(A word with the War-Lord.)
That you are sick of taking blow on blow,
And would inter with all convenient speed
The hatchet wielded by your largest foe.
That makes the iron of your soul unbend,
And melt in prayer for this unholy war
(Meaning the part that pinches most) to end?
The writing on the wall that seals your fate,
And, where the Christ-star watches in the East,
To hear the guns that thunder at your gate?
The chimes shall be a tocsin, and the red
Glow of the Yule-wood embers shall recall
A myriad smouldering pyres of murdered dead.
Shall with its dirges drown the sacred hymn,
And round your royal hearth the curse shall rise
Of lowly hearths laid waste to suit your whim.
On temple-aisles made desolate at your nod,
Where never a white-robed choir this holy morn
Shall chant their greeting to the Birth of God.
For still shall Memory, like a fetid breath,
Poison your life-days while the slow hours run,
Till it be stilled in the dust of Death.
O.S.
[Curiosity is often expressed regarding the causes which have prevented young men from enlisting. Considerable interest, therefore, should attach to the following replies to enquiries, an inspection of which has been permitted us by the Secretary of the Patriotic League, an organisation which seeks to stimulate recruiting by writing to young healthy and unmarried men and asking them why they do not join the colours.]
My Dear Sir,—I fully understand your views—in fact I am in cordial agreement with them. It would be quite fair to say of most young unmarried men that they could and should be spared. But this cannot be said of all young men. There is a small section of literary and other artists whose lives must continue to he immeasurably precious to the nation which has given them birth. From this company it is impossible for me to exclude myself. There is a higher patriotism, to the dictates of which I must respond. With infinite regrets, and thanks for what is doubtless a well-meant endeavour,
I am, dear Sir, yours sincerely,
Endymion Browne.
P.S.—If you should be in town on the 24th, I am giving a reading from my own works at the United Intensities Club—"A Night with Endymion Browne."
Dear Sir,—What you say is O.K. Kitchener must have men and all that sort of thing. Show the Kaiser who's boss, and so on. But there are some men who can't possibly go. And I'm one. It's all very well to say "Go," but if I go—let me ask you quite seriously—how on earth is Smoketown Tuesday F.C. to lift the English pot? I don't want to shout about myself, but it is a known fact that I'm positively the only centre forward they've got. I'm worth £200 a week to the gate alone. If you don't care to accept my word, that it is absolutely impossible for me to go, I'll refer you to what our secretary says at foot.
Yours,
Alf Booter.
Note by Secretary—What Booter says is quite true. He is indispensable. We paid £1,000 for his transfer, and could not possibly sanction his leaving us. Besides, some of his many thousand admirers might want to follow his example, and where would our gate be then?
Dear Sir,—If I was to go and enlist, how could I follow the Occident and help 'em to win the League Championship? There it is, quite short—how? And if I didn't follow, and if others like me didn't follow, how'd the club stick it? How'd it keep going? What price duty of staying at home?
I am, yours truly,
Bert Socksley.
[Dictated.]
Sir,—I snatch a moment to answer your letter, "Why don't I go to fight the Germans?" I am fighting them. I cleared £500 this morning which, before the war, would have gone into a German pocket. My motto is "Business as usual," and I have no complaints whatever against the Germans so long as I can go on fighting them some more in my own way.
Yours faithfully,
George Crabbe.
Dear Sir,—Your letter for my brother, John Halton, has reached me by mistake, but I'll answer it. "Why don't I go?" Just send me a recipe for turning me into a boy, and you'll not have to ask me twice.
Yours very sincerely,
Joan Halton.
Dear Sir,—I know what my job is, so don't you come poking your nose in where it isn't wanted. I'm for England, I am. And I'm doing my bit. The Evening Wiper said only the other day that a Britisher's duty was to keep cheerful, and that the man who did that was serving his country. Well, I am cheerful—I didn't turn a hair even over Mons—slept exactly the same, and had bacon and tomato for my breakfast. Then they car, "Carry on." And I do carry on. I go out as usual, dress just as carefully—spats, fancy waistcoat, buttonhole, etc. One night it's the Imperial and another it's the Cinema. Men are wanted to cheer the patriotic songs and to sing the chorus of "Tipperary." I help here. Then I spend my money freely—freely, I tell you. Any Tommy I meet can have a drink—half a dozen at my expense, and no return expected. I got two quite blind last night, and never asked 'em for a sou. Then again, I've spent quite a lot on flags. I always wear six on the front of my bike when I scorch through the crowds coming out of church on Sundays. I've got portrait buttons, too, of Joffre and Kitch., and I'm never ashamed to wear 'em. And I'm always urging chaps to go and enlist. So you see I am doing my bit.
Yours truly,
Albert Spottle.
In a Good Cause.
A Matinée will be given at the Empire on Thursday, the 26th, in aid of The Daily Telegraph's Belgian Relief Fund. Among the patrons are The Japanese Ambassador, the Belgian Minister and the Grand Duke Michael.
Many popular artistes have offered their services, including Miss Phyllis Bedells, Miss Gladys Cooper, Miss Ethel Levey, Miss Irene Vanbrugh, Miss Wish Wynne, Mr. Wilkie Bard, Mr. Will Evans, Mr. Alfred Lester, Mr. James Tate, Mr. Lewis Waller and Mr. James Welch.
Mr. Punch very heartily commends the cause and its advocates to his gentle readers.
