yet remained the most dramatic episode of all—the surrender of the German Fleet to Admiral Beatty at Scapa Flow—a surrender unprecedented in naval history, a great victory won without striking a blow, which yet brought no joy to our Grand Fleet. For our admirals and captains and bluejackets felt that the Germans had smirched the glory of the fighting men of the sea, hitherto maintained in untarnished splendour by all vanquished captains from the days of Carthage to those of Cervera and Cradock.



EPILOGUE

It remains to trace in brief retrospect the record of "the months between"—a period of test and trial almost as severe as that of the War.

Having steadfastly declined the solution of a Peace without Victory, the Allies entered last November on the transitional period of Victory without Peace. The fighting was ended in the main theatres of war, the Kaiser and Crown Prince, discrowned and discredited, had sought refuge in exile, the great German War machine had been smashed, and demobilisation began at a rate which led to inevitable congestion and disappointment. The prosaic village blacksmith was not far out when, in reply to the vicar's pious hope that the time had come to beat our sword into a ploughshare, he observed, "Well, I don't know, sir. Speaking as a blacksmith of forty-five years' experience, I may tell you it can't be done." "The whole position is provisional," said the Times at the end of November. If Germany, Austria, and Russia were to be fed, how was it to be done without disregarding the prior claims of Serbia and Roumania? Even at home the food question still continued to agitate the public mind.

The General Election of December, 1918, which followed the dissolution of the longest Parliament since the days of Charles II., was a striking, if temporary proof, of the persistence of the rationing principle. It proved a triumph for the Coalition "Coupon" and for Mr. Lloyd George; the extremists and Pacificists were snowed under; Mr. Asquith was rejected and his followers reduced to a mere handful; Labour came back with an increased representation, though not as great as it desired or deserved. The triumph of the irreconcilables in Ireland was a foregone but sinister conclusion to their activities in the War, and an ominous prelude to their subsequent efforts to wreck the Pence. The pledges in regard to indemnities, the treatment of the Kaiser, and conscription so lavishly given by the Coalition Leaders caused no little misgiving at the time, and pledges, like curses, have an awkward way of coming home to roost. Mr. Punch's views on the Kaiser, expressed in his Christmas Epilogue, are worth recalling. Mr. Punch did not clamour for the death penalty, or wish to hand him over to the tender mercies of German Kultur. "The only fault he committed in German eyes is that he lost the War, and I wouldn't have him punished for the wrong offence—for something, indeed, which was our doing as much as his. No, I think I would just put him out of the way of doing further harm, in some distant penitentiary like the Devil's Island, and leave him to himself to think it all over; as Caponsacchi said of Guido in 'The Ring and the Book':

Not to die so much as slide out of life, Pushed by the general horror and common hate Low, lower—left o' the very edge of things."



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.



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!"



February, a month of comparative anti-climax, witnessed the reassembling of Parliament, fuller than ever of members if not of wisdom. As none of the Sinn Feiners were present, nor indeed any representative of Irish Nationalism, the proceedings were as orderly as a Quaker's funeral, save for the arrival of one member on a motor-scooter. Perhaps the most interesting information elicited during the debates was this—that every question put down costs the tax-payer a guinea. On February 20th there were 282 on the Order Paper, and Mr. Punch was moved to wonder whether this cascade of curiosity might be abated if every questionist were obliged to contribute half the cost, the amount to be deducted from his official salary. The Speaker, the greatest of living Parliamentarians, was re-elected by acclamation. Though human and humorous, he has grown into something almost more like an institution than a man, like Big Ben, that great patriot and public servant who never struck during the war. The best news in February was that of M. Clemenceau's escape, though wounded, from the Anarchist assassin who had attempted to translate Trotsky's threat into action. But it did not help on the proposed Conference with the Russians at Prinkipo or encourage the prospect of any tangible results from the deliberation of the Prinkipotentiaries. The plain man could see no third choice beyond supporting Bolshevism or anti-Bolshevism. But according to our Prime Minister, we were committed to a compromise. The Allies were not prepared to intervene in force, and they could not leave Russia to stew in her own hell-broth. Meanwhile the chief criminal, Germany, had begun to utter ad misericordiam appeals for the relaxation of the Armistice terms on the score of their cruelty; and Count Brockdorff-Rantzau gave us a foretaste of his quality by declaring that "Germany cannot be treated as a second-rate nation."



At home, though the rays of "sweet unrationed revelry" were still to come, and Dulce Domum could not yet be sung in every sense, February brought us some relief in the demobilisation of the pivotal pig. And the decision to hold a National Industrial Conference was of encouraging augury for the settlement of industrial strife on the basis of a full inquiry and frank statement of facts. In other walks of life reticence still has its charms, and even in February people had begun to ask who the General was who had threatened not to write a book about the War.

March, the mad month, remained true to type. Even Mr. Punch found it hard to preserve his equanimity:

O Month, before your final moon is set Much may have happened—anything, in fact; More than in any March that I have met, (Last year excepted) fearful nerves are racked; Anarchy does with Russia what it likes; Paris is put conundrums very knotty; And here in England, with its talk of strikes, Men, like your own March hares, seem going dotty.

Abroad the ex-Kaiser was very busy sawing trees, possibly owing to an hallucination that they were German Generals.



At home the Government decided to release such of the Sinn Fein prisoners as had not already saved them the trouble, and a Coal Industry Commission was appointed on which no representative of the general public was invited to sit—that is to say, the patient, much enduring consumer, not the public which has all along sought to discount peace by premature whooping, jubilating, and Jazzing. For the Dove of Peace, though in strict training, seemed in danger of collapsing under the weight of the League of Nations' olive bough, to say nothing of other perils, notably the Bolshy-bird, a most obscene brand of vulture.

Mr. Wilson was once more on the Atlantic, and Mr. Lloyd George, distracted between his duties in Paris and the demands of Labour, recalled Sir Boyle Roche's bird, or the circus performer riding two horses at once. In Parliament the interpretation of election pledges occupied a good deal of time, and Mr. Bonar Law twice declared the policy of the Government in regard to indemnities as being to demand the largest amount that Germany could pay, but not to demand what we knew she couldn't pay. It would have saved him a great deal of trouble if at the General Election the Government spokesmen had insisted as much upon the second half of the policy as they did on the first. Earnest appeals for economy were made from the Treasury Bench on the occasion of the debate on the Civil Service Estimates, now swollen to five times their pre-war magnitude, and were heartily applauded by the House. To show how thoroughly they had gone home, Mr. Adamson, the Labour Leader, immediately pressed for an increase in the salaries of Members of Parliament.



On the Rhine the efforts of our army of occupation to present the stern and forbidding air supposed to mark our dealings with the inhabitants were proving a lamentable failure. You can't produce a really good imitation of a Hun without lots of practice. Gloating is entirely foreign to the nature of Thomas Atkins, and he could not pass a child yelling in the gutter without stooping to comfort it. At home his education was proceeding on different lines. The period of reaction had set in, and unwonted exertions were necessary to stimulate his interest. Such artless devices were, however, preferable to the pastime, already fashionable in more exalted circles, of kicking a total stranger round the room to the accompaniment of cymbals, a motor siren, and a frying pan.

After a month of madness it was not to be wondered at that we should have a month of muzzling, though the enforcement of the order might have been profitably extended from dogs to journalists. The secrecy maintained by the Big Four—a phrase invented by America—the conflict of the idealists with the realists, and the temporary break-away of the Italian wrestler, Orlando, were bound to excite comment. But a shattered world could not be rebuilt in a day, with Bolshevist wolves prowling about the Temple of Peace, and the Dove at sea between the Ark and Archangel. The Covenant of the League of Nations, though in a diluted form, had at last taken shape, the Peace Machine had got a move on, and the Premier's spirited, if not very dignified, retaliation on the newspaper snipers led to an abatement of unnecessary hostilities, though the pastime of shooting policemen with comparative impunity still flourished in Ireland, and the numbers and cost of our "army of inoccupation" still continued to increase. Innumerable queries were made in Parliament on the subject of the unemployment dole, but the announcement that the Admiralty did not propose to perpetuate the title "Grand Fleet" for the principal squadron of His Majesty's Navy passed without comment. The Grand Fleet is now a part of the History that it did so much to make.

May and June were "hectic" months, in which the reaction from the fatigues and restraints of War found vent in an increased disinclination for work, encouraged by a tropical sun. These were the months of the resumption of cricket, the Victory Derby, the flood of honours, and the flying of the Atlantic, with a greater display of popular enthusiasm over the gallant airmen who failed in that feat than over the generals who had won the War. They were also the months of the duel between Mr. Smillie and the Dukes, the discovery of oil in Derbyshire, the privileged excursion into War polemics of Lord French, unrest in Egypt, renewed trouble with the police, and a shortage of beer, boots and clothes.



But though the Big Four had been temporarily reduced to a Big Three by Italy's withdrawal, and though M. Clemenceau, Mr. Lloyd George, and President Wilson had all suffered in prestige by the slow progress of the negotiations, Versailles, with the advent of the German delegates, more than ever riveted the gaze of an expectant world. To sign or not to sign, or, in the words of Wilhelm Shakespeare, Sein oder nicht sein: hier ist die Frage—that was the problem which from the moment of his famous opening speech Count Brockdorff-Rantzau was up against. But, as the days wore on, in spite of official impenitence and the double breach of the Armistice terms by the scuttling of the German war-ships at Scapa and the burning of the French flags at Berlin, the force of "fierce reluctant truculent delay" was spent against the steadily growing volume of national acquiescence, culminating in the decision of the Weimar Assembly, the tardy choice of new delegates, and the final scene in the Hall of Mirrors, haunted by the ghosts of 1871.

Writing at the moment of the Signature of Peace and in deep thankfulness for the relief it brings to a stricken world, Mr. Punch is too old to jazz for joy, but he is young enough to face the future with a reasoned optimism, born of a belief in his race and their heroic achievements in these great and terrible years. Victory took us by surprise; and we were less prepared for Peace at that moment than we had ever been for War. And just as in the first days of the fighting we went astray, running after the cry "Business as usual," so to-day we are making as bad a mistake when we run after "Pleasure as usual"—or rather more than usual. But we soon revised that early error, and we shall not waste much time about revising this. For though we lacked imagination then, and still lack it, we have the gift, perhaps even more useful if less showy, of commonsense. And when commonsense is found in natures that are honest and hearts that are clean, it may make mistakes, but not for long. No, the spirit which won the War is not going to fail us at this second call. Perhaps we have only been waiting for the actual coming of Peace to settle down to our new and greater task.

But let us never forget the debt, unpaid and unpayable, to our immortal dead and to the valiant survivors of the great conflict, to whom we owe freedom and security and the possibility of a better and cleaner world.



INDEX

"According to plan," Admirals, retired, accept commissions in R.N.R. Admiralty and Zeebrugge despatches Africa, German South-West, Botha makes clean sweep in After one Year Airmen, Allied Bombard Karlsruhe German, increased activity of Air Raids Daylight, extend to London Public to be warned Aisne, Battle of Alarming spread of bobbing Albert, King of Belgium Tribute to Victorious on Flanders coast Allenby, General Advances steadily Captures Damascus Enters Jerusalem Allied Council, new, formed Allotment workers Alsace-Lorraine reunited to France Also Ran America Enters War War of Notes American, an, interviews German Crown Prince American Troops Enter firing line First land in France Ammunition expended round Neuve Chapelle Amundsen, Roald, prepares for trip to North Pole Ancre, British push extends to Anglia, East, air-raids in Antwerp, Fall of Anzac, British heroism at Armenia, martyrdom of Armentieres, Germans break through at Armistice Big Ben breaks silence How England took news of Signed Women ring church bells Armistice Day Army Signalling Alphabet Asquith, Mr. Ceases to be Prime Minister Discusses new Votes of Credit Goes to Ireland Promises to purge Peerage of Enemy Dukes Recants hostility to Women's suffrage Rejected at General Election Athens, riot in "Au Revoir!" Australians, valour of Austria Defeated by Serbia Defeated on Italian front Gives in Issues Peace Note Sues for Peace Threatens Roumania Austrians driven from Belgrade

Bad Dream, A Baghdad, taken by British Balfour, Mr. Appointed First Lord Returns from U.S.A. Balkans, irrelevant news from Banana, return of the Bapaume Germans take Recaptured by Allies Beatty, Admiral, German Fleet surrenders to Belgium Opposes German invasion Resurrection of Belgrade occupied by enemy Bennett, Mr. Arnold, appointed Director of Propaganda Berlin Bombed French flags burnt at Revolution breaks out Strikes in, suppressed Bernstorff, Count Mendacity of Promotes strikes in U.S.A. Best Smell of All, the Bethmann-Hollweg dismissed, Betrayed, Big Four's secrecy, Big Push, The, Billing, Mr. Pemberton Elected for Mid-Herts, Offers to raid enemy aircraft bases. Suspended from House of Commons, Birdwood, General, Birrell, Mr., apologia of, Bismarck, Prince, Bissing, Baron von, Reported dead, Retires from Belgium, Bloaters, unprecedented price of, Bluecher, the, sunk by British, Blume, General von, depreciates American intervention, Boat-race, Oxford and Cambridge, suspended, Bobbing, Alarming spread of, Bordeaux, Paris Government removed to, Botha, General Enters War, Makes clean sweep in S.W. Africa, Bottomley, Mr. Horatio, visits France, Bravo, Belgium, Brazil enters War, Bread, curtailment of, Brest-Litovsk Conference, Taken by enemy, Treaty signed, British Expeditionary Force Lands in France, Brockdorff-Rantzau, Count, Bruges reoccupied by Allies, Brusiloff, General Opens new Russian offensive, Successful against Austrians, Brussels Fall of, Murder of Edith Cavell at, Buckmaster, Lord, appointed Lord Chancellor, Bukarest, fall of, Bulgaria surrenders, Bulgarians smashed by Allies, Bull-dog Breed, the, Bungalows, Government, increase of, Burns, Mr. John, re-emerges, Byng, General, Victory at Cambrai, Byron, Lord, and Greece, By special request,

Cabinet pool salaries, Cadet battalions housed in colleges, Caligny, Americans at, Callousness of smart people, Cambrai Byng's victory at, Recaptured by Allies, Cambridge, Cadet battalions at, Camouflage, new art of, Caporetto, enemy break through at, "Captain of Koepenick" reported dead, Carson, Sir Edward Pays tribute to Major Redmond, Resigns Office, Casement, Sir Roger, and German Kaiser, Castlenau, General, Casualties, British, Cavell, Edith Murder of, Names of her principal assassins, Cecil, Lord Robert, appointed Minister of Blockade, Celestial Dud, the, Censorship and War Correspondents, Challenge, the, Chamberlain, Mr. Austen, resigns office, Champagne, French offensive at, Chemin des Dames, Germans capture, Children of Consolation, Children's Peace, China, food prices in, Christmas Musings, Punch's, Truce and fraternisation, Church bells requisitioned, Churchill, Mr. Winston Appointed Minister of Munitions, Dardanelles expedition, Paints landscapes, Rejoins his regiment, Resigns Duchy of Lancaster, Retires to Duchy of Lancaster, Civilian, the, and the War Office, Civil Service Estimates, Clemenceau, M. Attempted assassination of, Tribute to, Clyde, labour troubles on the, Coal Commission appointed, Coalition Government Formed, Leaders' pledges, Coalitionists triumph at General Election, Coat that didn't come off, the, Cologne, Archbishop of, and the Kaiser, Combles taken by Allies, Coming Army, the, Commission To inquire into Dardanelles expedition, To inquire into Mesopotamian expedition, "Complete accord," Compulsory rationing a fact, Comrades in Victory, Conscientious Objectors in Non-combatant Corps, Constables, special, guard King's highway, Constantine, King of Greece Abdicates, Contemplates abdication, Forms Cabinet of Professors, Mr. Asquith's appeal to, To receive L20,000 a year, Treated tenderly, Contemptibles, the old, Corn Production Bill, Coronel avenged, Correspondents, Mr. Punch's, Cradock, Admiral, Crank, Whip's definition of a, Craonne taken by French, "Credibility index," Crown Prince, German American interviews, Common brigand, a, Has misgivings, In exile, Cuba declares war on Austria, Cuffley, Zeppelin brought down at,

Daily Mail, candour of, Daily News and Punch, Daily Telegraph, Lord Lansdowne's letter to, Damascus captured by Allies, Dance of Death, the, Danube, Serbians reach the, Dardanelles Commission, Dawn of Doubt, the, Daylight Saving, Bill passed, Death Lord, the, Debeney, General, Praises Americans, Defence of the Realm Act, (De)merit, the reward of, Demobilisation commences, Derby, Lord Director of Recruiting, Minister of War, Dernburg, Dr., his picture of German innocents, Deutschland, German submarine, exploits of, Devonport, Lord Appointed Food Controller, Approves new dietary for prisoners, Retires as Food Controller, Diary— 1914, August, September, October, November, December, 1915, January, February, March, April, May, June, July, August, September, October, November, December, 1916, January, February, March, April, May, June, July, August, September, October, November, December, 1917, January, February, March, April, May, June, July, August, September, October, November, December, 1918, January, February, March, April, May, June, July, August, September, October, November, Die Nacht am Rhein, Dogger Bank, German reverse off, Domestic servant's philosophy, Dominions, loyalty of, Douai regained by Allies, Drake's Way, Drocourt-Queant switchline breached by Allies, Dud, the, Duke, Mr., retires from Irish Chief Secretaryship, Dumba, Dr., promotes strikes in U.S.A., Dunraven, Lord, excuses Irishmen, Dynastic Amenities,

Easter offering, the, Economy, appeals for, Editor of the Vorwaerts arrested, Education Bill Second reading of, Lord Haldane lectures on, Ekaterinburg, Ex-Tsar and family murdered at, Emden sunk by the Sydney, Emmas, the two, Empire, indispensable in winning War, End of a perfect "Tag," England Tribute to, by New York Life, War could not have been won without, Enver Pasha goes to Medina, Epilogue, Erzerum falls to Russians, Euphemists, Excursionist, the, Exile, the Irish,

"F.E." appointed Lord Chancellor, Falaba, the, sunk by German submarine, Falkland Islands, Battle of, Farmer and Farm Labourer, Far-reaching effect of the Russian Push, the, Ferdinand, King of Bulgaria Abdicates, Declares war on Serbia, Goes to Vienna, Inscrutability of, Fidgety Wilhelm, the story of, Fifth British Army, Germans break through, Final, the, Fisher, Lord, will not give explanations, Fisher, Mr., eulogised, Flag days, Flanders coast evacuated by Germans, Fleet, German, surrenders, Flight that failed, Flying of the Atlantic, Foch, General Appointed Generalissimo of Allied Forces, Arranges Armistice, Made a G.C.B., Receives German envoys, Tribute to, Food at the Front, Control, public for, Production, urgency for increased, Question discussed in Parliament, Question in Germany, Restriction, Stocks increasing, Ford, Mr. Henry Offers his works to American authorities, Visits Europe, For Neutrals—For Natives, Fort Douaumont falls, Fourth of July celebrated in France, France, destruction and desolation of, France's Day, Franchet d'Esperey, General, Francis Joseph, Emperor, dies, French, General Appointed Viceroy of Ireland, His "contemptible little army," Relinquishes his command, Responsible for Home Defence against enemy aircraft, Fryatt, Captain, murder of, Funchal, U-boats busy at,

Gaiety at military hospitals, Gallipoli, Allies land in, Casualties in, Complete evacuation of, Discomforts of, Garibaldi still an animating force in Italy, Gaul to the New Caesar, Gaza taken by British, Geddes, Sir Eric Defends Admiralty, First Lord, General Election, General Janvier, Geography taught by War, George V. of England Abolishes German titles held by family, His House to be known as Windsor, Sets a fine example, Visits Front, George, Mr. Lloyd Appointed Minister of Munitions, Defines British policy, Deputed to confer with Irish leaders, Expounds plan for Irish Convention, Prime Minister, Secretary for War, Suffers in prestige, Triumph of, Warns peacemongers, Gerard, Mr., Reminiscences of, German "Frightfulness," General Staff and set-backs, Substitutes, Germany Campaign of Falsehood in, Civil War in, Fleet surrenders, "German Truth Society" founded, Great mistake of, Hints to Italy, Ill-treats prisoners, Indulges in reprisals, Jealous of Lusitania records, Laments over Allied blockade, Lunatics called up for service, Mutiny at Kiel, New Peace offensive, Old, contrasted, Peace overtures, Signs armistice, Signs peace, Sinks two hospital ships, Sprays British soldiers with flaming petrol, Squirts boiling pitch over Russians, Torpedoes Neutral merchant ships, Warns Punch, Ghosts at Versailles, God (and the Women) our shield, Goeben, disaster to the, Good Hope, H.M.S., sunk, Gothas, activities of, Gouraud, General, Governesses, English, revelations of, Grandcourt, taken by British, Grand Fleet, ceaseless vigil of, Title, passes. Grapes of Verdun, the, Great incentive, a, Greece Dominated by pro-German Court, Hampers Allies, Territory violated by Bulgarian troops, Ultimatum presented to, Greenwich time applied to Ireland, Grey, Sir Edward Dissatisfied with Neutrals, Statements re France and Belgium, Grimsby fishermen's fight, Guy Fawkes Day, no fireworks on, Gwynn, Capt., undertakes to raise Irish brigade,