No. 22.]
[Price One Penny
BLOEMFONTEIN, WEDNESDAY, APRIL 11, 1900.
The Bands of the 12th Brigade will play in the Market Square this evening between the hours of 4 and 6.
The present circulation ofThe Friendis 4,750 copies daily.
In our modest way as Editors of quite the most extraordinary newspaper on earth, we endeavoured to publish yesterday, with due credit to theTimes,for which it was written, Mr. Rudyard Kipling's masterly article "The Sin of Witchcraft." We may as well acknowledge here and now that thoughThe Friendis declared to be edited by a committee of war correspondents, it is, in fact, the daily product of a struggle between the correspondents and their printers, the latter being the more numerous, and, we sometimes fear, the more in earnest in their determination to keep the paper unique. This results in a paper which is often as great a novelty to the Editors as to the public, being like Shakespeare's soldier in "The Seven Stages of Man," "full of strange oaths," and words of which we never heard, as well as ideas to which we never gave birth.
With this by way of preface, will theTimesaccept our apology for not crediting it with Mr. Kipling's article, will it believe us that we really did write in the "credit" after the article, and will it commission its correspondent with this Army to go to our printing works and reason with our printers from "the devil" upwards?
The present campaign has undoubtedly commenced a new era in the history of illustrated journalism, which change has been brought about by a new school of war artists, whose method is camera work, and whose aim is to faithfully produce the actualities demanded by a picture-loving, yet critical public.
The artistic value of this means of illustrating is becoming more and more realised every day, andwill prove an effectual factor in crowding out the old-fashioned war artist who draws on his imagination.
The only excuse for artists of any description being at the front is their capacity for reproducing true and vivid impressions of what they have seen.
This is where the importance of the new school is at once apparent, and as long as the men practising this art are honest and do not attempt to foist "faked" work on the public, their efforts are bound to be acceptable and of artistic value.
In speaking of camera work as an art and the individuals adopting it as artists, I do not include the persons who simply press a button and expose yards of film, regardless of subject, but the few who make pictures intelligently and pay as much attention to composition and lighting as a painter would when commencing a fresh canvas. The camera is not going to destroy the painter—and I say painter advisedly—as no black and white artist is any good unless he is a painter, and has a keen appreciation of colour value. Nature is teeming with colour, and unless this is felt how can it be suggested in line?
Why does Rembrandt stand out as the greatest master of etchings? Simply because his etched works suggest colour, and it is this power of suggesting colour that placed Charles Keene head and shoulders above all other black and white men. The power of selection of subject is not developed in all artists to an equal extent, but there is always room for such men as Melton Prior, W. B. Wollen, Lester Ralph, and a few others, whose work will always be looked for as representing actuality.
If the two schools of artists mentioned work withthe full knowledge of the limitations of their mediums, there will always be a place for both.
The mechanical draughtsman is dead. He has been killed by the camera.
How would it be possible in Fleet Street or De Aar, quietly sitting in a little room with a north light, to give a true impression of Cronje's surrender, or of that wonderful sight, the approach of the captured army, like a cloud of locusts, over the expanse of veldt at Klip Drift?
If ever the surrender at Paardeberg is painted, it must be done by a man who saw it.
I shall never forget the defeated General's arrival, or the solemnity of it: this giant, broken sulky, his career finished. Everything was shown in the man, and shown in a way no imagination could possibly conceive.
I was privileged to view a sketch of Cronje leaving our camp, the work of Mortimer Menpes. It was a vivid slight impression. True, yet the economy of means—a few lines wonderfully placed—was wonderful, showing the artist a great master of technique. Now, talented as he undoubtedly is, he could not have imparted such a feeling of actuality to his work if he had not been present and studied his subject with the greatest attention. The long-haired, velvet-coated gentleman of Bond Street is not the man to depict the incidents of war, or to put up with the hardships of a great march, and I am perfectly sure that the success of a war artist depends on physique. He is required to tackle his subject quickly and vigorously. Trickery does not help actuality, straightforward manly work being absolutely necessary to the war artist of to-day.
(We are sure that if the men in this Army who are engaged as artists or who feel strongly and lovingly the relation of true art to war, to photography and to the refinement of mankind—if these will take the trouble to answer this letter, we shall have a rich correspondence.—Editors, Friend.)
We arrange to retire from our posts, but still possess the enterprise to start a Portrait Gallery.
"The Friend," No. 23—actually the 25th number we had edited—contained a notice that Mr. Kipling had sailed for England on the previous day (April 11th), and we were doing our utmost to get rid of our offspring, to find some one to adopt it.
As long ago before this as when Sir Alfred Milner was with us in Bloemfontein, we had made known to him and to Lord Roberts, through Lord Stanley, that the employers of certain ones among us were complaining of our expending part of their time and our energy upon this outside work. I am certain that no interest with which any of us were connected suffered the least slight or injury, for the result of our labour of love for Lord Roberts was simply that we worked twice as hard—and learned twice as much of what was going on as those correspondents who held aloof and let the whole burden fall upon us. My employer, Mr. Harmsworth, uttered no sound of criticism or complaint, by the way, and the only word aboutTheFriendthat reached me from theDaily Mailwas a cablegram wishing us success.
We were all tiring fast. I was lame with an injury which kept laying me up, and otherwise my condition was such that for weeks I had not been able to partake of any food except milk and soda water. I owe a great deal for moral and physical stimulus to Dr. Kellner, ex-mayor of Bloemfontein and head of the Free State Hospital, whose services to the British army should not be allowed to pass into history without his receiving some substantial honour and acknowledgment from this government. He told the noble matron, Miss Maud Young, and her nursing assistants (when they gave notice that they wished to leave at the outbreak of the war) that he "never heard before that politics had anything to do with the care of sick and wounded men," and up to that standard of duty he worked on with them as enthusiastically under the Union Jack as he had under the four-colour flag.
I did not know how ill and dispirited I was until one evening I went to the room of my assistant, Mr. Nissen, of theDaily Mail, and heard through his closed window in the Bloemfontein Hotel the sound of a banjo. It is a purely American instrument, and the plunk-plunk of its strings made my heart leap. I threw open the window and heard in nasal tones, affected by a Yankee colleague for the purpose of his song, a sentiment like this:—
Oh, I want ter go back to Noo York,Ther "tenderloin's" ther place,Where the men are square and the women are fairAnd I know evurry face.I want ter go back to Noo YorkTer hear Gawd's people talk.Yer may say what yer pleaseOnly just give ter meMy little old Noo York.
Oh, I want ter go back to Noo York,Ther "tenderloin's" ther place,Where the men are square and the women are fairAnd I know evurry face.
I want ter go back to Noo YorkTer hear Gawd's people talk.Yer may say what yer pleaseOnly just give ter meMy little old Noo York.
I felt like shouting, "fellow citizens, them's my sentiments." Suddenly I, too, wanted "ter go back ter Noo York"—with London as an alternative. I had not known it or felt it before, but that song, as new to me as any that will be written five years hence, touched the button that produced a nostalgia which Heaven knows I had good reason to feel without any such additional or peculiar incentive.
Mr. Landon was also very ill of what I took to be a slow African fever. We laid the facts before the authorities, and suggested that our colleague, Mr. F. W. Buxton, now back at work with us, was able to promise that the accomplished staff of theJohannesburg Starwould gladly takeThe Friendoff our hands if its members could be passed up to Bloemfontein on their way to Johannesburg. They were all receiving salaries though nearly all were idle; the owners had suffered grievously by the closing of their establishment at the outbreak of the war, and they certainly deserved well of the British Army.
With this view our military editorial chiefs coincided, and Mr. Buxton busied himself in arranging for the coming of the editors, reporters, and printers, and the transfer of the little Organ of the Empire to their charge.
This number of April 12th began with a leader on "The Queen in Ireland," and this was followed by a play upon the society notes of other papers, writtenby Mr. Gwynne. Our prolific soldier-poet, "Mark Thyme," contributed two sets of verses, and once again we published the news of the world, like any genuine newspaper at home.
On this day we printed our first "alleged" portrait, No. 1 of a series of pictures of the notable characters in town. We selected Mr. Burdett-Coutts as the leading figure in this gallery, and made a most modest announcement that we had secured the portrait and were able to present it to our readers.
I am quite certain that never before in the Free State had a newspaper published a portrait made on the spot and of a newly arrived visitor. There were in the Free State no means for doing such work. But such is the non-thinking habit of the human race that not a soul questioned what we announced, or asked how the feat was accomplished. It was declared to be, in a way, like Mr. Burdett-Coutts, and every one took it for granted that there was nothingThe Friendand its editors could not do if they tried.
By kind permission of Lieutenant-General Kelly-Kenny, C.B., the massed bands of the 6th Division will play on the Market Square from 4 to 5.30 p.m. on Easter Monday.
A most successful dinner was given by —— Battery on Saturday night. The A.S.C. awning wasmost artistically arranged between two buck waggons and was decorated with much taste, the junior subaltern having attached to it the fashion-plates and pictorial advertisements fromThe Queen. The "Maggi" soup was pronounced a success, and it was evident that the batterychefhad put his heart into the work. A somewhat unpleasant incident occurred soon after dinner, which put rather a damper on the evening's hilarity and dispersed the party. An order had come for one of the ammunition waggons to go into Bloemfontein to fetch ammunition, and the sergeant, wholly without malice prepense, hitched his horses to one of the sides of the dining-room and removed it suddenly. We are glad to say that the collapse consequent upon this manœuvre, although very disagreeable, produced no injury, and the company was able to leave sound in limb but swearing strange oaths.
—— Horse, always to the fore, whether bullets are about or the scarcely less dangerous glances of female eyes, entertained at tea yesterday a great number of guests of both sexes. It is a pity, however, that their camp is so far out of town, for most of their gentlemen guests were obliged to walk home, having "lost" their horses.
The Naval Brigade gave asoirée musicaleon Monday night, which was perhaps the most brilliant affair of the season. The proverbial hilarity of sailors induced in their guests a corresponding feeling, and songs, toasts, speeches made the time pass merrily enough. A new game, the details of which we hope to give in a further issue, was played with great success. It is called "Hunt the Tompion." At the beginning of the evening Captain Bearcroft, R.N.,gave a most instructive and bright lecture on the "New Tactics—Horse Marines."
A "small and early" was given yesterday by the Royal Diddlesex Regiment. Dancing went on briskly until a transport mule came and died in the extemporised ball-room, causing two ladies to faint.
Aconversazionewas given by the A.S.C. in their camp within the immediate confines of the town. The novel subject, "When will the War end?" was chosen for discussion. The arguments, which were often of a highly intellectual grade, were punctuated by sniping from trees and bushes on the kopje side. Two of the attendants who were distributing the choice and light viands to the guests were shot. True, their wounds were slight, yet the incident interrupted the even tenor of theconversazione.
Now, I always was a 'ardly-treated bloke,I'm a martyr to my cause, as you may say—I used to own a barrer and a moke,And I'd sometimes earn a thick-un in the day.But them Socialists they comes along our court,And they says as 'ow all things should common be,So, to 'elp the cause on quicker, I goes off and lifts a ticker,'Cause the bloke 'ad no more right to it than me.Well, for that I 'ad to do a bit o' time,Though I argued it afore the majerstritAs I'd done it out o' politics, not crime;But the cuckoo couldn't understand a bit.So I says when I 'ad left the bloomin' jug,"I must strike a bigger blow to set us free;I must play a nobler game." So I forges Rothschild's name,'Cause the bloke 'ad no more right to it than me.Now, living in a 'ouse acrost the street,There used to be a very tasty gal;She'd curly 'air and dainty 'ands and feet,And was married to my very dearest pal.'E says to me, says 'e, "When you're our wayStep in, old cull, and 'ave a dish o' tea."Thinks I, "My dooty this is." So I offs it with 'is missis,'Cause the bloke 'ad no more right to 'er than me.But I won't be beat by any bloomin' lor,To 'ave my rights, I tell yer straight, I'm game;And, once I gets outside this prison door,I'll strike another blow in Freedom's name—The lor and all its engines I defy,From the Stepper to the gloomy gallows-tree;I'll go and get a knife, and I'll take some joker's life,'Cause the bloke 'as no more right to it than me."For my motto is: All should be common to all,This covey is equal to that;And if I'm short you've no right to be tall,If I'm thin you've no right to be fat.To call me a criminal's fair tommy-rot,It's on principle all what I've done:Yet, perish me, all the reward as I've gotIs my number—201.
Now, I always was a 'ardly-treated bloke,I'm a martyr to my cause, as you may say—I used to own a barrer and a moke,And I'd sometimes earn a thick-un in the day.But them Socialists they comes along our court,And they says as 'ow all things should common be,So, to 'elp the cause on quicker, I goes off and lifts a ticker,'Cause the bloke 'ad no more right to it than me.
Well, for that I 'ad to do a bit o' time,Though I argued it afore the majerstritAs I'd done it out o' politics, not crime;But the cuckoo couldn't understand a bit.So I says when I 'ad left the bloomin' jug,"I must strike a bigger blow to set us free;I must play a nobler game." So I forges Rothschild's name,'Cause the bloke 'ad no more right to it than me.
Now, living in a 'ouse acrost the street,There used to be a very tasty gal;She'd curly 'air and dainty 'ands and feet,And was married to my very dearest pal.'E says to me, says 'e, "When you're our wayStep in, old cull, and 'ave a dish o' tea."Thinks I, "My dooty this is." So I offs it with 'is missis,'Cause the bloke 'ad no more right to 'er than me.
But I won't be beat by any bloomin' lor,To 'ave my rights, I tell yer straight, I'm game;And, once I gets outside this prison door,I'll strike another blow in Freedom's name—The lor and all its engines I defy,From the Stepper to the gloomy gallows-tree;I'll go and get a knife, and I'll take some joker's life,'Cause the bloke 'as no more right to it than me."
For my motto is: All should be common to all,This covey is equal to that;And if I'm short you've no right to be tall,If I'm thin you've no right to be fat.To call me a criminal's fair tommy-rot,It's on principle all what I've done:Yet, perish me, all the reward as I've gotIs my number—201.
(Being a few hints to any of the fair citizens of this town who may contemplate spending a season or two in London.)
Ye Belles of Bloemfontein, pray hearken unto me,And I'll show you how to sparkle in polite Society.Never fear that you'll be visited with contumely or scornIf you happen not to be aristocratically born,For mere birth is not essential to means, if only youHave the luck to be related to a brewer or a few;And if only you have money, you need never be afraidTo swagger of the swindles of your former days of trade.And your friends, as they receive you to their heart,Each to each will the opinion impart:"She is vulgar, I admit,I don't like her, not a bit,But then you know, my dear, she's smart."Your dress must be—well—daring! You must have a tiny waistAnd the colours must be splashed about in execrable taste.Your bodice may be decent while you've still the gift of youth,But must lower in proportion as you're longer in the tooth.The colour of your hair and your complexion must appearTo vary with the fashionable fancies of the year,And though your wit lack lustre, the tiara must be brightThat you've hired out from a jeweller's at ten-and-six a night.And your friends, as they receive you to their heart,Each to each will the opinion impart:"Looks quite odd, I must admit,I don't like her, not a bit,But then you know, my dear, she's smart."Then, as to conversation, let each syllable you speakBe vehemently vapid or else pruriently weak;Tell some tales distinctly risky, if not actually obscene,While artfully pretending that you don't know what they mean.In the intervals of slander you must prate in flippant toneOn some Theologic subject that you'd better leave alone;And, though your speech be witless, nay, to some may seem absurd,It matters not if reputations die at every word.And your friends, as they receive you to their heart,Each to each the opinion will impart:"She's ill-natured, I admit,I don't like her, not a bit,But then you know, my dear, she's smart."Your parties must be "tidy," so to bring about these endsFind some lady with a title who likes living on her friends;Hint that you'll supply the money that's essential to the task,If only she will condescend to tell you whom to ask.On your former friends and relatives politely close the door,Though they may have been of service in the days when you were poor,Be each guest of yours a beauty, full of pride,A tiara on her head, a co-respondent by her side.And your friends, as they receive you to their heart,Each to each will the opinion impart:"She's a snob, I quite admit,I don't like her, not a bit,But then you know, my dear, she's smart."
Ye Belles of Bloemfontein, pray hearken unto me,And I'll show you how to sparkle in polite Society.Never fear that you'll be visited with contumely or scornIf you happen not to be aristocratically born,For mere birth is not essential to means, if only youHave the luck to be related to a brewer or a few;And if only you have money, you need never be afraidTo swagger of the swindles of your former days of trade.And your friends, as they receive you to their heart,Each to each will the opinion impart:"She is vulgar, I admit,I don't like her, not a bit,But then you know, my dear, she's smart."
Your dress must be—well—daring! You must have a tiny waistAnd the colours must be splashed about in execrable taste.Your bodice may be decent while you've still the gift of youth,But must lower in proportion as you're longer in the tooth.The colour of your hair and your complexion must appearTo vary with the fashionable fancies of the year,And though your wit lack lustre, the tiara must be brightThat you've hired out from a jeweller's at ten-and-six a night.And your friends, as they receive you to their heart,Each to each will the opinion impart:"Looks quite odd, I must admit,I don't like her, not a bit,But then you know, my dear, she's smart."
Then, as to conversation, let each syllable you speakBe vehemently vapid or else pruriently weak;Tell some tales distinctly risky, if not actually obscene,While artfully pretending that you don't know what they mean.In the intervals of slander you must prate in flippant toneOn some Theologic subject that you'd better leave alone;And, though your speech be witless, nay, to some may seem absurd,It matters not if reputations die at every word.And your friends, as they receive you to their heart,Each to each the opinion will impart:"She's ill-natured, I admit,I don't like her, not a bit,But then you know, my dear, she's smart."
Your parties must be "tidy," so to bring about these endsFind some lady with a title who likes living on her friends;Hint that you'll supply the money that's essential to the task,If only she will condescend to tell you whom to ask.On your former friends and relatives politely close the door,Though they may have been of service in the days when you were poor,Be each guest of yours a beauty, full of pride,A tiara on her head, a co-respondent by her side.And your friends, as they receive you to their heart,Each to each will the opinion impart:"She's a snob, I quite admit,I don't like her, not a bit,But then you know, my dear, she's smart."
Sketch.
We have to announce the arrival in Bloemfontein of Mr. Burdett-Coutts, of London, of whom we have secured a portrait which we present to our readers.
A number as sparkling as a string of jewels—Joke Portrait Number Two.
A singular thing aboutThe Friendwas that the readers could make sure at a glance, each afternoon, what had been the spirits of the editors earlier in the day. The issue of April 13th was positively frisky. We were all in our gayest moods, and the principal page was made to sparkle with most unlooked-for fun and flashes of wit.
Mr. Landon set out with his pen in search of an English millionaire who would supply us daily with a budget of home news cabled direct to us from London. Continually disappointed by the non-arrival of the Reuter despatches, he urged that some wealthy man should pay to have a long special cablegram sent to us daily, with a hint of all the world's happenings. "To us," did I say? no; for, as Mr. Landon expressed it, "All there is ofThe Friendbelongs to the Army. Its existence began for the soldier, and its profits pass back to his interests. If some of the kind-hearted people in England who are so ready to put their hands in their pockets in the interests of 'The Soldiers of theQueen,' only knew what the dearth of news from England means to the men, they would at once supply the want." It is too late now. That editorial never was copied in the English papers, I suppose; but you millionaires who want to reach Heaven—and you others who want to earn handles to put before your names—remember this in the next war, and send news to your army wherever it is halted in the field.
We found that the newsboys were charging two-pence forThe Friend, and that many complaints were pouring in upon us; therefore, in the blackest type, I rhymed to the readers—that being the most likely way to impress them with the truth—in couplets such as this—
Who pays a penny forThe Friend,Pays all he needs to gain his end.
and this—
Whoever pays us more than a penny,Should guard his brains, if he has any.
Fancy me dropping into rhyme! But, as I have said, the "Tommies" all did verse—or worse—and the example was epidemically contagious. Perhaps in another month we should have all turned versifiers, and produced copies ofThe Friendwholly in rhyme.
In this number we published portrait No. 2 of our unique gallery, selecting Lord Stanley as the subject. My son Lester had made a cartoon in which the censor figured, and with which, for a very peculiar reason, Lord Stanley was not pleased, but this second venture of the family to do him justice in portraiture was eminently successful. It was precisely the same picture as that which we called a portrait of Mr. Burdett-Coutts on the previous day, but thoughLord Stanley knew the joke no one else saw it. One of the censor's friends took from me a damp fresh copy of the paper, as I came out of the works with an armful, and looking at the portrait remarked, "I say, I did not know that Lord Stanley had an imperial—'goatee,' as you call it—funny I never noticed that he wears one. Devilish good portrait; clever of you to publish it." Mr. Burdett-Coutts was the only other man beside Lord Stanley to understand what we were doing. He fathomed the joke because we explained it to him, and I sincerely hope that he appreciated the pure fun and harmless pleasantry of the spirit in which it was conceived and carried out.
We had, from a coloured man, a letter complaining that we declared the British policy to be "equal rights for all white men, without respect of race or creed." To this he objected. He said that we were advocating the policy of the Republics, and added, "I would like to point out to you that when once your policy is known in this colony by our people it will cause universal dissatisfaction." He was presumably one of those natives, most numerous in the towns, who, by reason of their intelligence and ambition, deserve most helpful, generous consideration. But the "Universal dissatisfaction" which he threatened would include a myriad negroes of the Karroo and the so-called "farms" of the Boers. These form the mass of the natives; clothed in their complexions and living in huts of twigs and matting. Equality with white men can be offered to them by statute; but they cannot realise it, and the world has seen mischief, unhappiness, and perplexing political problems result from over-haste in this direction.
We did succeed in arousing an artist to defend his calling against the boasts of the mechanical manipulation of the camera. Mr. W. B. Wollen, R.I., was the champion of art, and he spoke for it with the ardour of conviction, and the force of one who is right and cannot be gainsaid.
I cannot think why we omitted to call upon Mortimer Menpes, Esq., the distinguished painter, then in Bloemfontein, to add his views to the series of letters we hoped to secure upon this subject, the Camerav.Art. Mr. Menpes had come to the war because, he said, nothing else was talked or thought of in London, and an exhibition of paintings of ordinary subjects, such as he gives with distinguished success each year, would have fallen flat. He was very busy, very popular, and very successful with the army. This issue (April 13) contained a witty letter by him upon the postage stamp craze.
PriceOne Penny
PriceOne Penny
THE FRIEND.(Edited by the War Correspondents with Lord Roberts' Force.)
BLOEMFONTEIN, GOOD FRIDAY, APRIL 13, 1900.
TO THE INHABITANTS OF THE DISTRICTS OF ALBERT, STEYNSBURG, MOLTENO, WODEHOUSE, ALIWAL NORTH, BARKLY EAST AND COLESBERG.
On the recent retirement of the enemy to the north of the Orange River, the rebels who hadjoined them in the Northern Districts of Cape Colony were treated by Her Majesty's Government with great leniency in being permitted, if not the ringleaders of disaffection, to return to their farms on the condition of surrendering their arms and of being liable to be called to account for their past conduct.
I now warn the inhabitants of the Northern Districts, and more particularly those who were misguided enough to join or assist the enemy, that, in the event of their committing any further act of hostility against Her Majesty, they will be treated, as regards both their persons and property, with the utmost rigour, and the extreme penalties of Martial Law will be enforced against them.
Roberts, Field Marshal,Commander-in-Chief, South Africa.
Army Headquarters, Bloemfontein,April 9, 1900.
Sketch.
It is with great pleasure that we present to our readers to-day a portrait of Lord Stanley, the present popular Press Censor with Lord Roberts' Field Force in South Africa. The portrait is by W. B. Wollen, R.I., and is a masterpiece. We like it, but we are surprised that the censor should wear precisely such an antediluvian collar as we saw on Mr. Burdett-Coutts in yesterday's view of our Portrait Gallery.
A Screaming Farce now being played daily with great success in the Theatre of War near Bloemfontein.
Characters:
1.Jacobus Johannes van der Mauser(The absent-bodied Burgher).
2.Katinka van der Mauser(His Wife).
3.Reginald Talbot de Vere-Crœsus(English Cavalry Officer).
Scene: A Farm in the Free State. Pony saddled at the door. J. J. van der Mauser preparing to mount.
J. J. van der Mauser(Centre of Stage). Katinka! Katinka! Bring me the old rifle that is in the barn among the sheep-skins. The old muzzle-loading Boer rifle, with which my ancestor, the great Ten-britches van der Mauser shot the lion in the days of the Great Trek.
Katinka: Nay, Jan! Pause and reflect! 'Twill blow thy head off. It has not been fired these thirty years.
Jan: Nay, woman! I purpose not to fire it. I intend to hand it in to the British—I only wish they'd try to let it off! Then will I return speedily, provided with a pass, and go up into the laager to do a little Rooinek shooting. While I am gone, Katinka, be not afraid. The English will put a sentry on the farm so that not a blade of grass shall be touched, not an onion taken from the ground. Be diligent, and sell them all the butter you can.
Katinka: The proclamation says the price of butter is to be two-and-sixpence a pound!
Jan: Then don't take a penny less than three shillings and sixpence. If you run short of milk, drive in the cows of our neighbour Smith, who has fled to the English. And Katinka (whispers tenderly), if you see the Rooineks out in the open, don't stand anywhere near them, darling! You might get hit! You understand? Now, farewell!
(Proceeds to pull on an extra pair of breeches, and so goes off to the laager, while the band plays "My dear old Dutch.")
[Interval of some days, during which the British encamp near the farm, and Katinka sells them, at famine prices, every drop of milk and every pound of butter that the cows will yield, and every egg that the hens can be induced to lay.]
SCENE TWO.
The open veldt. Row of kopjes in the middle distance. Enter cavalry patrol with Reginald Talbot Vere-Crœsus at their head. (Band playing, "Let 'em all come.")
First Soldier: I thought I heard a rifle shot.
Reginald Talbot de V.-C.: Nay. 'Twas but a soldier being shot for stealing a bar of soap from an enemy's cottage. Serve the miscreant right. Take open order, there. Walk, march!
They ride round the stage with one eye on the kopjes and the other admiring the fit of their breeches. Rifle shots are heard from the kopjes. Band changes to, "You never know your Luck!" Heavy rattle of musketry from kopjes. Patrol driven back and retireto pom-pom accompaniment from the big drum. R. T. de V.-C.falls prone from his charger.Katinkarushes in (r.u.e.) weeping hysterically and throws herself on his body.
Enter Jacobus Johannes van der Mauser(l.e.), and leans on his rifle, staring gloomily at the scene.
Jacobus: Ha! ha! So it has come to this! She secretly loves the young English officer who reconnoitres kopjes with an eye-glass! (Sticks his chin out, claws the air and ambles about the stage à la Henry Irving.) But I will be revenged! Ha! ha! I have it! I will go and join the Johannesburg police! False woman, what sayest thou?
Katinka(hysterically): I am innocent, Johannes. I am innocent! (Coils herself round the body of R. T. de V.-C. à la Sarah Bernhardt.)
Jacobus: Innocent! Then why weepest thou?
Katinka(rising suddenly): Weep! I should think Iwouldweep. Didn't he owe us three pound seventeen and sixpence for milk! How am I to make the dairy pay if you persist in shooting my best customers?
(Jacobusembraces her.Reginald Talbot de Vere-Crœsusbeing, fortunately, shot exactly through the head with a Mauser bullet, recovers at once and embraces her also, and joins in a song-and-dance trio, "Be careful what you're doing with the gun," and the curtain falls to the tune of, "It mustn't occur again.")
Note.—This farce will be continued till further orders.
A. B. P.
To the Editors ofThe Friend,—Sirs,—The present campaign has most decidedly, as your correspondent inThe Friendof the 11th says, commenced a new era in the history of illustrated journalism, but not to the extent that he thinks.
The camera and the pencil can, and will, live together during a campaign, but I venture to doubt if the camera will be able to do all that its champion claims for it, and the war artist who knows his business, which cannot be learnt in a single campaign, will come out on top. For reproducing and putting before the public scenes representing the strife and clamour of war, with its accompanying noise and confusion, the man with the kodak cannot compete for one single moment with the individual who is using the pencil.
How can he produce a picture that will show the public at large anything like an accurate bird's-eye view of what a modern battle is like? The brain of the camera cannot take in all that is going on. The man with the pencil does so. A few lines to indicate the background and the characteristics of it, and he is able to put before the world what has taken place, that is if he knows and has seen what troops have been doing.
In another paragraph there is a sentence which is a very unjust reflection upon "the old-fashioned war artists, who draw on their imagination." I should very much like to know who the old-fashioned war artists can be who are referred to in this manner. The few men who are still alive, and there never were many of them, are all men who have seen a large amount of fighting, havesketched and worked under fire, sent their work home often under enormous difficulties, and been in very many tight places. Why should these men be referred to in this way?
I suppose there has not been one single campaign in which the camera has been in such frequent use; but is it possible, by this means, to bring before us the various phases of a battle—a modern battle, I mean, with its absence of smoke, enormous expanse of front and general invisibility of both the attackers and defenders? Take a battery in action. Can it show us the excitement and turmoil round the guns, will it show us (unless it is a cinematograph) the trouble amongst the teams when a shell drops near them? I think not. What it can do, and does, is scenes which are more or less peaceful, such as camp views, incidents in regimental life and also bits on the line of march, but of an action—no! None of us artists are at variance with Mr. Scott in other parts of his very able letter, and we cordially welcome the camera artist, knowing very well that he has his field of work in which we cannot hope to compete with him for a moment; but to put the camera, which, after all, is only a very fine piece of mechanism, on a par with a sketch is more than most people can put up with, especially
Yours very faithfully,
W. B. Wollen, R.I.
To the Editors ofThe Friend,—Sirs,—Is this a chestnut? Johannes Paulus Kruger sent a commissioner home to England to find out if therewere any more men left there. The commissioner wired from London to say that there were 4,000,000 men and woman "knocking about the town," that there was no excitement, and that men were begging to be sent to fight the Boers. Kruger wired back "Go North." The commissioner found himself in Newcastle eventually and wired to Kruger, "For God's sake, stop the war! England is bringing up men from hell, eight at a time, in cages!"
He had seen a coal mine.
The circulation ofThe Friendis as large as that of all the Bloemfontein papers combined.[18]
How strange a thing it is that so small a matter as a general taste for collecting stamps should, as it were, elevate a man at a single bound into a position where his slightest tact at discrimination in detecting the difference of shades between two bits of paper of the same colour will sway and determine the destinies of a horde of fanatical collectors!That a man should occupy so exalted a positionwas accidentally brought to my notice after a return to Bloemfontein from a run to the Cape, where I found the Market Square, the club, the hotels and the street corners grouped with people who appeared to be intensely interested in the discussion of some all-important subject. Thinking that some radical proclamation had been issued, I paused to listen, but instead of legal phrase and technical form greeting my ear, the only intelligible word which I could detect in the buzz which emanated from the centre of the group was "Dot."I passed on to another group, where the same "dot" arrested my attention; then to a third, which was also "dotty," until, feeble and bewildered, I helplessly wandered about on the verge of an incurable "dottiness" myself.Finally, I pulled myself together again and, blind to all danger, plunged into a group of "dotters," grasped one of them by the arm, and in reply to my appeals heard him hiss, as he roughly shook me off, "Surcharged stamps, you fool, misprinted, without dots." Then I understood. My curiosity was stimulated, I soon learned the subtle differences which add to or subtract value from the surcharged Free State stamps. Finally I became the proud possessor of a dotless one myself. That settled it; I became hopelessly "dotty" myself, and to the end of my natural days will always realise that affairs of State, literature, art, even money, are secondary to the importance of obtaining "the entire set," especially if they are from "the bottom row" and "dotless." This mania has taken possession of the entire army.From Tommy to General, the last biscuit or a drink of whisky, or a pass to be out after 8 p.m. canbe extracted after a dozen refusals by producing a dotless stamp.Kruger could end this cruel war in an afternoon by simply sending out a dozen men mounted on swift horses, wearing white coats with the entire set without dots pasted on the back. These scouts should be unarmed and should ride in close to our lines and then turn round showing their backs. The moment the army would see the set, they would make a rush, and all the scouts would have to do would be to ride fast enough and in different directions, and by nightfall the Imperial forces would be hopelessly scattered, and lost in the boundless veldt. Kruger's scouts would be perfectly safe, for no one would dare to raise a rifle in their direction. Such an act might bring down a set; but imagine if you can the fate of the miscreant if one dotless stamp should be punctured or if—horrible thought!—a chance scattering of the lead should dot some of the precious bits of paper!
How strange a thing it is that so small a matter as a general taste for collecting stamps should, as it were, elevate a man at a single bound into a position where his slightest tact at discrimination in detecting the difference of shades between two bits of paper of the same colour will sway and determine the destinies of a horde of fanatical collectors!
That a man should occupy so exalted a positionwas accidentally brought to my notice after a return to Bloemfontein from a run to the Cape, where I found the Market Square, the club, the hotels and the street corners grouped with people who appeared to be intensely interested in the discussion of some all-important subject. Thinking that some radical proclamation had been issued, I paused to listen, but instead of legal phrase and technical form greeting my ear, the only intelligible word which I could detect in the buzz which emanated from the centre of the group was "Dot."
I passed on to another group, where the same "dot" arrested my attention; then to a third, which was also "dotty," until, feeble and bewildered, I helplessly wandered about on the verge of an incurable "dottiness" myself.
Finally, I pulled myself together again and, blind to all danger, plunged into a group of "dotters," grasped one of them by the arm, and in reply to my appeals heard him hiss, as he roughly shook me off, "Surcharged stamps, you fool, misprinted, without dots." Then I understood. My curiosity was stimulated, I soon learned the subtle differences which add to or subtract value from the surcharged Free State stamps. Finally I became the proud possessor of a dotless one myself. That settled it; I became hopelessly "dotty" myself, and to the end of my natural days will always realise that affairs of State, literature, art, even money, are secondary to the importance of obtaining "the entire set," especially if they are from "the bottom row" and "dotless." This mania has taken possession of the entire army.
From Tommy to General, the last biscuit or a drink of whisky, or a pass to be out after 8 p.m. canbe extracted after a dozen refusals by producing a dotless stamp.
Kruger could end this cruel war in an afternoon by simply sending out a dozen men mounted on swift horses, wearing white coats with the entire set without dots pasted on the back. These scouts should be unarmed and should ride in close to our lines and then turn round showing their backs. The moment the army would see the set, they would make a rush, and all the scouts would have to do would be to ride fast enough and in different directions, and by nightfall the Imperial forces would be hopelessly scattered, and lost in the boundless veldt. Kruger's scouts would be perfectly safe, for no one would dare to raise a rifle in their direction. Such an act might bring down a set; but imagine if you can the fate of the miscreant if one dotless stamp should be punctured or if—horrible thought!—a chance scattering of the lead should dot some of the precious bits of paper!
In my inquiries during the first stage of this disease, I found that Major O'Meara was the supreme authority on this subject. I found the Major seated in a small room of the National Bank sorting out from a huge collection the stamps which were to be surcharged. For three hours I watched him, as with wonderful skill and discrimination he picked out bits of paper which were obsolete and which an accidental surcharging would have made of untold value, and set the whole world of collectors into a palpitating hysteria of speculation, until finally catalogued and bought by some multi-millionaire bent upon ruining himself to appease his craze. That all the legally surchargedstamps are carefully catalogued in the Major's busy brain will doubtless surprise at some no distant date a few rascally speculators, who, possessing obsolete issues, have surreptitiously surcharged them, in the hope of creating a rarity to sell at fabulous prices. Leaving the Major's presence, I realised that the last stage of dotlessphobia had fastened itself on me, and, knowing that recovery is hopeless, have abandoned myself to full indulgence, hoping to derive at least some miserable satisfaction before the end. With this one reservation, I am determined never to surrender to the universal stamp collector's weakness of stealing. Others may walk uprightly through six days of the week about their ordinary affairs and turn aside on Sunday afternoon from the path of blindness to pilfer another collector's treasure while his face is turned away, out of politeness, to sneeze. But I; no, I shall never, never, no—I won't steal.
Captain Cecil Lowther joins the Wits and Poets again. A Report by Mr. Jenkins, who was "our Staff in himself."
Mr. Buxton wrote the stern editorial, "Judge ye," with which we led off the issue of April 14th. He reminded the Free Staters that England had, at the outset, no quarrel with them, but on the contrary had given them the "solemn assurance" that their independence and territory should be respected. The people of the little Republic had been led astray, had suffered conquest, and now were able to judge between the wicked whisperings of the two Presidents and the promptings of common sense and of regard for their future, "for," wrote Mr. Buxton, "brothers you must be with us, heirs and possessors of world-wide citizenship and Empire."
We had recorded our first wedding, and now was the day when we received the first application from an English firm desiring to advertise in our columns. A well-known house-furnishing firm were the enterprising inquirers. They said that they looked for a great development of the country and meant to sendagents there when the war ended. On our part we made this request the basis of an editorial in which we said that this business letter "foreshadows the coming changes in local conditions with a prophetic touch."
Mr. Gwynne concocted a clever set of quotations which he called "Gleanings from Great Minds," and we published number three of our series of home-made portraits, choosing Dr. A. Conan Doyle as the subject. At this the Army at last began to whisper and suspect, and many a smile greeted each allusion to our enterprise.
But ourchef d'œuvrewas a second contribution by "Bertie," whom all our readers knew to be none other than the handsome, the witty, the travelled, and the popular Adjutant of the Scots Guards, Captain Cecil Lowther. As the first letter had already been published in theHousehold Brigade MagazineI will not repeat it here, but the one that is now reproduced will give a lively hint of what our readers missed by the fact that Captain Lowther was away on duty in the boggy, sodden veldt, and could neither write nor think of writing, even toThe Friend.
A large collection is made from this issue of the paper of April 14th. All that is in this book reflects the excitement, the routine, and the dramatic and picturesque phases of a soldier's life, as well as the strange situations and conditions produced by the conquest and occupation of a city in war. If that is true (and it is true in a very great degree as I believe), then in no chapter are more of all these novel views of irregular life mirrored than in this. From this you shall learn what a soldier had in the way of rations, how a great and majesticmind dealt with the rumours that British prisoners were being far from generously, or even humanely, dealt with by the semi-civilised foe; how a polished wit out of his superabundant humour found time to set down his sparkling thoughts in a soaking wet camp or a cold, wet plain, within sniping distance of the enemy, and finally, how drained of almost every line of foodstuffs, medicines, clothing, and luxuries the over-burdened town we lived in was becoming.