Punch, or the London Charivari | Page 3

Kaiser. Yes, I know they did, curse them.
_Count B._ Then there came the deplorable sinking of the Lusitania.
The Kaiser. Oh, don't speak to me of the Lusitania. I'm sick to death of the very name. Besides, how do you dare to call her sinking deplorable? I authorised it; that ought to be enough for you and for everybody else.
_Count B._ I beg your Majesty's pardon. When I said "deplorable" I was alluding not so much to the act itself as to its effect on opinion in the United States. From that moment the Americans stiffened in their attitude towards us and became definitely and strongly unfavourable. I warned your Majesty of this over and over again, but your Majesty preferred to disregard what I said.
The Kaiser. And have you any complaint to make? Is your opinion of yourself so high that one may not without sacrilege disregard your opinion?
_Count B._ Your Majesty is pleased to jest. I am not infallible, not being an Emperor, but I happen in this case to have been right. And then on the top of all the other things comes the Note announcing the new under-sea policy, and the ridiculous offer to allow the Americans to be safe in one ship a week, provided she is painted in a certain way. No, really, with a proud nation--
The Kaiser. Proud! A race of huckstering money-grubbers.
_Count B._ With a proud nation--I must repeat it, your Majesty--such a course must lead straight to war. But perhaps that was what your advisers wanted, though I cannot see why they should want it. But for myself I must ask your Majesty to remember that I foretold what has come to pass. There is perhaps yet time to undo the mischief.
The Kaiser. No, it is too late.
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AS OTHERS SEE US.
The General Officer Commanding, as he appears to:
(1) His Chief of Staff.--The one insuperable obstacle to tactical triumphs such as C?SAR and NAPOLEON never knew.
(2) _His youngest A.D.C._--A perpetual fountain of unsterilized language.
(3) Certain Subalterns.--The greatest man on earth.
(4) Tommy Atkins.--A benevolent old buffer in scarlet and gold who periodically takes an inexplicable interest in Tommy's belt and brass buttons. An excuse for his sergeant's making him present arms.
(5) The British Public.--A name in the newspapers.
(6) Himself.--(_a_) Before dinner: An unfortunate, overworked and ill-used old man. (_b_) After dinner: England's hope and Sir WILLIAM ROBERTSON'S right hand.
(7) His Wife.--A very lovable, but helpless, baby.
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From an Indian teacher's report on the progress of his school:--
"A sad experience. Spirits for a time were very high. Our menials talked of exploits and masters of glory in store. But soon the famines set in. The treachery of the elements ravished the hopes of agriculturists, the major portion of the supporters of the ---- school. The puffs of misery bleached white the flush of early and latter times; dinner-hours grew few and far between; and with the Sun of Loaf sank all wakefulness to light and culture."
This last feature sounds a little like Berlin.
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[Illustration: RATIONAL SERVICE.
JOHN BULL. "SACRIFICE INDEED! WHY, I'M FEELING FITTER EVERY MINUTE, AND I'VE STILL PLENTY OF WEIGHT TO SPARE."]
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[Illustration: "HOW THIS EGG GOT PAST THE FOOD CONTROLLER I CAN'T IMAGINE."]
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THE THREE DICTATORS.
(_Being a tragedy of the moment and incidentally a guide to the art of handing out correspondence to the typist._)
I.
There are, of course, as many styles of dictating letters as there are of writing them; but three stand out. One is the Indignant Confidential; one the Hesitant Tactful; and one the No-Nonsense Efficient. Bitter experience in three orderly London houses only a day or so ago chances to have led to such complete examples of each of these styles that the reader has the felicity of acquiring at the same time a valuable insight into business methods and a glimpse of what Nature in the person of Jack Frost can do with even the best regulated of cities.
We will take first the Hesitant Tactful, where the typist is not merely considered as a human being but invited to become an ally. The dictator is Mr. Vernon Crombie.
"Oh, Miss Carruthers, there's a letter I want to dictate and get off by hand at once, because my house isn't fit to live in through burst pipes. The plumbers promised to send yesterday, but didn't, and to-day they can't come, it seems, and really it's most serious. Ceilings being ruined, you know. The bore is that there aren't any other plumbers that I know of, and one is so at the mercy of these people that we must go very delicately. You understand. We mustn't say a word to set their backs up any higher than they already are. Anger's no good in this case.