Chapter XVIII: Through Pennsylvania 219 (5)

Sometimes larger craft will pass, manned by gentlemen wearing the ordinary naval officer's caps but dressed in khaki shirts and breeches. They are naval reserve officers and are out with the fell purpose of laying mines of a harmless nature, and when they pass M----, R----, and I give up enticing the wily crab to fix itself to the piece of mutton we have dangling at the end of a string, and have a good look to see if we can recognize any of our club members. Sometimes we see J----, sometimes we catch a glimpse of B----; often J---- is at the helm, so we all wave, but they are much too serious about their work to notice us, so we return to the job of catching crabs for to-morrow's dinner. This crab catching is rather fun, but R---- is very bad at it for as soon as a crab has been tempted to fix its great big claws to the bait, she gets very excited and the crab gets suspicious and lets go.

One day Eddy and I called on the superintendent and had tea, and I am perfectly certain that we stayed too long, but we hated leaving, because our hostess and host were so amusing, and in any case, it was their fault. There were several midshipmen present; third year men, I believe. That academy training would make a man out of any "rabbit."

At the end of the week, all my friends of the naval reserve graduated, and we all went to see the ceremony. The superintendent made a short speech, every sentence of which was of value--short, brisk, bright, inspiring. The Secretary of the Navy then addressed the men and presented them with their diplomas. We all cheered as our friends went up and returned with their certificates. K---- got a particularly enthusiastic reception. He is a youth of great size, a mighty man before the Lord, a fine type of American manhood. He now commands a submarine destroyer and my great hope is that the Boche sea soldiers won't get him.

After the ceremony we all parted feeling a little miserable in spite of the fact that we were all going to meet in New York, a few days later, at a party given by a very charming American lady who had invited us to be her guests in New York.

The New York party was a great success. I occupied an apartment at the hotel which the Duke of Plaza Tora would have been proud to live in. We went to theatres together and also visited the Midnight Frolic.

The very name "Midnight Frolic" suggests sin and wickedness, but the show is not at all wicked, really. If you want to be particularly devilish, the thing to do is to engage a table right underneath a glass gallery where a few chorus ladies walk around. This struck me as being a little curious, because it could either be impossibly revolting or merely futile. It must obviously be the latter, but I dare say certain men feel themselves to be "reg'lar fellers" as they look at these ladies from an impossible angle. I wonder why they have it, but I suppose the people running the show realize that it takes lots of people to make up this funny world, and that quite a large portion of humanity, while hating to be really nasty, likes at times to appear fearfully wicked to others. I guess that they are merely "showing off" like the people at the Sunday school exercises in Tom Sawyer. This world would be a very puritanical place if folk showed themselves to be as good as they really are.

The next night we went to a musical comedy which had some bright spots marred a little by the leading actor who possessed the supreme courage to imitate a rather more clever person than himself--Billy Sunday. Of course, if Billy Sunday is a knave then the actor chap is doing the right thing to expose him, but quite numbers of people have been made a little better by the Reverend William and the evidence seems to show that he is sincere and just as capable of making men better as of being able to play a jolly good game of base ball. "_Voila!_"

A few days after this I visited two members of the Reina Club who are married to each other and who live on Long Island with a tiny wee baby. I loved the baby especially. She had a bad cold and her wee nose was all red at the corners and her tiny eyes were watering, but that did not prevent her from being a profound optimist. She looked at me doubtfully for a moment while she wondered if I would respond to the great big smile she threatened to give me. I got the smile all right.

And now I am back in Bethlehem, but my mind refuses to think about guns and gun carriages, but rather persists in soaring sometimes down to Annapolis, sometimes down to Norfolk, often across the ocean to the Irish channel, at all of which places I have warm friends amongst the sailors of Uncle Sam.

XIII

GUNS AND CARRIAGES

BETHLEHEM, U. S. A., October 30, 1917.

I want to tell you about an interesting race of people called "inspectors." If you are merely a footslogger, and know nothing about guns and carriages, I had better give you a slight idea of the things that happen to a simple gun and carriage before it reaches the comparative rest of the battlefield.

Now the word "inspector" at once suggests someone who inspects. I've had to inspect my men in order to prepare myself and them for the visitation of the major, who in turn awaits the colonel. But the inspection of a gun is a very different matter. As a mere person who is responsible for the firing of the thing, and also the unwilling target of the people who desire to destroy the gun and its servants, I was always wont to call the whole thing, including the wheels and all the mechanism, a "gun." But this showed remarkable inaccuracy. The gun is just the tubes of steel, with the top or outside one termed the jacket, that form what a layman would call the barrel, and a properly trained recruit "the piece." All the rest is the carriage. If you are dealing with inspectors be very careful about this. They are generally awfully good at mathematics, and can dictate letters by the yard without winking. They can work out fearful things called curves. I believe this has something to do with strain, and suggests to my unmathematical mind the dreadful thing I had to draw in order to get through my "little go."

Now the manufacturer of a gun and carriage doesn't just make the thing, and then after a few trial shots hand it over to the inspector saying: "Here's your gun. Now go and shoot the Germans, I don't think it will burst during the first preliminary bombardment and kill a few men." No sir! The inspector is responsible to his government, that every inch of that gun and carriage is according to specification. I should think that on an average each complete gun and carriage requires at least five pounds of correspondence, three lesser arguments, four greater arguments, two heated discussions and one decent fight. I have been present at a fight or two and have come to the wholesome conclusion that both sides were right--so what can you do?

Now inspectors can be easily divided into two classes--the thorough mechanic who knows more than the manufacturer about the production of the piece he is inspecting, and the other. The first chap only requires to use the five pounds of paper, and seldom or never has the arguments, unless he lacks a sense of humour. I know an inspector of whom a shop foreman boasted: "That ther koirnel could condemn every bit of woirk in the shop without making a single enemy." Now in these times of stress the fellow above described is a rare blessing, so the men on the job have got to do their very best. Still inspectors are strange and interesting people.

Before I came out here, I toured all the great munition factories in England. I had a wonderful time, but never met an inspector. Now that I come to think of it, I do remember having seen sitting at the table at lunch one day some gunner officers, but I thought that they were anti-aircraft fellows. They must have been inspectors.

In peace time, I suppose the job is an entirely different proposition. The firm that manufactures artillery and shells probably gets an order for half a dozen equipments and I suppose the contract time is liberal. Then the inspector's job and the manufacturer's is simple. The inspector must have rigid attention to specifications, and the manufacturer, possibly, only has his best men doing the work. I should think then that things would run smoothly.

In these days of stress the contract time is cut down to the shortest possible, and instead of getting orders by the dozen, a manufacturer gets them by the hundred, sometimes by the thousand. The result is that all his men are on the job. Also many other munition firms are doing the same sort of work and really good workmen become scarce. Then again the inspection staff is multiplied tremendously, and it naturally takes years to make a really good inspector. Still the fellows I know do their very utmost to make things go smoothly. But let me tell you just a little about things as I see them, and of course I see them through inexperienced eyes.

A manufacturer decides to make a gun and some money, thereby proving himself to be an optimist. Of course, he may succeed in making the gun. Poor fellow! He ought to be allowed to make the inspector, too. But he cannot, and so commences a strife in comparison to which the great war is a mild performance.

An inspector is ordered to inspect the production of guns at a given munition plant. He arrives, and meets the officials of the company, and the first hour is spent in social amenities. But the inspector is not deceived. He knows that all manufacturers are nice villains, so he must be on his guard. If, however, he is a villain himself, and I deny, of course, the existence of villainous inspectors, the matter should be easy and simple; the whole process is delightful and the manufacturer will make much money and his optimism will be justified. If the manufacturer is an honest gentleman and, strangely enough, all the manufacturers I have met are honest gentlemen, a villainous inspector will have a hectic time. Some honest manufacturers are comparatively intelligent, and of course the villainous inspector, if he existed, would soon leave a rope behind him upon which he could be safely hanged. Upon an occasion like this if it should happen, I, as a Briton, would sing "God Save Our Gracious King," and an American would doubtlessly sing "The Star Spangled Banner," if he could only remember the words and had a voice of sufficient mobility. However, the whole position is difficult. There are boundless opportunities for an inspector to develop "frightfulness."

But let us trace the history of a simple gun and carriage. Its opportunities for frightfulness and a frightful mess end only when it reaches the firing line. It has really reached paradise or Nirvana when it is issued to the battery.

The manufacturer gives orders to the steel mill to make certain steel ingots. The inspectorial eye watches the billets. They must be of sufficient length so that the frothy part of the ingot at the top will not form a vital part of the forging. Generally speaking, the intelligence of the steel man prevents this from happening so that the inspector merely gives this a little attention.

The steel is then forged into what eventually will be tubes, breech rings, and jackets. You see a gun is generally made in at least two parts unless it is a very small one. They are shrunk together. The inspector ignores these forgings until they have been "heat-treated." It is sufficient to say that the forgings are placed in the hands of the gentleman in charge of the treatment department. After treatment, a portion of the steel is cut off. This portion enters the laboratory and here it is placed in a machine which pulls it apart. The machine displays a sort of tug of war and the inspectors watch. The steel has got to stand a certain strain. At a certain strain it should stretch; this is called the elastic limit. At a greater strain it should break, this is called the ultimate limit. If the steel fails to pass, the gentleman in charge of the treatment department has failed us all, and a feeling of exhaustion creeps over the man in charge of production, for he knows that he must worry the life out of the fellow until he gets it through again. In these times of stress when all munition factories in America are endeavouring to work above their capacity the man in charge of production has a rotten time of it.

However, the steel sometimes gets through and finally reaches a machine shop. Generally speaking, the foreign inspector doesn't worry very much about the actual gun until it has been proof-fired. If the manufacturer has been clever he will have caused his own inspection staff to watch closely every inch of the steel as the machine work gradually exposes the metal. If he is wise he will immediately condemn the whole thing if it is very bad. If the fault is trifling he will have several arguments and a heated discussion including an appeal to the production man, who will sympathize but do very little. Perhaps the inspector will decide to let the work go on. Inspectors are sometimes bad at deciding. They ponder and ponder and ponder until the production man decides that they are fools and the manufacturer's man decides that they are villainous and officious, and possess any amount of damnable qualities. It is all very difficult. I seem to be wandering on and on about inspectors, but it is interesting when you think that in a comparatively simple gun and carriage there are at least three thousand parts, and every part contains the possibility of an argument.

Why doesn't this wonderful country give titles to its kings of manufacture? It would simplify matters considerably. You see Mr. Jones in the position of an inspector, or even Lieutenant Jones, or possibly Major Jones of the Terriers regards himself as much superior to any "damned Yankee," and takes a vastly superior attitude. This can be displayed in an argument. Now if Mr. Beetles, president of the Jerusalem Steel Company, could only be Lord Rekamnug or the Duke of Baws, believe me, our national snobbishness would prevent Mr. Jones in the position of an inspector, or even Lieutenant Jones, or possibly Major Jones of the Terriers minus a sense of humour, from taking the futile attitude of superiority which could only be displayed by the wives and daughters of the more elegant clergy and smaller country gentlemen in "Blighty."

Of course, as a production man, it is my duty to regard inspectors as effete. Still I will be a traitor and say that a certain inspector who was at one time the manager of a large ordnance factory not many miles from Leamington did a great deal for our country over here during this time of trouble. I wish I could mention his name, but I fear the censor. He was the "koirnal who could condemn any amount of work without making a single enemy." He had personality--that colonel.

An inspector obviously should be a specialist. He must know his job thoroughly. He must know as much about manufacture and metallurgy as the average officer in a mounted regiment thinks he knows about horses. As I said before, the whole matter was perfectly simple in the days of peace. Now it is different. It is impossible to get sufficient men in these days for the job, so we have got to take what we can get. The most dangerous form of inspector is the fellow that knows just a little and pretends that he knows an awful lot. His very ignorance allied to his sense of duty will make it impossible for him to decide when a part is serviceable, although not absolutely up to specifications. This man causes delays and trouble.

Then there is the chap who knows quite a lot, but alas, possesses no sense of humour! This type is called an obstructionist. He is very difficult, well nigh impossible. He has much fighting spirit and thoroughly enjoys a dispute with the manufacturer. He also enjoys his autocratic position. Quite often he gives in all right, but he lacks "sweet reasonableness." The longer one lives, the more one sees the value of personality in every branch of life.

An essential quality in a good inspector is personality. This never exists minus a sense of humour. An inspector has to condemn masses of work--work that has had hours and hours of patient machining and fitting. If he could only do it nicely! Quite often, he uses a large axe when a fine surgical instrument would save a lot of trouble. In America it ought not to be difficult, for in my humble opinion the American manufacturer is generally "sweetly reasonable." It always seems to me a good thing if you honestly disapprove of a man or a nation, moreover, in dealing with that man or nation to hide your thoughts, or forget them, if possible. Take the "wisest fool" in Christendom's advice to the Presbyterians at the Hampton Court conference--"Pray, gentlemen, consider that perhaps you may be wrong."

In every organization there is always a definite procedure which has got to be adhered to. The big man and the fool will take a short cut sometimes and they often get away with it. Of course, they do not always and there is trouble, but the big man takes his punishment. The mediocre man will always stick to the beaten tracks, with the crowd.

It has always seemed to me that during these distressful times all short cuts should be taken. The guns have got to get to France and that is all about it. If they are thoroughly serviceable that is all that matters.

But talking about short cuts and fools, I remember an awful thing that happened to me once in the early days of the war while we were training in England. I, as a fellow from the cavalry, was given the charming job of teaching the N.C.O.'s of two brigades to ride. It had to be done quickly, of course, so instead of taking the men into the riding school I used to take them across country. Of course, they fell off by the dozens. I commanded them to follow me and dashed down narrow tracks in the forest at a good smart trot. It meant bending down to avoid branches or getting swept off. All kinds of things used to happen but they learnt to stick to their horses. Sometimes I had not enough horses, and I am ashamed to say that some of my fellows pinched all the mounts from another battery. Quite selfish this, and when the officer commanding the battery whose horses had been pinched asked where his gees were, he was told that they had been pinched "by that there lootenant who takes the sergeants out over the hills to see the German prison camps." Of course, it is well to say that I was ignorant of the whole proceeding and although all Battery D's horses had been taken they only numbered about twelve. Incidentally this officer said nothing to me about it, but he gave his own men hell for allowing the horses to be taken, showing himself thereby a clever man. However, I did not mind very much. My N.C.O.'s had to learn to ride and that was all about it.

One day I decided that as they had all attained a good seat it might be a good idea to put them through a short course in the riding school. It was important that I should get the riding school at the time I wanted it which was nine o'clock. I am ashamed to say that I had not read orders that morning otherwise I would have scented danger.

At 8.45 I sent three large Welsh miners up to the riding school to prevent others from getting there before me. I told them to hold the school against all comers. This thrilled them; our sentries were only armed with sticks in those days, so they procured large sticks and took up a position at the door of the riding school. I wish I had read orders that day.

At nine o'clock I advanced to the door of the school, and to my horror I saw a gentleman on a large horse with a red cap and many decorations being held at bay by my three Welshmen. I nearly beat a strategic retreat, but it was difficult so I advanced in much fear. He rode up to me looking purple and said: "Did you put these men here to hold the riding school?" I saluted and replied meekly: "Yes, sir!" "Why, may I ask?" "Well, sir," I replied, "I have never had a chance to use the riding school and every time I come I find it already full." He looked bitterly at me and said: "Boy, do you ever read orders?" This silenced me. Then he started to move off but turning round asked me my name, and then he said: "Never put sentries at the door of a riding school; it isn't soldiering."

It was all very terrible but Providence looks after fools and I had my hour in the riding school. When lunch time came I rushed to the mess and looked at orders. My heart sank. They showed that a staff officer had arranged to inspect a certain battery's equestrian powers that morning. The men under a sergeant had arrived, but being impressed by the formidable appearance of the Welshmen had decided to go somewhere else. The colonel then arrived and found my sentries. A staff colonel was nothing in their lives, but I as their "lootenant" was very much so, and they knew that they would get into trouble if they failed to do what I had ordered. I was very pleased with them, but knew there would be trouble for me. I had only been an officer three weeks and it looked very bad.

At lunch time I sat as far away as possible from the staff officer. My own colonel, a topping chap, who had left his charming old country house to help to make us all soldiers sat next to him. Elderly colonels are sometimes a little deaf and they shout as a rule. I was very worried until I saw my own colonel looking down at me with a grin. A moment after, he gave the staff colonel a smack on the back and said: "Timkins, you funny old top, fancy being kept out of the riding school by one of my subalterns!" I felt safe after that and looked for promotion.

Of course, I would not recommend that sort of thing to any one. After a time, I learnt better and discovered that at regular intervals during the week I had the right to use the riding school. It appeared in orders. However, I learnt a great lesson, _i.e._, that if you want a thing badly enough there are always ways of getting it if you are willing to take risks. However, it is a good idea to know the extent of the risk.

In this life you must be honest, of course, but there is nothing like a little wiliness to help out occasionally. My major was the wiliest person I have ever met, also the best officer. He knew more than most people did in the brigade because he had been wounded at the Marne, though slightly, so that in the early days of training he was the only officer of rank who had seen service.

One day he sent me off to the ordnance stores with about one hundred men, because he alleged that the "emergency caps" supplied to the men did not fit. They did fit all right, but the major had hopes. These emergency caps were made of nasty blue serge and were the variety that are placed on the side of the head and that are shaped like the boats you make for children out of a square of paper. They suggest a section of the bellows of a concertina.

Now the way to get stores from the ordnance depot is to write out a requisition. It is sent off by the Q.M.S., and returns in a day or two, because he has not filled out the form correctly. However, after many weeks the things arrive but half of them may not fit, and there is trouble and worry. Upon no consideration, do you send your men to the stores to have the caps and tunics fitted. This is obviously impossible. However, off I went with my hundred men to Aldershot, eight miles distant. They were a funny bunch, I will admit. We arrived at the department where caps were kept. We marched in fours, myself at the head, and then came into line in front of the building. It had never occurred before and astonishment was displayed on the faces of the sergeants and others, who wondered what should happen next. I sought the officer in charge and the sergeant took me to his office. On the way I took some shameless steps with the sergeant and made him my friend for life.

The officer in charge, a ranker captain, was not very pleased, but I talked a lot and made him regard himself as vital to my earthly happiness. I painted in vivid colours the smallness of my men's caps; how they fell off when they doubled, and what confusion ensued in the ranks as they all stooped to pick them up. He grew more friendly, and slightly amused, and said he would do what he could. We started to go out to the men, the sergeant helping me wonderfully, but, alas, we met an old man with a red cap and of furious mien who stood looking at my brave soldiers in the distance with much displeasure. He came to me and gave me blazes and ordered me to get out of it. He disliked intensely the fact that my major regarded him as a shop keeper, he, the "D.C.O.S." or something equally dreadful! I explained that the caps did not fit, and that we were desperate men. He said: "They do fit." "Well, sir, will you have a look?" We had to go round, in order to avoid a platform from which stores were loaded into wagons G. S. I jumped this place and quickly told the sergeant to make the men put their caps on the very tip of their heads, to change some, to do anything, but to do it quickly. The men were fools--they took the matter as a joke and commenced exchanging one anothers' caps, laughing and affecting a certain cunning which seemed fatal to me. The general, of course, caught them in the very act, appreciated the situation and roared with laughter. After that it was not difficult. All of my men were supplied, not with new emergency caps, but with beautiful field service khaki caps and they took away with them one hundred extra caps for the men at home. When this operation had finished the general said: "Now is there anything else that you want, for I'm damned if I will have you coming here again in this manner?" It was all wrong, hopelessly wrong, but we were proud soldiers as we marched back into the barracks at Deep Cut, each man wearing a perfect cap and carrying another. Of sixteen batteries, we were the only people who could boast of "caps, service field."

The major, of course, was pleased but if it had not come off I should have been the person to get _strafed_, and not he.

There are always short cuts, even in the inspection of guns and carriages.

I sometimes wonder how I have managed to get along out here possessing so much ignorance of business. It has been comparatively simple. I had no intention of being clever, even if it were possible, and from the start I took a perfectly honest line, and placed all my cards on the table. I found that this was a fairly unusual manner of doing business and it worked well. I also made the discovery that, instead of being cunning knaves, the American manufacturers of my experience were honest gentlemen. In any case, I decided that if they were cunning the heights of my cunning would never reach theirs, owing to my lack of experience. I also endeavoured to learn from them a "good approach." This helped. I just put it up to them. "Here am I out here to get work from you. We must have it. We've got to _strafe_ the Germans somehow and it is up to you to help me." And they have, bless them, especially the big men. At any rate, I can safely say that anything I have wanted I have got.

I think that I realized the situation. Not only had they mostly "bitten off more than they could chew," but they had not realized the difficulties they were up against. Of course, one had to use a little common sense. During my time here in America one has learnt a great deal, and, indeed, one has met some villains. They were not "Yankee manufacturers."

Do you remember Lady Deadlock's lover in "Bleak House," and the street boy's eulogy after his death, "He was very good to me, he was"? That is how I feel towards the men I have met during my time here. They have been very good to me, all of them. I suppose that if I had been an inspector the matter would have been different. Perhaps I have laughed a little at inspectors, but my job has been child's play compared with theirs.

The average American, like other folk, enjoys a decent fight, but he dislikes killing people by machinery; hence the machinery of war has never been manufactured to any great extent over here. The American is impatient of delay. He wants to get going. When held up, he sometimes fails to see the inspector's point of view. He is an optimist, but optimism in gun and carriage manufacture will often bring some bitterness of heart, and when an optimist develops bitterness, it's awful.

XIV

A PREMATURE

BETHLEHEM, U. S. A., November, 1917.

I have grown steadily to love the American people. English people I have met in this country have helped me so much. Contrasta!!

I went to Cambridge after life in New Zealand, where a spade is called a spade--and that's all about it; where, if you are strong enough, you knock a man down if he calls you a liar. At Cambridge, I discovered that no one had any desire to call anyone else a liar. Lying persons, and those who told unpleasant truths, were not on your list of acquaintances and as far as you were concerned they did not exist. "Napoo," as Tommy says.

But the people one did know and like, one studied and endeavoured to understand. One also tried to act accordingly so that even if they behaved in a peculiar fashion one avoided allowing them to even suspect disapproval.

So our older universities try valiantly to turn out, not necessarily educated persons, but persons who have a faint idea how to behave themselves when they are away from home. This does not mean merely the use of an elegant accent called here with a little amusement "English." It means that the fellow who takes a superior attitude towards anyone is merely a stupid bounder. It means also that the fellow who thinks himself, as a member of the British Nation, to be better or in any way superior to any other nation is a fool. He may be superior, of course, but the mere thought of this superiority entering his mind ruins him at once, and, as I said before, turns him into a bounder.

In other words, "Love your own country intensely and beyond all other countries, but for Heaven's sake don't let anyone suspect that you regard yourself as a good specimen of its human production." If, unfortunately, you discover, not only that you love yourself, but also that it is owing to you and your like that the British Empire is great, climb the Woolworth Building, not forgetting to pay your dime, and then drop gracefully from the highest pinnacle. You will save your nation and your countrymen much suffering and a good deal of embarrassment.

No one has ever given this advice before, I am quite sure: that probably accounts for the fact that Britishers _do_ suffer and are embarrassed when they meet some of their fellow countrymen over here, for it is quite un-British to be a bounder, and it is quite un-Christian to be a snob. Which is a strange fact, but true nevertheless: yet, who would suspect it.

I used to think that an American was a hasty person, constantly talking about the finest thing on the earth, which he deemed everything American to be; that his wife was a competent, rather forward person, who delighted to show her liberty by upsetting our old notions of propriety. I have often heard people telling the story of the American lady who thought it funny to blow out some sacred light that had never been extinguished for centuries--and all that sort of thing. In fact, anything outrageous done in England or on the continent by a woman is at once put down to an American. We had some charming specimens of Britons on the continent in the days of peace.

And yet we sincerely like the American people. We don't mean to run them down really, but we assume a superior air that must be perfectly awful. I have been just as guilty. I remember feeling quite faint at St. John's College, Oxford, where they seemed to have the unpleasant habit of breakfasting in hall, when I heard two Rhodes' scholars talking. They were very friendly to the waiters, who hated it, and their accent disgusted me. They seemed isolated, too. At the moment, having lived for a year in America, I wonder how on earth one's attitude could have been such. Frankly, there seems no excuse: it is merely rude and unpardonable. Still, perfectly nice people have this attitude. I wish that we could change, because the effect over here is most regrettable. One would like the Americans to know us at our best, because we are not really an unpleasant people.

Of course, the sloppy individual seeking a fortune arrives "over here" and burns incense to the "Yankees," as he calls them, but they are not deceived. Some of us used to look upon the folk over here as fair game. All Americans are hospitable, even the very poor, and a stray Englishman comes in for his share of kindness. But he invariably assumes a superior attitude, although unconsciously.

The American people have mostly been with us all along in our efforts to fight the Germans. The well educated people definitely like us, but the great mass just don't. The Irish element hates us, or poses that way. _People don't know this._

In England we don't seem to realize the Irish question. We regard the Irish as a delightful and amusing people. Most of our serious experience has been with the Irish gentry, really English and Scotch, who through years have assumed the delightful mannerisms of the people with whom they have lived. We also shoot and hunt with the real Irishman and find him delightful and romantic. His wonderful lies and flattery please us, but we don't for a single instant take him seriously. The great mass of people here think that we ill-treat the Irish. This is interesting. An Irishman arrives here and finds wonderful opportunities for expansion, and glorious opportunities to fight. He compares his present life with that of his former and the former looks black and horrible. An Englishman and a Scotchman of the same class feel the same way. The Irishman having been brought up on "Irish wrongs" blames the English for his past discomfort. I have heard fairly intelligent people speaking of Irish wrongs, but when asked in what way the Irish treatment differs from that meted out to the average Englishman they are unable to answer. The thing seems a little bit involved.

During this time of war there have been, of course, large numbers of Englishmen over here on duty. Their attitude varies a little, but on the whole, it is a little difficult to understand. Lieutenant Jones arrives, having been badly wounded and is unfit for further service. The folk here at once give him a wonderful time. They listen to his words and entertain him very much. So much incense is burnt to him that his head becomes pardonably swelled. Representing his government and the buyer of huge supplies he has interviews with great men, who treat him with vast respect. They ask him to spend week-ends at their houses.

The great captain of industry has risen to his present position by one of two things--either by brutal efficiency, or by terrific personality, but mostly the latter. The subaltern finds him charming and, mark you, very humble. Temporary Lieutenant Smith likes the Americans.

Millionaires and multi-millionaires are often his companions. He is receiving, possibly, three hundred dollars a month, but he seldom has to entertain himself. Familiarity breeds contempt, and he feels that he himself ought really to be a millionaire. His advice is often taken and a certain contempt for the intelligence of his friends creeps into his mind. He thinks of after-the-war days and he endeavours to lay plans. He perhaps lets a few friends know that he wants a job after the war, though I have not heard of any one seeking a millionaire's daughter.

Now arrives plain Mr. Jones who has not been to the front. American society tries him out, and, finding him wanting, to his astonishment drops him. In American society you must have something to recommend you. You must amuse and interest. The mere fact of your being a representative of Great Britain won't save you. You must also be a gentleman and behave accordingly. If you even think that the American people are rather inferior and a little awful you are done. I know several British people in America who are not known in polite society, and who seem to have fallen back upon their Britishness and spend diverting hours discussing the "damn Yankees." That is, of course, the whole trouble. People never seem to realize that the tongue is not the only method of communication. Our feelings can be communicated without a word spoken. So some of us over here talk fairly and courteously to the American people, while regarding them as something a little terrible and quite impossible socially. Our hosts realise this at once and like children they are fearfully sensitive. It either amuses them or makes them furious, generally the former.

When we visit France or Spain and endeavour to learn the language of either country, we regard ourselves as peculiarly clever persons if we can manage to cultivate the French or Spanish idioms and manners. We even return to England and affect them a little, in order that people may see that we are travelled persons. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, I suppose; but never do we imitate the Americans, or even affect their manners while here. To illustrate. In Bethlehem, and indeed in other parts of America, it is _de rigeur_ to say that you are pleased to meet a person when introduced. It is done by the best people. In England, a person who says he is pleased to meet you is suspected of having some ulterior motive. It is not done.

I spent a happy day in Washington with some members of the Balfour mission and I noticed that one fellow, an Oxford Don, invariably said when introduced to American people: "I'm very pleased to meet you." He explained that it was the custom of the country and had to be followed. It is not wonderful that one noticed how well these fellows got on with the folk here.

Americans have a profound dislike for gossip. They seldom "crab" people. Of course, a conversation is never so interesting as when someone's reputation is getting smashed to pieces, but this is not done here. If a party of British people with their wives (and emphasis is laid on the wives) get together there are sure to be some interesting happenings. Each wife will criticise the other wife and generally there will be a certain amount that is unpleasant. In England we understand this, and expect it. The picture of people of the same blood squabbling together in a foreign country is quite diverting and interesting to Americans. One English woman will criticise another English woman, and will do so to an American who promptly tells her friends. I have heard some very interesting tales.

Frankly, my fellow countrymen have shown me many wonderful qualities amongst our cousins, and I have realized a big thing. The American people must get to know us and they must get to like us. I wonder if we shall bother to like them?

XV

"BON FOR YOU: NO BON FOR ME"

I get slightly annoyed with the newspapers and indeed with some of my friends over here when they pass rude remarks about the King of England. The people don't seem to understand why we keep a king and all that sort of thing. They all admit that the British Empire is a successful organization, but they cannot quite see that an empire must have an emperor. When one thinks of India without its emperor! Still the point is that the majority of British citizens of every colour prefer to have a king and that is all there is about it.

When the news of the Russian revolution broke upon the world, people of this country commenced to discuss the possibility of similar occurrences in other European countries. It was said by some that Germany and Austria-Hungary would soon follow suit, and that even England would give up her childish, through ornamental practice of having kings in golden crowns, and noble lords riding in stately carriages. In other words, the rest of the world, realizing the advantages of the United States form of government, would sooner or later have revolutions of more or less ferocity and change into republics. And it is easy to understand this. A monarchy seems totally opposed to common sense.

It was very interesting to see the remarks in the newspapers of this country when his Majesty King George of England attended the service in St. Paul's, London, on America's Day.

They were kindly, of course, as befits the American characteristic of kindliness. One paper likened the king to a national flag which England kept as an interesting antique. He was also described as an "Emblem of Unity," whatever that may mean. One leading New York paper, in saying that England was doing very well as she is in that she is keeping the flame of democracy burning, remarked that "George's" sole contribution to the war was the banishment of wine from his table. I suppose the writer of this article must be intimately acquainted with the king when he can call him by his Christian name. Always Americans seem to think that Great Britain is a democracy in spite of the monarchy. We of Great Britain know that she is a democracy and a great empire because of the monarchy. Some day America will realize more fully that the things of the spirit are greater than the things of the flesh. Then she will understand why we love our King; and do you know, we do love him quite a lot.

I am going to try to explain, a difficult task, why a monarchy is for us the most effective form of government. A nation is, I suppose, a group of persons bound together for self-preservation. In order to make self-preservation effective it is essential that there should be unity and contentment. In England, where there is really a surplus population, this is difficult. So a government will take into consideration all the needs of the people over whom it is placed. Nothing must be forgotten, or sooner or later there will be trouble. With us the task is a difficult one. With her vast empire it is marvellous how Great Britain succeeds. She succeeds because she realizes that men will follow the dictates of their hearts rather than their minds. The world was astonished when at the hour of her need men of every color came from every corner of the earth to give if necessary their lives for the empire because they loved it so dearly. The things of the spirit are greater than the things of the flesh. Our monarchy is really a thing of the spirit. Take it away from us and surely you will see the British Empire crumble and decay. The world would be poorer then. We Britons have irritating faults; of course we have. Our insular snobbishness must be very irritating to American people. Still we try to be fair and just in our muddling way. God knows we have done some rather curious things at times. They say we were atrocious to the Boers, yet the Boers to-day are loyal to the empire of which they are now an important part. We don't force this loyalty; it just grows.

So we British beg of the American people not to suggest taking our king from us. It is difficult to explain this patriotism which produces such results; but go to New Zealand and you will find that it is the boast, and the proud boast of many, that they have seen the king. Go to Australia, where the working man rules the country, and hear the national anthem played, or watch the flag being saluted in the schools, and if you are courageous pass a rude remark about the king. Go to any part of the empire, and you will find something inexplicable, something unexplainable, which always points to Buckingham Palace and the little man there. Americans look upon this with good-natured condescension. I wonder why? It is not far to Canada, but you will find it there, too, where they ought to be more enlightened since they live next to the greatest republic. Always is it the empire, and always is "God save the King" the prayer of the people. Perhaps we are a little bit mad, we British, but I daresay we will continue being mad, since madness binds together a mighty throng of people who in perhaps a poor sort of way stand for fairness and decency. We all know how much of the child remains in us, even when we are old. We look back to the days when we believed in fairies, and sometimes when we are telling stories to our children we let our imagination have full play, and gnomes and fairies and even kings and princesses once more people our minds.

Is there anything more obnoxious than a child who refuses to believe in fairies or who is not thrilled at Christmas time at the approaching visit of Santa Claus? He misses so much. He hasn't got that foundation to his mind that will make life bearable when responsibility brings its attendant troubles. Take away our monarchy and we Britons become like children who don't believe in fairies. We won't know what to do. The monarchy supplies a wonderful need to us.

There is also a more practical reason for the retention of the monarchy. We hold that a constitutional monarch is necessary to a properly decentralized form of government. Party politics reign supreme in England. The government passes a bill amidst the howls of the opposition party and the opposition press. Then the bill is taken to the King and he has _the_ right to veto it. He knows, however, that he must rule in accordance with the wishes of his people, and so the bill receives the royal signature and becomes law. A subtle change occurs. The press, wonderfully powerful in England, becomes less bitter and the opposition ceases to rage a little. Soon the law settles down into its right place. So the king's signature is effective in that it makes the issuing of a new law gentler and sweeter.

Is it not true that a king of great personality can have tremendous power for good? Most people recognize now the power of our late King Edward, some know the influence of our present monarch. All through this present war we feel that the king is sharing our troubles and suffering. You know we are suffering awfully in Great Britain. Even our insular snobbishness does not help us a bit. It seems to have gone somehow.

The king is a gentleman, and can't possibly advertise himself, but it is true that very little goes on without his knowing all about it. He has been working hard reviewing troops, visiting the sick and wounded, helping in a thousand ways. Then he is so fine in his encouragement of individuals. A few words from him to a keen officer helps that officer for the rest of his life.

And so the king sweetens our national life. We love him; of course we do, and we can't help it. Possibly we are fools, but we glory in our foolishness.

A young English officer received the D. S. O. and the Military Cross and finally died at Loos, getting the V. C. He, of course, went to the palace to receive both the D. S. O. and the Military Cross. His father, an old man with snowy white hair, went to get the V. C. The king gave him the medal with a few conventional words, and then, while shaking hands, whispered to the old man to remain. The king, upon finishing the distribution of medals, took the father into an anteroom and then said very quietly: "I say, Mr. K----, I am awfully sorry for you! I've been interested in this boy of _ours_ and remember him well." Then the old man sat down and told the king all about his son, and went away comforted greatly and very proud of his son.

This is just a little thing, but it is the kind of thing that supplies our need.

You know we don't want a republic. Why should we have one? We have a king.

If American people want to understand us they must take this into account. When they talk in terms of good-natured deprecation of our king it hurts. I once spent a week-end with one of the greatest men in this country and was surprised to hear him praising the monarchy merely from a business point of view, and he knew what he was talking about. He had wandered around London listening to the people talk and had studied the whole thing from the coldly commercial side. Perhaps I am talking from an idealistic point of view, and yet my life spent in many parts of the world has been a practical one. It is, of course, quite possible that the world's civilization may collapse and fall to pieces for a season. Human passions are queer things; the cruel spirit of the mob still exists, and it only becomes rampant where the things of the flesh have become greater than the things of the spirit. This war has made us suffer so much that in spite of cheery optimism we are almost benumbed in Great Britain. I was in a large division that was reviewed by the king on Salisbury Plain the day before embarkation, and as we marched past the king on his pretty black Arab he looked at each one of us with that humble expression of a father looking upon his son, and through many weary months in France and Flanders that look was with us, and it helped and encouraged. Even my big charger seemed to know that the king was inspecting him, for he kept time to the march from "Scipio," and we gave the very best salute we could muster up. Possibly none of the men of that division are together to-day.