Parliament, instead of expecting Englishmen to do their work for them and then complaining of the result.  In the division-lobby the Nationalists received the assistance of some forty or fifty British Members, who supported the motion, Mr. Punch suspects, more out of hatred of the Coalition than of love for Ireland.  But they were easily out-voted by British Home Rulers alone.  The impression left by the debate was that the Nationalist Members had a great deal more sympathy with the Sinn Feiners than they had with the innocent victims of the rebellion.

[Illustration: 

MOTHER:  “Come away, Jimmy!  Maybe it ain’t properly stuffed.”]

The need of a War propaganda at home is illustrated by the answers to correspondents in the Leeds Mercury.  “Reasonable questions” are invited, and here is one of the answers:  “T.B.—­No, it is not General Sir William Robertson, but the Rev. Sir William Robertson Nicoll who edits The British Weekly.”  But then, as another journal pathetically observes, “About nine-tenths of what we say is of no earthly importance to anybody.”  Further light is thrown on this confession by the claim of an Islington applicant for exemption:  “Once I was a circus clown, but now I am on an evening newspaper.”

We are grateful to Russia for her efforts, but, as our artist shows above, the plain person is apparently uncertain as to the quality of our Ally.

We are glad to learn that, on the suggestion of Mr. Asquith, the Lord Mayor’s banquet will be “of a simple nature.”  Apropos of diet, an officer expecting leave writes:  “My London programme is fixed; first a Turkish bath, and then a nice fried sole.”  History repeats itself.  A fried sole was the luxury which officers who served in the Boer War declared that they enjoyed most of all after their campaigning.

November, 1916.

Francis Joseph of Austria has died on the tottering throne which has been his for nearly seventy years.  In early days he had been hated, but he had shown valour.  Later on he had shown wisdom, and had been pitied for his misfortunes.  It was a crowning irony of fate which condemned him in old age to become the dupe and tool of an Assassin.  He should have died before the War—­certainly before the tragedy of Sarajevo.

The British Push has extended to the Ancre, and the Crown Prince, reduced to the position of a pawn in Hindenburg’s game, maintains a precarious hold on the remote suburbs of Verdun.  Well may he be sick, after nine months of futile carnage, of a name which already ranks in renown with Thermopylae.

As the credit of the Crown Prince wanes, so the cult of Hindenburg waxes.

[Illustration: 

HINDENBURGITIS; OR, THE PRUSSIAN HOME MADE BEAUTIFUL]

Monastir has been recaptured by the Serbians and French; but Germany has had her victories too, and, continuing her warfare against the Red Cross, has sunk two hospital ships.  Germany’s U-boat policy is going to win her the War.  At least so Marshal Hindenburg says, and the view is shared by that surprising person the neutral journalist.  But in the meantime it subjects the affections of the neutral sailorman to a severe trial.