MY MESSAGE TO THE KAISER.

Pukekohe & Waiuku Times, Volume 5, Issue 163, 7 April 1916, Page 3 (Supplement)

MY MESSAGE TO THE KAISER.

UNBIDDEN GUESTS AT HIS CHRISTMAS FEAST. By HORATIO BOTTOMLEV, in "The Sunday Pictorial." Mr. Bottomley has written many wonderful soul-stirring articles; but be excel himself in the following message to tiie Kaiser. His picture of the ghosts—and the angel—at the Christmas table of the German War Lord is perhaps the most powerful effort of his wonderful pen.

As this is the Christmas number of the people's Sunday paper —len fa waited for and now appr. -'attd t.y the i\hole country—l uo no; think I do better than send a message to the Kaiser. it may be a littie cany in point of date, but nowadays, m order to adapt itself to the exigencies of modern conditions and to be in time to penetrate the utmost recesses of the world, every leading journal must be, literally, in advance of the times. And so I will imagine that we are at Christmas —Christ Mass—the period of Peace on earth and goodwill towards men. And I am impelled to address a Christmas message to the Kaiser.

and in A.-ia Minor, you have succeeded in establishing a reign of terrror. But the end is not yet —or there. Accept this axiom. The resources of the British Empire—in men, money and material—are inexhaustible. This "s not hyperbole. It is economic iact. Your professors can confirm it. \our men of commerce know it. No enlightened Neutral doubts it. It is a demonstrable truth, and l I make you a present of it by way of Christmas greeting. * * * * Ah, yes, Christmas —you had forgot ten tiiat, hadn't you ? Since August of last year, and in fact for much longer than that, you have been celebrating not Christ s Mass, but a hideous Devil's Mass, a veritable Sacrifice of Satan. You have chosen the Prince of Darkness for your captain. Obviously, you know nothing ol the Lord of Hosts —the God or Pity and of Power. His mandates you have set at defiance, His altars you have ravished; His temples you have burned. And He is the Uod of Battles. Not even the strident cacophony of war can murder the melody of the Christmas chimes.

* * * * 1 wish the Government would relieve me of this task . And, ere it be too late, I suggest that a ifce-t of 1.000 aeroplanes should be commissioned to fly over Germany on Christmas Day—over the trenches and the tents, over the villages and the towns—distributing a pamphlet explaining the power and might and 1 inexhaustible resources of the British Empire ; explaining that we have scarcely yet begun; that we have four hundred millions of population, unlimited wealth and the control of the seas to draw upon; and that, even without the aid of our splendid Allies, we can view with indifference and disdain the impudent challenge, by a depraved' and brutal people, of the claim of the Anglo-Saxon race to lead in the van of human progress. Such t message, dropped, literally, from the skies, would do more to counteract the campaign of lies with which the Germans have been fed for the past year than all the diplomatic circumlocution of the Foreign Office and the Press Bureau. But if the Government will not adopt the suggestion, then perchance —and more than probably THIS message may reach the German people.

Just reflect for a moment. Who wa» it that brought to our land the legend of Santa Clans and the symbol oi the Christmas-tree? Sounds strange to-dny, doesn't it? And it is all the doing of this one man —the Kaiser. He has perverted Santa Ciaus into a messenger of Death and the Christmas-tree into a gallows. Instead of presents for the children, the one brings bayonet and sword —and the other, crucifixion and torture. THE KAISER HAS KILLED CHRIST-MAS. That is his eternal sin —and one for which there is no 101giveness. It is vain for him to-day t.> recall the Christmas-tree to which years ago, ho stretched out the bancs of a happy child; or to which, in later days, he led the Crown Prince of his body. All that is too late. Even if to-day, in the solitude of his closet, he repents of bis infamies, it is still too late. His cry to the throne of God for morcv will not be heeded. "A (JOT) ALL MERCY IS A GOD UNJUST!'' So come, Kaiser to your Christmas feast. Sit down in that chair, and let me introduce you to your guests. ou do not see them? \\ait —what is this venerable figure that approaches—with silent step —and sits beside you? Look I It is a Belgian priest. Do you recognise him? Yes, you do. That gash in his side was the work of your soldiery —egged 011 by you to foul murder—as he knelt at the altar of God. J.et me introduce you. No—you shudder and draw back. But it is too late. Here come the others. Prepare to receive them: you are their host to-day. Th:s one —see, it approaches—the spirit of a deflowered girl—she, too, takes a seat. You tremble Pull yourself together—your guests are now arriving. lliey are taking their places at your board. Here comes a weeping mother, w.th a bayoneted babe in her arms —'.do you notice how they all rise as she enters? Come, come —why these cold beads upon your brow? Vou are gasping for breath anc.' your dry tongue asks for drink. Here it is—don't you see that goblet held out to you by tnat old i an, vith his murdered family around him? Take it —it is full of warm human blood—the blood of his wife and his chi'dren. What, you refuse it? But you revelled in it a year ago! Well, wait lor the banquet. Here it comes. What is this dish? THE ARM. FRESH BODY OF A LITTLE CHILD: and this—but you rise and try to escape, and cry for mercy —a.s every one of your guests springs upon you. You choke an dstruggle, an- you cry. with Satan of old, " W liich way I fly is Hell: myself am Hell; and in the lowist deep, it lower deep, st.ll threatening to devour me, opens wide.'' Poor wretch !

Christmas! Christmas and the Kaiser —how weird it sounds, as, in truth, it is. And yet I remember last Christmas— God! * can it be that Thou iiast penr.ittev another twelve months of the tragedy ?—when, without formal truce, the voice of angels called tor the Allies, and men ceased to kill; the thunder of the guns was silenced, the sword was returned to its scabbard; the "enemy grasped hand with the "enemy" —forgetting, for the while, their arms, as children forget their toys —and joining in a ballad which British and French and German could all understand, and sing together. It was a strange truce —but it was very human. And if only it had lasted for a week I Then, indeed, might all have heard the call ot Bethlehem to amity and peace. But it was not to be!

* * * * And so, to-day, I desire to talk with the Kaiser. Ana 1 , in doing so, I must remember that I am talking to a German, and to a Prussion —which L the worst kind of a German; and to a Ho henzolleru —which is the worst kind of Prussian. And I want, if I can, to speak the mind of the British people. I desire, in all reverence, to proclaim the Pence of God there can be no truce with Satan. So now, Kaiser Wilhelm, your attention, please! Sixteen months have passed since by your msensate act the world was plunged into the agony of war. In this period you have witnessed the complete failure of your scheme. At this moment theie is iiot a military expert in the world who believes that victory can ultimately fail to your army. This is the central fact of the situation. In more than a year of desperate lighting, the physical bravery of your troops —which more than once has won the generous admiration of their foes —has iailed to achieve a sing'e item of your programme. On "the East, the armies of Russia are unbeaten. In the West your forces are belt l in check behind an invincible line of triple steel. Paris is safe. Calais is beyond your grasp. Dover smiles at your failure. Hie coasts of Britain defy you. Successive orgies of Teutonic "frightfulnoss" leave us unmoved, save to righteous anger and sterner determination. Meanwhile, your fleet, the pet child of your ambition, skulks in hiding, cowed without a contest, beaten with scarce a skirmish. Our seamen rove the o ean at their p'easure, vainly scanning the horizon for a glimpse of your flag. Your submarines have failed to retrieve your naval fortunes, while the industrial and economic life of your people gasps in the grip of a maritime blockade. Abroad, your proud dream of a Colonial Empire is a thing of c.ust and ashes. Only in the field of diplomacy can you point to any tangible success, and "diplomacy'' and duplicity are one. Bulgaria has turned traitor at your bidding. Greece cringes before you! frown.' In the Balkans, as in Belgium

But what is this.-' A giidden hu.-h — your gue.-ts all disappear. Vou look around, and there you :ee, at your i' o, n figure clad in spotless white. How sad and silent she stands! She kam.s urn water for your parched and fevered 1 ip'S; she bathes your aching forehead. You look at her m wonderment. But she utters not a word. Ah, you recognise her I Yes, she is Edith Cavell—but it is too late : she has gone. AND SHE IS THE ONLY ANGEL VOL" WILL EVER SEE.. Listen, the bells are ring.ng. It is Christinas morn but as you strain your ears to catch their music, thenmelody is drowned in the thunder ef n crashing empire and the cries of a doomed am. dying people. * * * A kingdom and a Kaiser have gone - BUT I NTO US A CHILD IS HORN. - HORATIO BOTTOM LEY.