Tilly Hill's World War I scrapbook

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 Left Page: 

 At the top is a newspaper cutout of a headline: 

IN MEMORY OF KITCHENER


 Below is a large newspaper cutout of Kitchener in profile, wearing a military uniform, thick mustache 


 Handwritten under that: 

Supposed to be drowned - going to Russia on HMS

"Hampshire." Which was lost, only 12 survivors


 Right Page: 

 Newspaper article: 

HOW HE ANSWERED THE

"LAST CALL."

 Left half of article: 

A WEEK ago, in my own journal, I wrote

     an article under the title of "Hands

Off K of K." I was, of course, addressing

the puny things called Politicians - but

little did I dream that, all unconsciously, I

was, at the same time, apostrophising the

Angel of Death. For ere my words had

seen the light, the great Reaper had appeared

and called to the Hall of Heroes the

kingly soul of our only Man whom the

world's war has yet revealed. "Kitchener

drowned!" Oh! the tragedy of it! Oh!

the pity of it!

* * * *

     But three days earlier he had met the

impudent Lilliputians of Westminster - and

had smiled at their carpings and their

quibbles. Then he had girded on his

armour and set forth for that Eastern

theatre of war which he knew so well.

What scheme of strategy - what wealth of

wise counsel - was stored in his wonderful

brain no man will ever now know. Stern,

grim, and ever silent, he started on his

mission to our great Ally - glorious and

regenerated Russia. No pomp, no ceremony

marked his departure; no flotilla of destroyers,

even, escorted his ship. He just

went - went on the Lusiness of his country

and his King. And to-day his body

lies in the bed of the cruel sea. God, help

us to fathom the purpose and the mystery

of it!

* * * *

     Verily this thing has been no "accident."

It is far, far too portentous for that.

"Kitchener drowned!" Repeat those

awful, piercing words; and then reflect that

God moves in a mysterious way,

His wonders to perform;

He plants His footsteps in the sea,

And rides upon the storm.

And in all truth His footsteps were in the

sea that fateful hour when Kitchener was

bidden to rest and glory. The words are

almost uncanny in their application to this

great tragedy. Can we believe with the

simple poet that "behind a frowning Providence"

there lurks the smile of God? Faith

does not flow from argument; but in this

hour of bitter trial I reiterate my unfailing

trust in the wondrous alchemy of Destiny,

which can transmute our passing loss into

eternal gain. For the Books of Armageddon

are kept in Heaven, and it may be that

when the final Audit is revealed the entries

most deeply seared with human tears will

gleam most brilliantly with light divine.

* * * *

     And yet I grope in utter darkness and despair.

Why was our Kitchener taken?

Come, ye Priests and Parsons, this Sabbath

day - can you give us no enlightenment, or

must I, a poor layman, outside the pale of

all your Churches, grapple with the problem?

I have, in all truth, wrestled with it

ever since the ghastly news flashed across

the Seven Seas to all the continents of the

earth - filling the throats of men with

choking sobs and the eyes of women with

burning tears; and spreading dismay and

sorrow through every village of France 

and Russia - where they knew and loved

him well. And who shall depict the grief,

the consternation, the agonising shock which

came to every trench and camp? For a

moment, it seemed to me, the world stood

still. And there was nothing more impressive

than the poignant grief - unconcealed,

unashamed - of the men in khaki, robbed, at

a fell stroke, of the leader whose image

was graven on their hearts. And so it was

with all of us; for Kitchener was the

 Right half of article: 

supreme type of British valour - silent,

indomitable; the embodiment of all that is best

in the dogged spirit of our island race.

* * * *

     Had our beloved hero fallen on the field

of battle, at the head of an onrushing host;

had he died with the steel in his strong

right hand, where charging squadrons met

and reeled - where lance points dipped and

war steeds shook the earth with the thunder

of their hoofs; had he fallen standing

grimly amid the reek of war - his great blue

eyes blazing along the serried ranks - his big

soul holding an army together whilst victory

and defeat quivered in the scales of Destiny

- well, we should have understood. But to

be suddenly swallowed up by the grey,

crested sea - "Kitchener Drowned" - God

of Battles - God of our Fathers - what is

Thy purpose?

* * * *

     Have we offended Thee? Have we

proved unworthy of our trust and heritage?

Were we unworthy of him - our strongest,

truest, manliest man? Truly Thou art testing

us in the fires of Tribulation. And

this is the most grievous trial of all. For

him - our Kitchener - all is over. He has

passed onward in a blaze of glory, with

honours thick upon him - clustering round

his name as stars in southern skies; but

whilst we mourn the loss of our idol and our

hope, we know that to-day he cries triumphant

in the Courts of Valhalla: "O, Death,

where is they sting? O, Grave, where is thy

victory?" The Sting is with us who are

left behind - the Victory is his. Aye, there

surely is the answer. Let us bow our heads

in reverent meditation and try to understand.

* * * *

     May it not be that in some mysterious

fashion the death of this Man was necessary

for the salvation of the people - for the

perfection of his noble example - for the

ransom of the race? Life? Death? What

are they, after all, but unsearchable mysteries?

* * * *

     Still, all said of the dead solider, what of

those who planned and compassed his death

- even though it were the will of God that

he should die? That fact in no way

releases us from the solemn obligation to

avenge his fate; indeed, it may be the

"mysterious way" of calling us to greater

effort than we have ever exerted in the past.

Every wave of air which falls upon my ears

brings the same word to me - vengeance - 

VENGEANCE, ruthless and unsparing. Let

every soldier and every sailor of the King

place his hand upon his heart and swear to

avenge the death of Kitchener. By stern,

unbending retribution must Germany be

taught to rue that assassin de.J - and to 

repent the day when she mocked our grief

with jibes and jeers. We must have our

vendetta - a blood feud against every Hun

- "naturalised" or not. You can't

naturalise a savage. What did their own

poet say - "In his natural state the Prussian

is a savage; civilised, he is a brute." There

you have it. And so, on and on will we go,

to the end. Henceforth "Peace" is a bastard

word - fit only for the tongues of traitors.

From to-day let every being, in the

image of a man, born of German woman,

hide his hideous face in terror and in shame.

The mark of Cain is upon him. He killed

Kitchener; and ours is the solemn trust to

avenge his death.

* * * *

     Soldiers, sailors, munition makers, ship

builders, doctors, nurses, come one- come

Transcription saved

 Left Page: 

 At the top is a newspaper cutout of a headline: 

IN MEMORY OF KITCHENER


 Below is a large newspaper cutout of Kitchener in profile, wearing a military uniform, thick mustache 


 Handwritten under that: 

Supposed to be drowned - going to Russia on HMS

"Hampshire." Which was lost, only 12 survivors


 Right Page: 

 Newspaper article: 

HOW HE ANSWERED THE

"LAST CALL."

 Left half of article: 

A WEEK ago, in my own journal, I wrote

     an article under the title of "Hands

Off K of K." I was, of course, addressing

the puny things called Politicians - but

little did I dream that, all unconsciously, I

was, at the same time, apostrophising the

Angel of Death. For ere my words had

seen the light, the great Reaper had appeared

and called to the Hall of Heroes the

kingly soul of our only Man whom the

world's war has yet revealed. "Kitchener

drowned!" Oh! the tragedy of it! Oh!

the pity of it!

* * * *

     But three days earlier he had met the

impudent Lilliputians of Westminster - and

had smiled at their carpings and their

quibbles. Then he had girded on his

armour and set forth for that Eastern

theatre of war which he knew so well.

What scheme of strategy - what wealth of

wise counsel - was stored in his wonderful

brain no man will ever now know. Stern,

grim, and ever silent, he started on his

mission to our great Ally - glorious and

regenerated Russia. No pomp, no ceremony

marked his departure; no flotilla of destroyers,

even, escorted his ship. He just

went - went on the Lusiness of his country

and his King. And to-day his body

lies in the bed of the cruel sea. God, help

us to fathom the purpose and the mystery

of it!

* * * *

     Verily this thing has been no "accident."

It is far, far too portentous for that.

"Kitchener drowned!" Repeat those

awful, piercing words; and then reflect that

God moves in a mysterious way,

His wonders to perform;

He plants His footsteps in the sea,

And rides upon the storm.

And in all truth His footsteps were in the

sea that fateful hour when Kitchener was

bidden to rest and glory. The words are

almost uncanny in their application to this

great tragedy. Can we believe with the

simple poet that "behind a frowning Providence"

there lurks the smile of God? Faith

does not flow from argument; but in this

hour of bitter trial I reiterate my unfailing

trust in the wondrous alchemy of Destiny,

which can transmute our passing loss into

eternal gain. For the Books of Armageddon

are kept in Heaven, and it may be that

when the final Audit is revealed the entries

most deeply seared with human tears will

gleam most brilliantly with light divine.

* * * *

     And yet I grope in utter darkness and despair.

Why was our Kitchener taken?

Come, ye Priests and Parsons, this Sabbath

day - can you give us no enlightenment, or

must I, a poor layman, outside the pale of

all your Churches, grapple with the problem?

I have, in all truth, wrestled with it

ever since the ghastly news flashed across

the Seven Seas to all the continents of the

earth - filling the throats of men with

choking sobs and the eyes of women with

burning tears; and spreading dismay and

sorrow through every village of France 

and Russia - where they knew and loved

him well. And who shall depict the grief,

the consternation, the agonising shock which

came to every trench and camp? For a

moment, it seemed to me, the world stood

still. And there was nothing more impressive

than the poignant grief - unconcealed,

unashamed - of the men in khaki, robbed, at

a fell stroke, of the leader whose image

was graven on their hearts. And so it was

with all of us; for Kitchener was the

 Right half of article: 

supreme type of British valour - silent,

indomitable; the embodiment of all that is best

in the dogged spirit of our island race.

* * * *

     Had our beloved hero fallen on the field

of battle, at the head of an onrushing host;

had he died with the steel in his strong

right hand, where charging squadrons met

and reeled - where lance points dipped and

war steeds shook the earth with the thunder

of their hoofs; had he fallen standing

grimly amid the reek of war - his great blue

eyes blazing along the serried ranks - his big

soul holding an army together whilst victory

and defeat quivered in the scales of Destiny

- well, we should have understood. But to

be suddenly swallowed up by the grey,

crested sea - "Kitchener Drowned" - God

of Battles - God of our Fathers - what is

Thy purpose?

* * * *

     Have we offended Thee? Have we

proved unworthy of our trust and heritage?

Were we unworthy of him - our strongest,

truest, manliest man? Truly Thou art testing

us in the fires of Tribulation. And

this is the most grievous trial of all. For

him - our Kitchener - all is over. He has

passed onward in a blaze of glory, with

honours thick upon him - clustering round

his name as stars in southern skies; but

whilst we mourn the loss of our idol and our

hope, we know that to-day he cries triumphant

in the Courts of Valhalla: "O, Death,

where is they sting? O, Grave, where is thy

victory?" The Sting is with us who are

left behind - the Victory is his. Aye, there

surely is the answer. Let us bow our heads

in reverent meditation and try to understand.

* * * *

     May it not be that in some mysterious

fashion the death of this Man was necessary

for the salvation of the people - for the

perfection of his noble example - for the

ransom of the race? Life? Death? What

are they, after all, but unsearchable mysteries?

* * * *

     Still, all said of the dead solider, what of

those who planned and compassed his death

- even though it were the will of God that

he should die? That fact in no way

releases us from the solemn obligation to

avenge his fate; indeed, it may be the

"mysterious way" of calling us to greater

effort than we have ever exerted in the past.

Every wave of air which falls upon my ears

brings the same word to me - vengeance - 

VENGEANCE, ruthless and unsparing. Let

every soldier and every sailor of the King

place his hand upon his heart and swear to

avenge the death of Kitchener. By stern,

unbending retribution must Germany be

taught to rue that assassin de.J - and to 

repent the day when she mocked our grief

with jibes and jeers. We must have our

vendetta - a blood feud against every Hun

- "naturalised" or not. You can't

naturalise a savage. What did their own

poet say - "In his natural state the Prussian

is a savage; civilised, he is a brute." There

you have it. And so, on and on will we go,

to the end. Henceforth "Peace" is a bastard

word - fit only for the tongues of traitors.

From to-day let every being, in the

image of a man, born of German woman,

hide his hideous face in terror and in shame.

The mark of Cain is upon him. He killed

Kitchener; and ours is the solemn trust to

avenge his death.

* * * *

     Soldiers, sailors, munition makers, ship

builders, doctors, nurses, come one- come


Transcription history
  • March 21, 2017 22:10:43 Cheryl Ellsworth

     Left Page: 

     At the top is a newspaper cutout of a headline: 

    IN MEMORY OF KITCHENER


     Below is a large newspaper cutout of Kitchener in profile, wearing a military uniform, thick mustache 


     Handwritten under that: 

    Supposed to be drowned - going to Russia on HMS

    "Hampshire." Which was lost, only 12 survivors


     Right Page: 

     Newspaper article: 

    HOW HE ANSWERED THE

    "LAST CALL."

     Left half of article: 

    A WEEK ago, in my own journal, I wrote

         an article under the title of "Hands

    Off K of K." I was, of course, addressing

    the puny things called Politicians - but

    little did I dream that, all unconsciously, I

    was, at the same time, apostrophising the

    Angel of Death. For ere my words had

    seen the light, the great Reaper had appeared

    and called to the Hall of Heroes the

    kingly soul of our only Man whom the

    world's war has yet revealed. "Kitchener

    drowned!" Oh! the tragedy of it! Oh!

    the pity of it!

    * * * *

         But three days earlier he had met the

    impudent Lilliputians of Westminster - and

    had smiled at their carpings and their

    quibbles. Then he had girded on his

    armour and set forth for that Eastern

    theatre of war which he knew so well.

    What scheme of strategy - what wealth of

    wise counsel - was stored in his wonderful

    brain no man will ever now know. Stern,

    grim, and ever silent, he started on his

    mission to our great Ally - glorious and

    regenerated Russia. No pomp, no ceremony

    marked his departure; no flotilla of destroyers,

    even, escorted his ship. He just

    went - went on the Lusiness of his country

    and his King. And to-day his body

    lies in the bed of the cruel sea. God, help

    us to fathom the purpose and the mystery

    of it!

    * * * *

         Verily this thing has been no "accident."

    It is far, far too portentous for that.

    "Kitchener drowned!" Repeat those

    awful, piercing words; and then reflect that

    God moves in a mysterious way,

    His wonders to perform;

    He plants His footsteps in the sea,

    And rides upon the storm.

    And in all truth His footsteps were in the

    sea that fateful hour when Kitchener was

    bidden to rest and glory. The words are

    almost uncanny in their application to this

    great tragedy. Can we believe with the

    simple poet that "behind a frowning Providence"

    there lurks the smile of God? Faith

    does not flow from argument; but in this

    hour of bitter trial I reiterate my unfailing

    trust in the wondrous alchemy of Destiny,

    which can transmute our passing loss into

    eternal gain. For the Books of Armageddon

    are kept in Heaven, and it may be that

    when the final Audit is revealed the entries

    most deeply seared with human tears will

    gleam most brilliantly with light divine.

    * * * *

         And yet I grope in utter darkness and despair.

    Why was our Kitchener taken?

    Come, ye Priests and Parsons, this Sabbath

    day - can you give us no enlightenment, or

    must I, a poor layman, outside the pale of

    all your Churches, grapple with the problem?

    I have, in all truth, wrestled with it

    ever since the ghastly news flashed across

    the Seven Seas to all the continents of the

    earth - filling the throats of men with

    choking sobs and the eyes of women with

    burning tears; and spreading dismay and

    sorrow through every village of France 

    and Russia - where they knew and loved

    him well. And who shall depict the grief,

    the consternation, the agonising shock which

    came to every trench and camp? For a

    moment, it seemed to me, the world stood

    still. And there was nothing more impressive

    than the poignant grief - unconcealed,

    unashamed - of the men in khaki, robbed, at

    a fell stroke, of the leader whose image

    was graven on their hearts. And so it was

    with all of us; for Kitchener was the

     Right half of article: 

    supreme type of British valour - silent,

    indomitable; the embodiment of all that is best

    in the dogged spirit of our island race.

    * * * *

         Had our beloved hero fallen on the field

    of battle, at the head of an onrushing host;

    had he died with the steel in his strong

    right hand, where charging squadrons met

    and reeled - where lance points dipped and

    war steeds shook the earth with the thunder

    of their hoofs; had he fallen standing

    grimly amid the reek of war - his great blue

    eyes blazing along the serried ranks - his big

    soul holding an army together whilst victory

    and defeat quivered in the scales of Destiny

    - well, we should have understood. But to

    be suddenly swallowed up by the grey,

    crested sea - "Kitchener Drowned" - God

    of Battles - God of our Fathers - what is

    Thy purpose?

    * * * *

         Have we offended Thee? Have we

    proved unworthy of our trust and heritage?

    Were we unworthy of him - our strongest,

    truest, manliest man? Truly Thou art testing

    us in the fires of Tribulation. And

    this is the most grievous trial of all. For

    him - our Kitchener - all is over. He has

    passed onward in a blaze of glory, with

    honours thick upon him - clustering round

    his name as stars in southern skies; but

    whilst we mourn the loss of our idol and our

    hope, we know that to-day he cries triumphant

    in the Courts of Valhalla: "O, Death,

    where is they sting? O, Grave, where is thy

    victory?" The Sting is with us who are

    left behind - the Victory is his. Aye, there

    surely is the answer. Let us bow our heads

    in reverent meditation and try to understand.

    * * * *

         May it not be that in some mysterious

    fashion the death of this Man was necessary

    for the salvation of the people - for the

    perfection of his noble example - for the

    ransom of the race? Life? Death? What

    are they, after all, but unsearchable mysteries?

    * * * *

         Still, all said of the dead solider, what of

    those who planned and compassed his death

    - even though it were the will of God that

    he should die? That fact in no way

    releases us from the solemn obligation to

    avenge his fate; indeed, it may be the

    "mysterious way" of calling us to greater

    effort than we have ever exerted in the past.

    Every wave of air which falls upon my ears

    brings the same word to me - vengeance - 

    VENGEANCE, ruthless and unsparing. Let

    every soldier and every sailor of the King

    place his hand upon his heart and swear to

    avenge the death of Kitchener. By stern,

    unbending retribution must Germany be

    taught to rue that assassin de.J - and to 

    repent the day when she mocked our grief

    with jibes and jeers. We must have our

    vendetta - a blood feud against every Hun

    - "naturalised" or not. You can't

    naturalise a savage. What did their own

    poet say - "In his natural state the Prussian

    is a savage; civilised, he is a brute." There

    you have it. And so, on and on will we go,

    to the end. Henceforth "Peace" is a bastard

    word - fit only for the tongues of traitors.

    From to-day let every being, in the

    image of a man, born of German woman,

    hide his hideous face in terror and in shame.

    The mark of Cain is upon him. He killed

    Kitchener; and ours is the solemn trust to

    avenge his death.

    * * * *

         Soldiers, sailors, munition makers, ship

    builders, doctors, nurses, come one- come


  • March 21, 2017 21:45:12 Cheryl Ellsworth

     Left Page: 

     At the top is a newspaper cutout of a headline: 

    IN MEMORY OF KITCHENER


     Below is a large newspaper cutout of Kitchener in profile, wearing a military uniform, thick mustache 


     Handwritten under that: 

    Supposed to be drowned - going to Mussia on HMS

    "Hampshire." Which was lost, only 12 survivors


  • March 21, 2017 21:45:07 Cheryl Ellsworth

     Left Page: 

     At the top is a newspaper cutout of a headline: 

    IN MEMORY OF KITCHENER


     Below is a large newspaper cutout of Kitchener in profile, wearing a military uniform, thick mustache 


    Handwritten under that:

    Supposed to be drowned - going to Mussia on HMS

    "Hampshire." Which was lost, only 12 survivors


Description

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  • 52.57259130000001||-9.374874500000032||

    Tarbert, Co, Kerry

    ||1
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4450 / 52146
Source
http://europeana1914-1918.eu/...
Contributor
Mary Lavery Carrig
License
http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/
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