PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOLUME. 147.

September 23, 1914.

THE ALIEN

Chorus. "Boo! 'oo kissed 'er 'and to the Kaiser larst time 'e come over? Yar! Bloomin' German!"

CHARIVARIA.

The Kaiser, we are told, travels with an asbestos hut. We fancy, however, that it is not during his lifetime that the most pressing need for a fire-proof shelter will arise.

"The Germans," said one of our experts last week, "are retreating to what looks like a bottle-neck exit." Their fondness for the bottle is, of course, well known and may yet be their undoing.

The Times, one day, gave a map showing "The Line of Battle in Champagne." It was, as might have been expected, a very wobbly line.

A somewhat illiterate correspondent writes to say that he considers that the French ought to have allowed the Mad Dog to retain Looneyville.

The German papers publish the statement that a Breslau merchant has offered 30,000 marks to the German soldier who, weapon in hand, shall be the first to place his feet on British soil. By a characteristic piece of sharp practice the reward, it will be noted, is offered to the man personally and would not be payable to his next of kin.

With one exception all goods hitherto manufactured in Germany can be made just as well here. The exception is Lies.

We have been requested to deny the rumour that Mr. A. C. Benson's forthcoming Christmas book is to be a Eulogy of German Culture and is to bear the title, Some Broken Panes From a College Window (in Louvain).

A Corps of Artists for Home Defence is being formed, and the painter members are said to be longing for a brush with the enemy.

Cases have been brought to our notice by racing men of betting news having been delayed on more than one occasion owing to the wires being required for war purposes. We are confident that if a protest were made to Lord Kitchener he would look very closely into the matter.

Another item reaches us from the dear old village of Pufflecombe this week. The oldest inhabitant met a stranger. "'Scuse me, Zur," he said, "but be you from Lunnon town?" The visitor nodded. "Then maybe, Zur," said the rustic, "you can tell me if it be true, as I have heerd tell, that relations 'tween England and Germany be strained?"

The Press Bureau cannot guarantee the truth of this.

They must have caught it from the Germans.

PROBATION.

O. S.

UNWRITTEN LETTERS TO THE KAISER.

Majesty,—Though you will never receive this letter, I feel that I must write it if only to relieve my mind of an intolerable burden. There is no doubt about it, things are not going well with us, and we shall soon be in a situation of a most deplorable kind. Our armies have been driven back in France—this is what Von Stein means when he declares that we have had "partial successes"—and Paris, which was to be captured weeks ago, seems to be as strong and as defiant as ever. The English are still unbroken and are pouring new armies into France. In Galicia the wretched Austrians are running like sheep; even Servia has beaten them and is invading Hungary and Bosnia; and our wonderful fleet, which cost so much good money, is bottled up. Soon we shall have the Cossacks on our backs, and then the dance will begin in earnest.

But you don't care—not a bit of it. You've been prancing about and making speeches and showing yourself on balconies and congratulating God on being such a good German. Do for Heaven's sake give us all a rest. We are in for a frightful war, and untold miseries are sure to fall upon us. Do you suppose that we shall be helped to bear them if you continue to act like an inebriated madman in the sight of the whole world?

Of course I shall have to bear the responsibility. I know that well enough. So, while I still have the liberty to use my pen, I mean to make my protest and throw back the burden you want to put upon me. Let me tell you this: you can't go on bragging and trampling on others and glorifying your splendid and immaculate self without rousing anger somewhere. Other people have their feelings—I've got some left myself—and in the long run they're bound to get tired of being exposed to your insolence. We may be miserable worms, but we don't want to be told so every day.

And then how wanton and silly the whole management of the affair has been. Think of our Empire so gloriously won, so magnificently established. France, no doubt, brooded over the possibility of a revanche, but no other country envied us our success or desired either to damage our prestige or to interfere with our growing commerce. Everybody was glad to hail us as friends. And now nearly the whole of Europe has been brought about our ears. Almost all countries wish for our destruction and are trying to bring it about. Italy deserts us. Even America, though you cringe to her, dislikes us and mentions Louvain when we speak of culture. What a masterpiece of folly and miscalculation and wasted opportunity it