The Hohenzollerns in America

Chapter 7

1.--The Boy Who Came Back

The war is over. The soldiers are coming home. On all

sides we are assured that the problem of the returned

soldier is the gravest of our national concerns.

So I may say it without fear of contradiction,--since

everybody else has seen it,--that, up to the present

time, the returned soldier is a disappointment. He is

not turning out as he ought. According to all the

professors of psychology he was to come back bloodthirsty

and brutalised, soaked in militarism and talking only of

slaughter. In fact, a widespread movement had sprung up,

warmly supported by the business men of the cities, to

put him on the land. It was thought that central Nevada

or northern Idaho would do nicely for him. At the same

time an agitation had been started among the farmers,

with the slogan "Back to the city," the idea being that

farm life was so rough that it was not fair to ask the

returned soldier to share it.

All these anticipations turn out to be quite groundless.

The first returned soldier of whom I had direct knowledge

was my nephew Tom. When he came back, after two years in

the trenches, we asked him to dine with us. "Now, remember,"

I said to my wife, "Tom will be a very different being

from what he was when he went away. He left us as little

more than a school boy, only in his first year at college;

in fact, a mere child. You remember how he used to bore

us with baseball talk and that sort of thing. And how

shy he was! You recall his awful fear of Professor Razzler,

who used to teach him mathematics. All that, of course,

will be changed now. Tom will have come back a man. We

must ask the old professor to meet him. It will amuse

Tom to see him again. Just think of the things he must

have seen! But we must be a little careful at dinner not

to let him horrify the other people with brutal details

of the war."

Tom came. I had expected him to arrive in uniform with

his pocket full of bombs. Instead of this he wore ordinary

evening dress with a dinner jacket. I realised as I helped

him to take off his overcoat in the hall that he was very

proud of his dinner jacket. He had never had one before.

He said he wished the "boys" could see him in it. I asked

him why he had put off his lieutenant's uniform so quickly.

He explained that he was entitled not to wear it as soon

as he had his discharge papers signed; some of the fellows,

he said, kicked them off as soon as they left the ship,

but the rule was, he told me, that you had to wear the

thing till your papers were signed.

Then his eye caught a glimpse sideways of Professor

Razzler standing on the hearth rug in the drawing room.

"Say," he said, "is that the professor?" I could see that

Tom was scared. All the signs of physical fear were

written on his face. When I tried to lead him into the

drawing room I realised that he was as shy as ever. Three

of the women began talking to him all at once. Tom

answered, yes or no,--with his eyes down. I liked the

way he stood, though, so unconsciously erect and steady.

The other men who came in afterwards, with easy greetings

and noisy talk, somehow seemed loud-voiced and

self-assertive.

Tom, to my surprise, refused a cocktail. It seems, as he

explained, that he "got into the way of taking nothing

over there." I noticed that my friend Quiller, who is a

war correspondent, or, I should say, a war editorial

writer, took three cocktails and talked all the more

brilliantly for it through the opening courses of the

dinner, about the story of the smashing of the Hindenburg

line. He decided, after his second Burgundy, that it had

been simply a case of sticking it out. I say "Burgundy"

because we had substituted Burgundy, the sparkling kind,

for champagne at our dinners as one of our little war

economies.

Tom had nothing to say about the Hindenburg line. In

fact, for the first half of the dinner he hardly spoke.

I think he was worried about his left hand. There is a

deep furrow across the back of it where a piece of shrapnel

went through and there are two fingers that will hardly

move at all. I could see that he was ashamed of its

clumsiness and afraid that someone might notice it. So

he kept silent. Professor Razzler did indeed ask him

straight across the table what he thought about the final

breaking of the Hindenburg line. But he asked it with

that same fierce look from under his bushy eyebrows with

which he used to ask Tom to define the path of a tangent,

and Tom was rattled at once. He answered something about

being afraid that he was not well posted, owing to there

being so little chance over there to read the papers.

After that Professor Razzler and Mr. Quiller discussed

for us, most energetically, the strategy of the Lorraine

sector (Tom served there six months, but he never said

so) and high explosives and the possibilities of aerial

bombs. (Tom was "buried" by an aerial bomb but, of course,

he didn't break in and mention it.)

But we did get him talking of the war at last, towards

the end of the dinner; or rather, the girl sitting next

to him did, and presently the rest of us found ourselves

listening. The strange thing was that the girl was a mere

slip of a thing, hardly as old as Tom himself. In fact,

my wife was almost afraid she might be too young to ask

to dinner: girls of that age, my wife tells me, have

hardly sense enough to talk to men, and fail to interest

them. This is a proposition which I think it better not

to dispute.

But at any rate we presently realized that Tom was talking

about his war experiences and the other talk about the

table was gradually hushed into listening.

This, as nearly as I can set it down, is what he told

us: That the French fellows picked up baseball in a way

that is absolutely amazing; they were not much good, it

seems, at the bat, at any rate not at first, but at

running bases they were perfect marvels; some of the

French made good pitchers, too; Tom knew a poilu who had

lost his right arm who could pitch as good a ball with

his left as any man on the American side; at the port

where Tom first landed and where they trained for a month

they had a dandy ball ground, a regular peach, a former

parade ground of the French barracks. On being asked

WHICH port it was, Tom said he couldn't remember; he

thought it was either Boulogne or Bordeaux or Brest,--at

any rate, it was one of those places on the English

channel. The ball ground they had behind the trenches

was not so good; it was too much cut up by long range

shells. But the ball ground at the base hospital (where

Tom was sent for his second wound) was an A1 ground. The

French doctors, it appears, were perfectly rotten at

baseball, not a bit like the soldiers. Tom wonders that

they kept them. Tom says that baseball had been tried

among the German prisoners, but they are perfect dubs.

He doubts whether the Germans will ever be able to play

ball. They lack the national spirit. On the other hand,

Tom thinks that the English will play a great game when

they really get into it. He had two weeks' leave in London

and went to see the game that King George was at, and

says that the King, if they will let him, will make the

greatest rooter of the whole bunch.

Such was Tom's war talk.

It grieved me to note that as the men sat smoking their

cigars and drinking liqueur whiskey (we have cut out port

at our house till the final peace is signed) Tom seemed

to have subsided into being only a boy again, a first-year

college boy among his seniors. They spoke to him in quite

a patronising way, and even asked him two or three direct

questions about fighting in the trenches, and wounds and

the dead men in No Man's Land and the other horrors that

the civilian mind hankers to hear about. Perhaps they

thought, from the boy's talk, that he had seen nothing.

If so, they were mistaken. For about three minutes, not

more, Tom gave them what was coming to them. He told

them, for example, why he trained his "fellows" to drive

the bayonet through the stomach and not through the head,

that the bayonet driven through the face or skull sticks

and,--but there is no need to recite it here. Any of the

boys like Tom can tell it all to you, only they don't

want to and don't care to.

They've got past it.

But I noticed that as the boy talked,--quietly and

reluctantly enough,--the older men fell silent and looked

into his face with the realisation that behind his simple

talk and quiet manner lay an inward vision of grim and

awful realities that no words could picture.

I think that they were glad when we joined the ladies

again and when Tom talked of the amateur vaudeville show

that his company had got up behind the trenches.

Later on, when the other guests were telephoning for

their motors and calling up taxis, Tom said he'd walk to

his hotel; it was only a mile and the light rain that

was falling would do him, he said, no harm at all. So he

trudged off, refusing a lift.

Oh, no, I don't think we need to worry about the returned

soldier. Only let him return, that's all. When he does,

he's a better man than we are, Gunga Dinn.

2.--The War Sacrifices of Mr. Spugg

Although we had been members of the same club for years,

I only knew Mr. Spugg by sight until one afternoon when

I heard him saying that he intended to send his chauffeur

to the war.

It was said quite quietly,--no bombast or boasting about

it. Mr. Spugg was standing among a little group of

listening members of the club and when he said that he

had decided to send his chauffeur, he spoke with a kind

of simple earnestness, a determination that marks the

character of the man.

"Yes," he said, "we need all the man power we can command.

This thing has come to a showdown and we've got to

recognise it. I told Henry that it's a showdown and that

he's to get ready and start right away."

"Well, Spugg," said one of the members "you're certainly

setting us a fine example."

"What else can a man do?" said Mr. Spugg.

"When does your chauffeur leave?" asked another man.

"Right away. I want him in the firing line just as quick

as I can get him there."

"It's a fine thing you're doing, Spugg," said a third

member, "but do you realise that your chauffeur may be

killed?"

"I must take my chance on that," answered Mr. Spugg,

firmly. "I've thought this thing out and made up my mind:

If my chauffeur is killed, I mean to pay for him,--full

and adequate compensation. The loss must fall on me, not

on him. Or, say Henry comes back mutilated,--say he loses

a leg,--say he loses two legs,--"

Here Mr. Spugg looked about him at his listeners, with

a look that meant that even three legs wouldn't be too

much for him.

"Whatever Henry loses I pay for. The loss shall fall on

me, every cent of it."

"Spugg," said a quiet looking, neatly dressed man whom

I knew to be the president of an insurance company and

who reached out and shook the speaker by the hand, "this

is a fine thing you're doing, a big thing. But we mustn't

let you do it alone. Let our company take a hand in it.

We're making a special rate now on chauffeurs, footmen,

and house-servants sent to the war, quite below the rate

that actuarial figures justify. It is our little war

contribution," he added modestly. "We like to feel that

we're doing our bit, too. We had a chauffeur killed last

week. We paid for him right off without demur,--waived

all question of who killed him. I never signed a check

(as I took occasion to say in a little note I wrote to

his people) with greater pleasure."

"What do you do if Henry's mutilated?" asked Mr. Spugg,

turning his quiet eyes on the insurance man and facing

the brutal facts of things without flinching. "What do

you pay? Suppose I lose the use of Henry's legs, what

then?"

"It's all right," said his friend. "Leave it to us.

Whatever he loses, we make it good."

"All right," said Spugg, "send me round a policy. I'm

going to see Henry clear through on this."

It was at this point that at my own urgent request I was

introduced to Mr. Spugg, so that I might add my

congratulations to those of the others. I told him that

I felt, as all the other members of the club did, that

he was doing a big thing, and he answered again, in his

modest way, that he didn't see what else a man could do.

"My son Alfred and I," he said, "talked it over last

night and we agreed that we can run the car ourselves,

or make a shot at it anyway. After all, it's war time."

"What branch of the service are you putting your chauffeur

in?" I asked.

"I'm not sure," he answered. "I think I'll send him up

in the air. It's dangerous, of course, but it's no time

to think about that."

So, in due time, Mr. Spugg's chauffeur, Henry, went

overseas. He was reported first as in England. Next he

was right at the front, at the very firing itself. We

knew then,--everybody in the club knew that Mr. Spugg's

chauffeur might be killed at any moment. But great as

the strain must have been, Spugg went up and down to his

office and in and out of the club without a tremor. The

situation gave him a new importance in our eyes, something

tense.

"This seems to be a terrific business," I said to him

one day at lunch, "this new German drive."

"My chauffeur," said Mr. Spugg, "was right in the middle

of it."

"He was, eh?"

"Yes," he continued, "one shell burst in the air so near

him it almost broke his wings."

Mr. Spugg told this with no false boasting or bravado,

eating his celery as he spoke of it. Here was a man who

had nearly had his chauffeur's wings blown off and yet

he never moved a muscle. I began to realize the kind of

resolute stuff that the man was made of.

A few days later bad news came to the club.

"Have you heard the bad news about Spugg?" someone asked.

"No, what?"

"His chauffeur's been gassed."

"How is he taking it?"

"Fine. He's sending off his gardener to take the chauffeur's

place."

So that was Mr. Spugg's answer to the Germans.

We lunched together that day.

"Yes," he said, "Henry's gassed. How it happened I don't

know. He must have come down out of the air. I told him

I wanted him in the air. But let it pass. It's done now."

"And you're sending your gardener?"

"I am," said Spugg. "He's gone already. I called him in

from the garden yesterday. I said, 'William, Henry's been

gassed. Our first duty is to keep up our man power at

the front. You must leave to-night.'"

"What are you putting William into?" I asked

"Infantry. He'll do best in the trenches,--digs well and

is a very fair shot. Anyway I want him to see all the

fighting that's going. If the Germans want give and take

in this business they can have it. They'll soon see who

can stand it best. I told William when he left. I said,

'William, we've got to show these fellows that man for

man we're a match for them.' That's the way I look at

it, man for man."

I watched Mr. Spugg's massive face as he went on with

his meal. Not a nerve of it moved. If he felt any fear,

at least he showed no trace of it.

After that I got war news from him at intervals, in little

scraps, as I happened to meet him. "The war looks bad,"

I said to him one day as I chanced upon him getting into

his motor. "This submarine business is pretty serious."

"It is," he said, "William was torpedoed yesterday."

Then he got into his car and drove away, as quietly as

if nothing had happened.

A little later that day I heard him talking about it in

the club. "Yes," he was saying, "a submarine. It torpedoed

William,--my gardener. I have both a chauffeur and a

gardener at the war. William was picked up on a raft.

He's in pretty bad shape. My son Alfred had a cable from

him that he's coming home. We've both telegraphed him to

stick it out."

The news was the chief topic in the club that day. "Spugg's

gardener has been torpedoed," they said, "but Spugg

refuses to have him quit and come home." "Well done,

Spugg," said everybody.

After that we had news from time to time about both

William and Henry.

"Henry's out of the hospital," said Spugg. "I hope to

have him back in France in a few days. William's in bad

shape still. I had a London surgeon go and look at him.

I told him not to mind the expense but to get William

fixed up right away. It seems that one arm is more or

less paralysed. I've wired back to him not to hesitate.

They say William's blood is still too thin for the

operation. I've cabled to them to take some of Henry's.

I hate to do it, but this is no time to stick at anything."

A little later William and Henry were reported both back

in France. This was at the very moment of the great

offensive. But Spugg went about his daily business unmoved.

Then came the worst news of all. "William and Henry," he

said to me, "are both missing. I don't know where the

devil they are."

"Missing?" I repeated.

"Both of them. The Germans have caught them both. I

suppose I shan't have either of them back now till the

war is all over."

He gave a slight sigh,--the only sign of complaint that

ever I had heard come from him.

But the next day we learned what was Spugg's answer to

the German's capture of William and Henry.

"Have you heard what Spugg is doing?" the members of the

club asked one another.

"What?"

"He's sending over Meadows, HIS OWN MAN!"

There was no need to comment on it. The cool courage of

the thing spoke for itself. Meadows,--Spugg's own man,--his

house valet, without whom he never travelled twenty miles!

"What else was there to do?" said Mr. Spugg when I asked

him if it was true that Meadows was going. "I take no

credit for sending Meadows nor, for the matter of that,

for anything that Meadows may do over there. It was a

simple matter of duty. My son and I had him into the

dining room last night after dinner. 'Meadows,' we said,

'Henry and William are caught. Our man power at the front

has got to be kept up. There's no one left but ourselves

and you. There's no way out of it. You'll have to go.'"

"But how," I protested, "can you get along with Meadows,

your valet, gone? You'll be lost!"

"We must do the best we can. We've talked it all over.

My son will help me dress and I will help him. We can

manage, no doubt."

So Meadows went.

After this Mr. Spugg, dressed as best he could manage

it, and taking turns with his son in driving his own

motor, was a pathetic but uncomplaining object.

Meadows meantime was reported as with the heavy artillery,

doing well. "I hope nothing happens to Meadows," Spugg

kept saying. "If it does, we're stuck. We can't go

ourselves. We're too busy. We've talked it over and we've

both decided that it's impossible to get away from the

office,--not with business as brisk as it is now. We're

busier than we've been in ten years and can't get off

for a day. We may try to take a month off for the

Adirondacks a little later but as for Europe, it's out

of the question."

Meantime, one little bit of consolation came to help Mr.

Spugg to bear the burden of the war. I found him in the

lounge room of the club one afternoon among a group of

men, exhibiting two medals that were being passed from

hand to hand.

"Sent to me by the French government," he explained

proudly. "They're for William and Henry. The motto means,

'For Conspicuous Courage"' (Mr. Spugg drew himself up

with legitimate pride). "I shall keep one and let Alfred

keep the other till they come back." Then he added, as

an afterthought, "They may never come back."

From that day on, Mr. Spugg, with his French medal on

his watch chain, was the most conspicuous figure in the

club. He was pointed out as having done more than any

other one man in the institution to keep the flag flying.

But presently the limit of Mr. Spugg's efforts and

sacrifices was reached. Even patriotism such as his must

have some bounds.

On entering the club one afternoon I could hear his voice

bawling vociferously in one of the telephone cabinets in

the hall. "Hello, Washington," he was shouting. "Is that

Washington? Long Distance, I want Washington."

Fifteen minutes later he came up to the sitting room,

still flushed with indignation and excitement. "That's

the limit," he said, "the absolute limit!"

"What's the matter?" I asked.

"They drafted my son Alfred," he answered.

"Just imagine it! When we're so busy in the office that

we're getting down there at half past eight in the morning!

Drafted Alfred! 'Great Caesar' I said to them! 'Look

here! You've had my chauffeur and he's gassed, and you've

had my gardener and he's torpedoed and they're both

prisoners, and last month I sent you my own man! That,'

I said, 'is about the limit.'"

"What did they say," I asked.

"Oh, it's all right. They've fixed it all up and they've

apologized as well. Alfred won't go, of course, but it

makes one realise that you can carry a thing too far.

Why, they'd be taking me next!"

"Oh, surely not!" I said.

3.--If Germany Had Won

Sometimes, in the past, we have grown a little impatient

with our North American civilisation, with its strident

clamour, its noisy elections, its extremes of liberty,

its occasional corruption and the faults that we now see

were the necessary accompaniments of its merits. But let

us set beside it a picture such as this, taken from the

New York Imperial Gazette of 1925--or from any paper of

the same period, such as would have been published if

Germany had won.

----

General Boob of Boobenstiff, Imperial Governor of New

York, will attend divine (Imperial) service on Sunday

morning next at the church of St. John the (Imperial)

Divine. The subway cars will be stopped while the General

is praying. All subway passengers are enjoined (befohlen),

during the thus-to-be-ordered period of cessation, to

remain in a reverential attitude. Those in the seats will

keep the head bowed. Those holding to the straps will

elevate one leg, keeping the knee in the air.

On Monday evening General Boob von Boobenstiff, Imperial

Governor of New York, will be graciously pleased to attend

a performance at the (Imperial) Winter Garden on Upper

(Imperial) Broadway. It is ordered that on the entrance

of His Excellency the audience will spontaneously rise

and break into three successive enthusiastic cheers. Mr.

Al Jolson will remain kneeling on the stage till the

Gubernatorial All Highest has seated itself. Mr. Jolson

will then, by special (Imperial) permission, be allowed

to make four jokes in German to be taken from a list

supplied by the Imperial Censor of Humour. The Governor,

accompanied by his military staff, will then leave, and

the performance will close.

----

It is ordered that, on Tuesday afternoon, as a sign of

thankfulness for the blessings of the German peace, the

business men of New York shall walk in procession from

the Battery to the Bronx. They will then be inspected by

Governor Boobenstiff. If the Governor is delayed in

arriving at the hereafter-to-be-indicated point of general

put-yourself-there, the procession will walk back to the

Battery and back again, continuing so, pro and con, till

the arrival of the Governor.

----

The approaching visit of His Royal and Imperial Solemnity

the Prince Apparent of Bavaria shall be heralded in the

(Imperial) City of New York with general rejoicing. The

city shall be spontaneously decorated with flags. Smiles

of cordial welcome shall appear on every face. Animated

crowds of eager citizens shall move to and fro and shouts

of welcome shall, by order of the Chief of Police, break

from the lips. Among those who are expected to be in

the Imperial city to welcome his Royal Solemnity will be

the Hereditary Grand Duke of Schlitzin-Mein (formerly

Milwaukee), the Prince Margrave of Wisconsin and the

Hereditary Chief Constable of Nevada.

----

We are delighted to be able to chronicle that on the

morning of the 14th there was born at the Imperial

Residence of His Simplicity the Hereditary Governor of

the Provinz (formerly State) of New York, in the (Imperial)

city of Albany a tenth son to the illustrious Prince and

Princess who rule over us with such fatherly care. The

boy was christened yesterday at the (Imperial) Lutheran

Church and is to bear the name Frederick Wilhelm Amelia

Mary Johan Heinrich Ruprecht. The whole city of Albany

is thrown into the wildest rejoicing. The legislature

has voted an addition of $400,000 per annum to the civil

list for the maintenance of the young prince. Joy suffuses

every home. This being the tenth son born to their

Highnesses in ten years it is felt that the future of

the dynasty is more or less secured. Even the humblest

home is filled with the reflected joy that streams out

from the Residency. Their Royal Highnesses appeared

yesterday on the balcony amid the wild huzzoos of the

people transported with joy. His Simplicity the Prince

wore the full dress uniform of an Imperial Jaeger of the

Adirondacks, and Her Royal Highness was attired as a

Colonel of Artillery. It is impossible to express the

jubilation of the moment.

----

We regret to report that owing to the jostling (possibly

accidental, but none the less actual) of an Imperial

officer--Field-Lieutenant Schmidt--at the entrance to

Brooklyn Bridge, the bridge is declared closed to the

public until further notice. We are proud to state the

Field Lieutenant at once cut down his cowardly assailant

with his saber. It has pleased His Unspeakable Loftiness,

the German Emperor, to cable his congratulations to the

Lieutenant, who will receive The Order of the Dead Dog

for the noble way in which he has maintained the traditions

of his uniform.

----

A striking feature of the now-taking-place Art Exhibition

at the Kaiser Wilhelm Institute (formerly Metropolitan

Gallery) in the Thiergarten (formerly Central Park) is

offered by the absolutely marvellous paintings exhibited by

the Princess Marie Paul Cecilie Hohenzollern-Stickitintothem,

a cousin of Our Noble Governor. The paintings which the

Princess has been preciously pleased to paint and has even

stooped to exhibit to the filled-with-wonder eye of the

public have been immediately awarded the first prize in

each class. While it would be invidious even to suggest that

any one of Her High Incipiency's pictures is better than any

other, our feeling is that especially the picture Night on

the Hudson River is of so rare a quality both of technique

and of inspiration that it supersedes the bounds of the

hitherto-thought-to-be-possible art in America. The

Princess's conception of night, black as a pall and yet

luminous as a polished stove pipe, is only equalled by

her feeling towards the Hudson which lies extended in

soporific superficiality beneath the sable covering of

darkness in which Her Highness has been pleased to

overwhelm it. Throughout the day an eager-to-see crowd

of spectators were beaten back from the picture by the

police with clubs.

----

We are permitted officially to confirm the already

gladly-from-mouth-to-mouth-whispered news of an approaching

marriage between Prince Heinrich of Texas and the Princess

Amelia Victoria Louisa, Hereditary Heir Consumptive of

the Imperial Provinz of Maine. The marriage, so it is

whispered, although performed in accordance with the

wishes of the Emperor as expressed by cable, is in every

way a love match. What lends a touch of romance to the

betrothal of the Royal Younglings is that the Prince had

never even seen the Princess Amelia until the day when

the legislature of the Provinz of Maine voted her a

marriage portion of half a million dollars. Immediately

on this news a secret visit was arranged, the Prince

journeying to Bangor incognito as the Count of Flim-Flam

in the costume of an officer of the Imperial Scavengers.

On receipt of the Emperor's telegram the happy pair fell

in love with one another at once. What makes the approaching

union particularly auspicious for the whole country is

that it brings with it the union of Maine and Texas,

henceforth to form a single grateful provinz. The Royal

Pair, it is understood, will live alternately in each

province a month at a time and the legislature, the

executive officials, the courts of law and the tax

collectors will follow them to and fro.

We cannot but contrast this happy issue with the turbulence

and disorder in which our country lived before the Great

War of Liberation.

----

We are delighted to learn from our despatches from Boston

that the Hohenzollern Institute (formerly Harvard

University) is to be opened next autumn. By express

permission of the Imperial Government, classes in English

will be permitted for half an hour each day.

By the clemency of the Emperor the sentences of W. H.

Taft, and W. Wilson have been commuted from the sentence

of fifty years imprisonment to imprisonment for life. We

hope, in a special supplement, to be able to add the full

list of sentences, executions, imprisonments, fines, and

attainders that have been promulgated in honour of the

birthday of our Imperial Sovereign.

4.--War and Peace at the Galaxy Club

The Great Peace Kermesse at the Galaxy Club, to which I

have the honour to belong, held with a view to wipe out

the Peace Deficit of the Club, has just ended. For three

weeks our club house has been a blaze of illumination.

We have had four orchestras in attendance. There have

been suppers and dances every night. Our members have

not spared themselves.

The Kermesse is now over. We have time, as our lady

members are saying, to turn round.

For the moment we are sitting listening, amid bursts of

applause, to our treasurer's statement. As we hear it we

realise that this Peace Kermesse has proved the culmination

and crown of four winters' war work.

But I must explain from the beginning.

Our efforts began with the very opening of the war. We

felt that a rich organisation like ours ought to do

something for the relief of the Belgians. At the same

time we felt that our members would rather receive

something in the way of entertainment for their money

than give it straight out of their pockets.

We therefore decided first to hold a public lecture in

the club, and engaged the services of Professor Dry to

lecture on the causes of the war.

In view of the circumstances, Professor Dry very kindly

reduced his lecture fee, which (he assured us) is generally

two hundred and fifty dollars, to two hundred and forty.

The lecture was most interesting. Professor Dry traced

the causes of the War backwards through the Middle Ages.

He showed that it represented the conflict of the

brachiocephalic culture of the Wendic races with the

dolichocephalic culture of the Alpine stock. At the time

when the lights went out he had got it back to the eighth

century before Christ.

Unfortunately the night, being extremely wet, was

unfavourable. Few of our members care to turn out to

lectures in wet weather. The treasurer was compelled to

announce to the Committee a net deficit of two hundred

dollars. Some of the ladies of the Committee moved that

the entire deficit be sent to the Belgians, but were

overruled by the interference of the men.

But the error was seen to have been in the choice of the

lecturer. Our members were no longer interested in the

causes of the war. The topic was too old. We therefore

held another public lecture in the club, on the topic

What Will Come After the War. It was given by a very

talented gentleman, a Mr. Guess, a most interesting

speaker, who reduced his fee (as the thing was a war

charity) by one-half, leaving it at three hundred dollars.

Unhappily the weather was against us. It was too fine.

Our members scarcely care to listen to lectures in fine

weather. And it turned out that our members are not

interested in what will come after the war. The topic is

too new. Our receipts of fifty dollars left us with a

net deficit of two hundred and fifty. Our treasurer

therefore proposed that we should carry both deficits

forward and open a Special Patriotic Entertainment Account

showing a net total deficit of four hundred and fifty

dollars.

In the opinion of the committee our mistake had been in

engaging outside talent. It was felt that the cost of

this was prohibitive. It was better to invite the services

of the members of the club themselves. A great number of

the ladies expressed their willingness to take part in

any kind of war work that took the form of public

entertainment.

Accordingly we presented a play. It was given in the ball

room of the club house, a stage being specially put up

for us by a firm of contractors. The firm (as a matter

of patriotism) did the whole thing for us at cost, merely

charging us with the labour, the material, the time, the

thought and the anxiety that they gave to the job, but

for nothing else. In fact, the whole staging, including

lights, plumbing and decorations was merely a matter of

five hundred dollars. The plumbers very considerately

made no charge for their time, but only for their work.

It was felt that it would be better to have a new play

than an old. We selected a brilliant little modern

drawing-room comedy never yet presented. The owner of

the copyright, a theatrical firm, let us use it for a

merely nominal fee of two hundred dollars, including the

sole right to play the piece forever. There being only

twenty-eight characters in it, it was felt to be more

suitable than a more ambitious thing. The tickets were

placed at one dollar, no one being admitted free except

the performers themselves, and the members who very kindly

acted as scene shifters, curtain lifters, ushers, door-keepers,

programme sellers, and the general committee of management.

All the performers, at their own suggestion, supplied their

own costumes, charging nothing to the club except the material

and the cost of dressmaking. Beyond this there was no expense

except for the fee, very reasonable, of Mr. Skip, the

professional coach who trained the performers, and who asked

us, in view of the circumstances, less than half of what he

would have been willing to accept.

The proceeds were to be divided between the Belgian Fund

and the Red Cross, giving fifty per cent to each. A motion

in amendment from the ladies' financial committee to give

fifty per cent to the Belgian Fund and sixty per cent to

the Red Cross was voted down.

Unfortunately it turned out that the idea of a PLAY was

a mistake in judgment. Our members, it seemed, did not

care to go to see a play except in a theatre. A great

number of them, however, very kindly turned out to help

in shifting the scenery and in acting as ushers.

Our treasurer announced, as the result of the play, a

net deficit of twelve hundred dollars. He moved, with

general applause, that it be carried forward.

The total deficit having now reached over sixteen hundred

dollars, there was a general feeling that a very special

effort must be made to remove it. It was decided to hold

Weekly Patriotic Dances in the club ball room, every

Saturday evening. No charge was made for admission to

the dances, but a War Supper was served at one dollar a

head.

Unfortunately the dances, as first planned, proved again

an error. It appeared that though our members are

passionately fond of dancing, few if any of them cared

to eat at night. The plan was therefore changed. The

supper was served first, and was free, and for the dancing

after supper a charge was made of one dollar, per person.

This again was an error. It seems that after our members

have had supper they prefer to go home and sleep. After

one winter of dancing the treasurer announced a total

Patriotic Relief Deficit of five thousand dollars, to be

carried forward to next year. This sum duly appeared in

the annual balance sheet of the club. The members,

especially the ladies, were glad to think that we were

at least doing SOMETHING for the war.

At this point some of our larger men, themselves financial

experts, took hold. They said that our entertainments

had been on too small a scale. They told us that we had

been "undermined by overhead expenses." The word "overhead"

was soon on everybody's lips. We were told that if we

could "distribute our overhead" it would disappear. It

was therefore planned to hold a great War Kermesse with

a view to spreading out the overhead so thin that it

would vanish.

But it was at this very moment that the Armistice burst

upon us in a perfectly unexpected fashion. Everyone of

our members was, undoubtedly, delighted that the war was

over but there was a very general feeling that it would

have been better if we could have had a rather longer

notice of what was coming. It seemed, as many of our

members said, such a leap in the dark to rush into peace

all at once. It was said indeed by our best business men

that in financial circles they had been fully aware that

there was a danger of peace for some time and had taken

steps to discount the peace risk.

But for the club itself the thing came with a perfect

crash. The whole preparation of the great Kermesse was

well under way when the news broke upon us. For a time

the members were aghast. It looked like ruin. But presently

it was suggested that it might still be possible to save

the club by turning the whole affair into a Peace Kermesse

and devoting the proceeds to some suitable form of relief.

Luckily it was discovered that there was still a lot of

starvation in Russia, and fortunately it turned out that

in spite of the armistice the Turks were still killing

the Armenians.

So it was decided to hold the Kermesse and give all the

profits realised by it to the Victims of the Peace.

Everybody set to work again with a will. The Kermesse

indeed had to be postponed for a few months to make room

for the changes needed, but it has now been held and, in

a certain sense, it has been the wildest kind of success.

The club, as I said, has been a blaze of light for three

weeks. We have had four orchestras in attendance every

evening. There have been booths draped with the flags of

all the Allies, except some that we were not sure about,

in every corridor of the club. There have been dinner

parties and dances every evening. The members, especially

the ladies, have not spared themselves. Many of them have

spent practically all their time at the Kermesse, not

getting home until two in the morning.

And yet somehow one has felt that underneath the surface

it was not a success. The spirit seemed gone out of it.

The members themselves confessed in confidence that in

spite of all they could do their hearts were not in it.

Peace had somehow taken away all the old glad sense of

enjoyment. As to spending money at the Kermesse all the

members admitted frankly that they had no heart for it.

This was especially the case when the rumour got abroad

that the Armenians were a poor lot and that some of the

Turks were quite gentlemanly fellows. It was said, too,

that if the Russians did starve it would do them a lot

of good.

So it was known even before we went to hear the financial

report that there would be no question of profits on the

Kermesse going to the Armenians or the Russians.

And to-night the treasurer has been reading out to a

general meeting the financial results as nearly as they

can be computed.

He has put the Net Patriotic Deficit, as nearly as he

can estimate it, at fifteen thousand dollars, though he

has stated, with applause from the ladies, that the Gross

Deficit is bigger still.

The Ladies Financial Committee has just carried a motion

that the whole of the deficit, both net and gross, be

now forwarded to the Red Cross Society (sixty per cent),

the Belgian Relief Fund (fifty per cent), and the remainder

invested in the War Loan.

But there is a very general feeling among the male members

that the club will have to go into liquidation. Peace

has ruined us. Not a single member, so far as I am aware,

is prepared to protest against the peace, or is anything

but delighted to think that the war is over. At the same

time we do feel that if we could have had a longer notice,

six months for instance, we could have braced ourselves

better to stand up against it and meet the blow when it

fell.

I think, too, that our feeling is shared outside.

5.--The War News as I Remember it

Everybody, I think, should make some little contribution

towards keeping alive the memories of the great war. In

the larger and heroic sense this is already being done.

But some of the minor things are apt to be neglected.

When the record of the war has been rewritten into real

history, we shall be in danger of forgetting what WAR

NEWS was like and the peculiar kind of thrill that

accompanied its perusal.

Hence in order to preserve it for all time I embalm some

little samples of it, selected of course absolutely at

random,--as such things always are--in the pages of this

book.

Let me begin with:--

I--THE CABLE NEWS FROM RUSSIA

This was the great breakfast-table feature for at least

three years. Towards the end of the war some people began

to complain of it. They said that they questioned whether

it was accurate. Here for example is one fortnight of

it.

Petrograd, April 14. Word has reached here that the

Germans have captured enormous quantities of grain on

the Ukrainian border.

April 15. The Germans have captured no grain on the

Ukrainian border. The country is swept bare.

April 16. Everybody in Petrograd is starving.

April 17. There is no lack of food in Petrograd.

April 18. The death of General Korniloff is credibly

reported this morning.

April 19. It is credibly reported this morning that

General Korniloff is alive.

April 20. It is credibly reported that General

Korniloff is hovering between life and death.

April 21. The Bolsheviki are overthrown.

April 22. The Bolsheviki got up again.

April 23. The Czar died last night.

April 24. The Czar did not die last night.

April 25. General Kaleidescope and his Cossacks

are moving north.

April 26. General Kaleidescope and his Cossacks

are moving south.

April 27. General Kaleidescope and his Cossacks

are moving east.

April 28. General Kaleidescope and his Cossacks

are moving west.

April 29. It is reported that the Cossacks under General

Kaleidescope have revolted. They demand the Maximum.

General Kaleidescope hasn't got it.

April 30. The National Pan-Russian Constituent Universal

Duma which met this morning at ten-thirty, was

dissolved at twenty-five minutes to eleven.

My own conclusion, reached with deep regret, is that the

Russians are not yet fit for the blessings of the Magna

Carta and the Oklahama Constitution of 1907. They ought

to remain for some years yet under the Interstate Commerce

Commission.

II--SAMPLE OF SPECIAL CORRESPONDENCE

New York (through London via Holland and coming out at

Madrid). Mr. O. Howe Lurid, our special correspondent,

writing from "Somewhere near Somewhere" and describing

the terrific operations of which he has just been an

eyewitness, says:

"From the crest where I stood, the whole landscape about

me was illuminated with the fierce glare of the bursting

shells, while the ground on which I stood quivered with

the thunderous detonation of the artillery.

"Nothing in the imagination of a Dante could have equalled

the lurid and pyrogriffic grandeur of the scene. Streams

of fire rose into the sky, falling in bifurcated

crystallations in all directions. Disregarding all personal

danger, I opened one eye and looked at it.

"I found myself now to be the very centre of the awful

conflict. While not stating that the whole bombardment

was directed at me personally, I am pretty sure that it

was."

I admit that there was a time, at the very beginning of

the war, when I liked this kind of thing served up with

my bacon and eggs every morning, in the days when a man

could eat bacon and eggs without being labelled a

pro-German. Later on I came to prefer the simple statements

as to the same scene and event, given out by Sir Douglas

Haig and General Pershing--after this fashion:

"Last night at ten-thirty P.M. our men noticed signs of

a light bombardment apparently coming from the German

lines."

III--THE TECHNICAL WAR DESPATCHES

The best of these, as I remember them, used to come from

the Italian front and were done after this fashion:--

"Tintino, near Trombono. Friday, April 3. The Germans,

as I foresaw last month they would, have crossed the

Piave in considerable force. Their position, as I said

it would be, is now very strong. The mountains bordering

the valley run--just as I foresaw they would--from

northwest to southeast. The country in front is, as I

anticipated, flat. Venice is, as I assured my readers it

would be, about thirty miles distant from the Piave,

which falls, as I expected it would, into the Adriatic."

IV--THE WAR PROPHECIES

Startling Prophecy in Paris. All Paris is wildly excited

over the extraordinary prophecy of Madame Cleo de Clichy

that the war will be over in four weeks. Madame Cleo,

who is now as widely known as a diseuse, a liseuse, a

friseuse and a clairvoyante, leaped into sudden prominence

last November by her startling announcement that the

seven letters in the Kaiser's name W i l h e l m represented

the seven great beasts of the apocalypse; in the next

month she electrified all Paris by her disclosure that

the four letters of the word C z a r--by substituting

the figure 1 for C, 9 for Z, 1 for A, and 7 for R produce

the date 1917, and indicated a revolution in Russia. The

salon of Madame Cleo is besieged by eager crowds night

and day. She may prophesy again at any minute.

Startling Forecast. A Russian peasant, living in

Semipalatinsk, has foretold that the war will end in

August. The wildest excitement prevails not only in

Semipalatinsk but in the whole of it.

Extraordinary Prophecy. Rumbumbabad, India. April 1. The

whole neighbourhood has been thrown into a turmoil by

the prophecy of Ram Slim, a Yogi of this district, who

has foretold that the war will be at an end in September.

People are pouring into Rumbumbabad in ox-carts from all

directions. Business in Rumbumbabad is at a standstill.

Excitement in Midgeville, Ohio. William Bessemer Jones,

a retired farmer of Cuyahoga, Ohio, has foretold that

the war will end in October. People are flocking into

Midgeville in lumber wagons from all parts of the country.

Jones, who bases his prophecy on the Bible, had hitherto

been thought to be half-witted. This is now recognised

to have been a wrong estimate of his powers. Business in

Midgeville is at a standstill.

Dog's Foot. Wyoming. April 1. An Indian of the Cheyenne

tribe has foretold that the war will end in December.

Business among the Indians is at a standstill.

V--DIPLOMATIC REVELATIONS

These were sent out in assortments, and labelled Vienna,

via London, through Stockholm. After reading them with

feverish eagerness for nearly four years, I decided that

they somehow lack definiteness. Here is the way they ran:

"Special Correspondence. I learn from a very high authority,

whose name I am not at liberty to mention, (speaking to

me at a place which I am not allowed to indicate and in

a language which I am forbidden to use)--that

Austria-Hungary is about to take a diplomatic step of

the highest importance. What this step is, I am forbidden

to say. But the consequences of it--which unfortunately

I am pledged not to disclose--will be such as to effect

results which I am not free to enumerate."

VI--A NEW GERMAN PEACE FORMULA

Dr. Hertling, the Imperial Chancellor, speaking through

his hat in the Reichstag, said that he wished to state

in the clearest language of which he was capable that

the German peace plan would not only provide the fullest

self determination of all ethnographic categories, but

would predicate the political self consciousness

(politisches Selbstbewusztsein) of each geographical and

entomological unit, subject only to the necessary

rectilinear guarantees for the seismographic action of

the German empire. The entire Reichstag, especially the

professorial section of it, broke into unrestrained

applause. It is felt that the new formula is the equivalent

of a German Magna Carta--or as near to it as they can

get.

VII--THE FINANCIAL NEWS

The war finance, as I remember it, always supplied items

of the most absorbing interest. I do not mean to say that

I was an authority on finance or held any official position

in regard to it. But I watched it. I followed it in the

newspapers. When the war began I knew nothing about it.

But I picked up a little bit here and a little bit there

until presently I felt that I had a grasp on it not easily

shaken off.

It was a simple matter, anyway. Take the case of the

rouble. It rose and it fell. But the reason was always

perfectly obvious. The Russian news ran, as I got it in

my newspapers, like this:--

"M. Touchusoff, the new financial secretary of the Soviet,

has declared that Russia will repay her utmost liabilities.

Roubles rose."

"M. Touchusoff, the late financial secretary of the

Soviet, was thrown into the Neva last evening. Roubles

fell."

"M. Gorky, speaking in London last night, said that Russia

was a great country. Roubles rose."

"A Dutch correspondent, who has just beat his way out of

Russia, reports that nothing will induce him to go back.

Roubles fell."

"Mr. Arthur Balfour, speaking in the House of Commons

last night, paid a glowing tribute to the memory of Peter

the Great. Roubles rose."

"The local Bolsheviki of New York City at the Pan-Russian

Congress held in Murphy's Rooms, Fourth Avenue, voted

unanimously in favor of a Free Russia. Roubles never

budged."

With these examples in view, anybody, I think, could

grasp the central principles of Russian finance. All that

one needed to know was what M. Touchusoff and such people

were going to say, and who would be thrown into the Neva,

and the rise and fall of the rouble could be foreseen to

a kopeck. In speculation by shrewd people with proper

judgment as to when to buy and when to sell the rouble,

large fortunes could be made, or even lost, in a day.

But after all the Russian finance was simple. That of

our German enemies was much more complicated and yet

infinitely more successful. That at least I gathered from

the little news items in regard to German finance that

used to reach us in cables that were headed Via Timbuctoo

and ran thus:--

"The fourth Imperial War Loan of four billion marks, to

be known as the Kaiser's War Loan, was oversubscribed

to-day in five minutes. Investors thronged the banks,

with tears in their eyes, bringing with them everything

that they had. The bank managers, themselves stained with

tears, took everything that was offered. Each investor

received a button proudly displayed by the

too-happy-for-words out-of-the-bank-hustling recipient."

6.--Some Just Complaints About the War

No patriotic man would have cared to lift up his voice

against the Government in war time. Personally, I should

not want to give utterance even now to anything in the

way of criticism. But the complaints which were presented

below came to me, unsought and unsolicited, and represented

such a variety of sources and such just and unselfish

points of view that I think it proper, for the sake of

history, to offer them to the public.

I give them, just as they reached me, without modifications

of any sort.

The just complaint of Mr. Threadler, my tailor, as

expressed while measuring me for my Win-the-War autumn

suit.

"Complaint, sir? Oh, no, we have no complaint to make in

our line of business, none whatever (forty-two, Mr.

Jephson). It would hardly become us to complain (side

pockets, Mr. Jephson). But we think, perhaps, it is rather

a mistake for the Government (thirty-three on the leg)

to encourage the idea of economy in dress. Our attitude

is that the well dressed man (a little fuller in the

chest? Yes, a little fuller in the chest, please, Mr.

Jephson) is better able to serve his country than the

man who goes about in an old suit. The motto of our trade

is Thrift with Taste. It was made up in our spring

convention of five hundred members, in a four day sitting.

We feel it to be (twenty-eight) very appropriate. Our

feeling is that a gentleman wearing one of our thrift

worsteds under one of our Win-the-War light overcoats

(Mr. Jephson, please show that new Win-the-War overcoating)

is really helping to keep things going. We like to reflect,

sir (nothing in shirtings, today?) that we're doing our

bit, too, in presenting to the enemy an undisturbed nation

of well dressed men. Nothing else, sir? The week after

next? Ah! If we can, sir! but we're greatly rushed with

our new and patriotic Thrift orders. Good morning, sir."

The just complaint of Madame Pavalucini, the celebrated

contralto. As interviewed incidentally in the palm-room

of The Slitz Hotel, over a cup of tea (one dollar), French

Win-the-War pastry (one fifty) and Help-the-Navy cigarettes

(fifty).

"I would not want to creetecize ze gouvermen' ah! non!

That would be what you call a skonk treeck, hein?" (Madame

Pavalucini comes from Missouri, and dares not talk any

other kind of English than this, while on tour, with any

strangers listening.) "But, I ask myself, ees it not just

a leetle wrong to discourage and tax ze poor artistes?

We are doing our beet, hein? We seeng, we recite! I seeng

so many beautiful sings to ze soldiers; sings about love,

and youth, and passion, and spring and kisses. And the

men are carried off their feet. They rise. They rush to

the war. I have seen them, in my patriotic concerts where

I accept nothing but my expenses and my fee and give all

that is beyond to the war. Only last night one arose,

right in the front rank--the fauteuils d'orchestre, I do

not know how you call them in English. 'Let me out of

zis,' he scream, 'me for the war! Me for the trenches!'

Was it not magnifique--what you call splendide, hein?

"And then ze gouvermen' come and tell me I must pay zem

ten thousan' dollars, when I make only seexty thousan'

dollars at ze opera! Anozzer skonk treeck, hein?"

The just complaint of Mr. Grunch, income tax payer, as

imparted to me over his own port wine, after dinner.

"No, I shouldn't want to complain: I mean, in any way

that would reach the outside,--reach it, that is, in

connection with my name. Though I think that the thing

ought to be said by SOMEBODY. I think you might say it.

(Let me pour you out another glass of this Conquistador:

yes, it's the old '87: but I suppose we'll never get any

more of it on this side: they say that the rich Spaniards

are making so much money they're buying up every cask of

it and it will never be exported again. Just another

illustration of the way that the war hits everybody

alike.) But, as I was saying, I think if YOU were to

raise a complaint about the income tax, you'd find the

whole country--I mean all the men with incomes--behind

you. I don't suppose they'd want you to mention their

names. But they'd be BEHIND you, see? They'd all be there.

(Will you try one of these Googoolias? They're the very

best, but I guess we'll never see them again. They say

the rich Cubans are buying them up. So the war hits us

there, too.) As I see it, the income tax is the greatest

mistake the government ever made. It hits the wrong man.

It falls on the man with an income and lets the other

man escape. The way I look at it, and the way all the

men that will be behind you look at it, is that if a man

sticks tight to it and goes on earning all the income he

can, he's doing his bit, in his own way, to win the war.

All we ask is to be let alone (don't put that in your

notes as from me, but you can say it), let us alone to

go on quietly piling up income till we get the Germans

licked. But if you start to take away our income, you

discourage us, you knock all the patriotism out of us.

To my mind, a man's income and his patriotism are the

same thing. But, of course, don't say that I said that."

The just complaint of my barber, as expressed in the

pauses of his operations.

"I'm not saying nothing against the Government (any facial

massage this morning?). I guess they know their own

business, or they'd ought to, anyway. But I kick at all

this talk against the barber business in war time (will

I singe them ends a bit?). The papers are full of it,

all the time. I don't see much else in them. Last week

I saw where a feller said that all the barber shops ought

to be closed up (bay rum?) till the war was over. Say,

I'd like to have him right here in this chair with a

razor at his throat, the way I have you! As I see it,

the barber business is the most necessary business in

the whole war. A man'll get along without everything

else, just about, but he can't get along without a shave,

can he?--or not without losing all the pep and self-respect

that keeps him going. They say them fellers over in France

has to shave every morning by military order: if they

didn't the Germans would have 'em beat. I say the barber

is doing his bit as much as any man. I was to Washington

four months last winter, and I done all the work of three

senators and two congressmen (will I clip that neck?)

and I done the work of a United States Admiral every

Saturday night. If that ain't war work, show me what is.

But I don't kick, I just go along. If a man appreciates

what I do, and likes to pay a little extra for it, why

so much the better, but if he's low enough to get out of

this chair you're in and walk off without giving a cent

more than he has to, why let him go. But, sometimes, when

I get thinking about all this outcry about barber's work

in war time, I feel like following the man to the door

and slitting his throat for him... Thank you, sir; thank

you, sir. Good morning. Next!"

The just complaint of Mr. Singlestone;--formerly Mr.

Einstein, Theatre Proprietor.

"I would be the last man, the very last, to say one word

against the Government. I think they are doing fine. I

think the boys in the trenches are doing fine. I think

the nation is doing fine. But, if there's just one thing

where they're wrong, it's in the matter of the theatres.

I think it would be much better for the Government not

to attempt to cut down or regulate theatres in any way.

The theatre is the people's recreation. It builds them

up. It's all part of a great machine to win the war. I

like to stand in the box office and see the money come

in and feel that the theatre is doing its bit. But, mind

you, I think the President is doing fine. So, all I say

is, I think the theatres ought to be allowed to do fine,

too."

The just complaint of Mr. Silas Heck, farmer, as

interviewed by me, incognito, at the counter of the

Gold Dollar Saloon.

"Yes, sir, I say the Government's in the wrong, and I

don't care who hears me. (Say, is that feller in the

slick overcoat listening? Let's move along a little

further.) They're right to carry on the war for all the

nation is worth. That's sound and I'm with 'em. But they

ought not to take the farmer offen his farm. There I'm

agin them. The farmer is the one man necessary for the

country. They say they want bacon for the Allies. Well,

the way I look at it is, if you want bacon, you need

hogs. And if there are no men left in the country like

me, what'll you do for hogs!

"Thanks, was you paying for that? I guess we won't have

another, eh? Two of them things might be bad for a feller."

So, when I used to listen to the complaints of this sort

that rose on every side, I was glad that I was not

President of the United States.

At the same time I DO think that the Government makes a

mistake in taxing the profits of the poor book writers

under the absurd name of INCOME. But let that go. The

Kaiser would probably treat us worse.

I.--Some Startling Side Effects of the War

"There is no doubt," said Mr. Taft recently, "that the

war is destined to effect the most profound uplift and

changes, not only in our political outlook, but upon our

culture, our thought and, most of all, upon our literature."

I am not absolutely certain that Mr. Taft really said

this. He may not have said "uplift." But I seem to have

heard something about uplift, somewhere. At any rate,

there is no doubt of the fact that our literature has

moved--up or down. Yes, the war is not only destined to

affect our literature, but it has already done so. The

change in outlook, in literary style, in mode of expression,

even in the words themselves is already here.

Anybody can see it for himself by turning over the pages

of our fashionable novels or by looking at the columns

of our great American and English newspapers and

periodicals.

But stop,--let me show what I mean by examples. I have

them here in front of me. Take, for example, the London

Spectator. Everybody recognised in it a model of literary

dignity and decorum. Even those who read it least, admitted

this most willingly; in fact, perhaps all the more so.

In its pages to-day one finds an equal dignity of thought,

yet, somehow, the wording seems to have undergone an

alteration. One cannot say just where the change comes

in. It is what the French call a je ne sais quoi, a

something insaisissable, a sort of nuance, not amounting

of course to a lueur, but still,--how shall one put

it,--SOMETHING.

The example that is given below was taken almost word

for word (indeed some of the words actually were so) from

the very latest copy of The Spectator.

EDITORIAL FROM THE LONDON "SPECTATOR"

Showing the Stimulating Effect of the War on Its

Literary Style

"There is no doubt that our boys, and the Americans, are

going some on the western front. We have no hesitation

in saying that last week's scrap was a cinch for the

boys. It is credibly reported by our correspondent at

The Hague that the German Emperor, the Crown Prince and

a number of other guys were eye witnesses of the fight.

If so, they got the surprise of their young lives. While

we should not wish to show anything less than the chivalrous

consideration for a beaten enemy which has been a tradition

of our nation, we feel it is but just to say that for

once the dirty pups got what was coming to them. We are

glad to learn from official quarters that His Majesty

King George has been graciously pleased to telegraph to

General Pershing, 'Soak it to 'em--and THEN some.'

"Meantime the situation from the point of view both of

terrain and of tactics remains altogether in our favour.

The deep salient driven into the German lines near Soissons

threatens to break up their communications and force a

withdrawal on a wide front. We cannot make the position

clearer to our English readers than by saying that our

new lines occupy, as it were, the form of a baseball

diamond, with Soissons at second base and with our

headquarters at the home plate and our artillery support

at third. Our readers will at once grasp the fact that,

with our advance pivoted on the pitcher's box and with

adequate cover at short, the thing is a lead-pipe cinch,

--in fact, we have them lashed to the mast.

"Meantime the mood of the hour should be one, not of

undue confidence or boastfulness, but of quiet resolution

and deep thankfulness. As the Archbishop of Canterbury

so feelingly put it in his sermon in Westminster Abbey

last Sunday, 'Now that we have them by the neck let us

go on, in deep and steadfast purpose, till we have twisted

the gizzard out of them.'

"The Archbishop's noble words should, and will, re-echo

in every English home."

Critical people may be inclined to doubt the propriety,

or even the propinquity, of some of the literary changes

due to the war. But there can be no doubt of the excellent

effect of one of them, namely, the increasing knowledge

and use among us of the pleasant language of France. It

is no exaggeration to say that, before the war, few people

in the United States, even among the colored population,

spoke French with ease. In fact, in some cases the

discomfort was so obvious as to be almost painful. This

is now entirely altered. Thanks to our military guide-books,

and to the general feeling of the day, our citizens are

setting themselves to acquire the language of our gallant

ally. And the signs are that they will do it. One hears

every day in metropolitan society such remarks as, "Have

you read, 'Soo le foo?'" "Oh, you mean that book by

Haingri Barbooze? No, I have not read it yet, but I have

read 'Mong Swassant Quinz' you know, by that other man."

This is hopeful indeed. Nor need we wonder that our best

magazines are reflecting the same tendency.

Here for instance are the opening sentences of a very

typical serial now running in one of our best periodicals:

for all I know the rest of the sentences may be like

them. At any rate, any magazine reader will recognize

them at once:

BONNE MERE PITOU

A Conte of Old Normandy

Bonne Mere Pitou sat spinning beside the porte of the

humble chaumiere in which she dwelt. From time to time

her eyes looked up and down the gran' route that passed

her door.

"Il ne vient pas," she murmured (he does not come).

She rose wearily and went dedans. Presently she came out

again, dehors. "Il ne vient toujours pas," she sighed

(he still does not come).

About her in the tall trees of the allee the percherons

twittered while the soft roucoulement of the bees murmured

drowsily in the tall calice of the chou-fleur.

"Il n'est pas venu," she said (perfect tense, third

singular, he is not, or has not, come).

Can we blame him if he didn't? No doubt he was still

studying his active verb before tackling Mere Pitou.

But there! Let it pass. In any case it is not only the

magazines, but the novels themselves, that are being

transformed by the war. Witness this:

BY ONE OF OUR MOST POPULAR NOVELISTS

"It was in the summer house, at the foot of the old

garden, that the awaited declaration came. Edwin kneeled

at Angelina's feet. At last they were alone! The successful

barrage of conversation which he had put up at breakfast

had compelled her mother to remain in her trenches, and

had driven her father to the shelter of his dug-out. Her

younger brother he had camouflaged with the present of

a new fishing rod, thus inducing him to retire to the

river. The communications with the servants had been cut.

Of the strict neutrality of the gardener he was already

assured. Edwin felt that the moment had come for going

over the top. Yet being an able strategist, he was anxious

not to attempt to advance on too wide a front.

"Angelina!" he exclaimed, raising himself to one knee

with his hands outstretched toward her. The girl started

as at the sound of an air bomb; for a moment she elevated

her eyes and looked him full in the tangent, then she

lowered them again but continued to observe him through

her mental periscope.

"Angelina," he repeated, "I have a declaration to make."

"As from what date?" she questioned quietly. Edwin drew

his watch from his pocket.

"As from this morning, at ten-forty-six," he said. Then,

emboldened by her passive attitude, he continued with

rising passion in his tone.

"Ever since I first met you I have felt that I could not

live without you. I am a changed man. My calibre is

altered. I feel ten centimeters wider in the mouth than

I did six weeks ago. I feel that my path is altered. I

have a new range and an angle of elevation such as I

never experienced before. I have hidden my love as best

I could till now. I have worn a moral gas-mask before

your family. I can do so no longer. Angelina, will you

be mine, forming with me a single unit, drawing our

rations from the same field kitchen and occupying the

same divisional headquarters?"

The girl seemed to hesitate. She raised her eyes to his.

"We know one another so little," she murmured.

Edwin felt that his offensive was failing. He therefore

hastened to bring up his means of support.

"I have an ample income of my own," he pleaded.

Angelina raised her eyes again. It was evident that she

was about to surrender. But at this moment her mother's

voice was heard calling, "Angelina, Angelina, my dear,

where are you?"

The barrage had broken down.

"Quick," said the girl, "mobilize yourself. Pick up that

tennis racket and let us hurry to the court and dig

ourselves in."

"But my declaration," urged Edwin eagerly.

"Accepted," she said, "as from eleven-two this morning."

In the 1600s, Balthasar Gracian, a jesuit priest wrote 300 aphorisms on living life called "The Art of Worldly Wisdom." Join our newsletter below and read them all, one at a time.