Chapter II: Part 2

"So we puts a final polish on our bainets and waits. Bimeby we starts out, Sergeant leading the way. We wriggled through the mud like Wapping eels at low tide for the best part of an hour, and at last we got to their trench and halted to listen. There wasn't a sound to be heard; nobody snoring, nobody babbling of beer in his sleep; only absolute silence. Sergeant was lying next to me and I distinctly heard his heart miss several beats. Then all at once we leaps into the air, gives a yell fit to make any German wish he'd never been born, and falls into their trench, doing bainet drill like it would have done your heart good to see. But we stops it as quick as we begun, because there wasn't a single man in that trench. Not one, Sir.

"After a awkward pause, 'The birds have flown,' says our Sub., sorrowful like, as if he'd asked some friends to dinner and the cat had eat the meat.

"'I think, Sir,' says Sergeant, 'that they've abandoned this trench as being untenable, and probably left a few mines behind for us.' I didn't like that. I thought our trench was a much nicer trench in every way, and I felt it was time to think of going back, when suddenly we hears a norrible yell come up from our trench and sounds of blokes jumping about. Yes, Sir, the Germans had made an attack on our trench at the same time, only they had gone round by the other flank, where there was some trees to help them.

"So there they was in our trench, and we in theirs, and dawn just beginning to break. There was only one thing to do. We went back, hoping they would wait for us; but they hopped it quick, same way as they come, and so we finished up just as we was when we started, except for mud. Our Sub. was wild with rage, and he hustled about all the morning looking for defaulters, his face as black as the Kayser's soul; and he even went so far as to curse a Machine Gun Section, which shows you better than words what he felt like. D Company, when they come to relieve us, wouldn't believe a word of it, not till I told them. They had to then, because they knew what my name was. James, Sir, and Truthful as a sort of appendix."

"And there were others, of course, to corroborate your story?"

"To what, Sir?"

"To swear to the truth of it?"

"Oh yes. They swore to it all right. Again and again. But that was nothing to what happened in the same trench when we come back from billets. It was like this here. Our Sub.... What's that you say, Bill?" He broke off. "Time for visitors to leave?"

The Orderly explained that it was so, and, after a cordial leave-taking on the part of the visitor, saw him out and returned.

"Do you know who that was, Jim?" he asked.

"Soon as he started pumping me," replied James, "I offered myself a hundred quid to a bob on his being a noospaper man, but there was no taker at the price, bobs being scarce and me having a dead cert. Suppose I shall be in the local paper on Saturday, Bill?"

"Yes. Thrilling Tales from the Trenches, number forty-three."

"Pity he had to go so soon," sighed James. "I was only just beginning to get into my stride."

* * * * *

* * * * *

From the current Directory of the London Telephone Service:--

"FOREIGN SERVICES (FRANCE, BELGIUM AND SWITZERLAND).

Communication may be obtained between London and Paris
(including the suburbs), Brussels, Antwerp, Basle, Geneva,
Lausanne, and certain provincial towns in France and Belgium.
Full particulars may be obtained on application to the
Controller."

We are afraid these facilities, as far as Belgium is concerned, will shortly be withdrawn. The new Postmaster-General has heard that there is a war on.

* * * * *

"Winter Laying Strain pure bred White Leghorn Cockerels; record
layers: 5s."

_Bath & Wilts Chronicle._

Smith minor's translation of _ab ovo usque ad mala_ is thus justified: "It is up to the males to lay eggs."

* * * * *

"'Thundering' and 'nous' are two of the expressive words of
which Sir Ian Hamilton made use of in his Suvla Bay report. It
was the Royal Artillery that did 'thundering good shooting.'
'Nous,' meaning gumption, is a word greatly in use in
Lancashire."

_Daily Mirror._

It has also been met with in Greece.

* * * * *

"Two labourers employed by the ---- Distillery Company fell a
distance of fifty feet into a barley vat yesterday, and when
released were found to be suffering from carbolic acid
poisoning."--_Weekly Dispatch._

This paragraph will no doubt be freely quoted by temperance advocates as showing what whiskey is really made of.

* * * * *

From a notice issued by the Sydney Chamber of Commerce:--

"The Fair, which will be officially opened by His Excellency the
Governor, will be held at the Town Hall, and will be followed by
a Luncheon. Space will be allotted by the foot frontage from
10/- to 15/-."

An excellent idea for City dinners.

* * * * *

"DULCE ET DECORUM."

O young and brave, it is not sweet to die,
To fall and leave no record of the race,
A little dust trod by the passers-by,
Swift feet that press your lonely resting-place;
Your dreams unfinished, and your song unheard--
Who wronged your youth by such a careless word?

All life was sweet--veiled mystery in its smile;
High in your hands you held the brimming cup;
Love waited at your bidding for a while,
Not yet the time to take its challenge up;
Across the sunshine came no faintest breath
To whisper of the tragedy of death.

And then, beneath the soft and shining blue,
Faintly you heard the drum's insistent beat;
The echo of its urgent note you knew,
The shaken earth that told of marching feet;
With quickened breath you heard your country's call,
And from your hands you let the goblet fall.

You snatched the sword, and answered as you went,
For fear your eager feet should be outrun,
And with the flame of your bright youth unspent
Went shouting up the pathway to the sun.
O valiant dead, take comfort where you lie.
So sweet to live? Magnificent to die!

* * * * *

THE LECTURE.

"Francesca," I said, "will you do me--I mean, will you accept a favour from me?"

"If," she said, "your Majesty deigns to grant one there can be no question of my accepting it. It will fall on me and I shall have to submit to it."

"Well," I said, "it's this way. You know I'm going to--a-hem!--deliver a lecture at Faringham next Monday?"

"I gathered," she said, "that you were up to something from the amount of books you were piling up on your writing-table. Besides you've been complaining of the ink a good deal, and that's always a bad sign."

"Hadn't I mentioned Faringham and the lecture?"

"You had distantly alluded to something impending and you had looked at the A.B.C. several times, but it stopped at that."

"How careless of me!" I said. "I know I meant to tell you all about it."

"You didn't make your meaning clear. It's all part of the secretiveness of men. They tell one nothing and then they're offended if we don't anticipate all their movements."

"We will," I said, "let that pass. It is an unjust remark, but I will not retaliate. Anyhow, I now inform you formally and officially that I am going to Faringham on Monday in order to deliver a lecture on 'Poetry in its Relation to Life,' before the Faringham Literary Association. It is one of the most famous Associations in the world and has a large lecture-hall capable of seating one thousand people comfortably."

"But why," she said, "did they ask _you_ to lecture?"

"They must," I said, "have heard of me somewhere and guessed that I had wonderful latent capacities as a lecturer. Some men have, you know."

"Well," she said, "let's hope you're one of that sort, and that you'll bring all your capacities out on Monday. Aren't you nervous?"

"No," I said, "not exactly nervous; but I shall be glad when it's well over."

"So shall I," she said. "The ink will be gradually getting better now, and there won't be so many troubles about the A.B.C. being mislaid."

"No book," I said, "was ever so much mislaid as that. I put it down on the sofa two minutes ago and it has now vanished completely."

"It has flown to the window-seat," she said.

"Ah," I said, "and if we give it two minutes more it will fly into the dining-room."

"Never mind," she said; "there shall be A.B.C.'s in every room till you depart for Faringham. That's poetry."

"But it has no relation to life," I said. "It is not sincere, as all true poetry must be."

"'At this point,'" she said in a quoting voice, "'the lecturer was much affected, and his audience showed their sympathy with him by loud cheers.' Will there be much of that sort of thing?"

"There will be a good deal of it," I said with dignity. "The lecture is to last for an hour exactly."

"A whole hour?" she said. "Isn't that taking a mean advantage of the Faringham people?"

"They," I said, "can go out if they like, but I must go on. Francesca, may I read the lecture to you, so as to see if I've got it the right length?"

"So that's what you've been driving at," she said. "Well, fire away--no, stop till I've fetched the children in. You'll have a better audience with them."

"Need those innocent ones suffer?" I said.

"They are young," she said, "and must learn to endure."

The consequence was that all the four children, from Muriel aged sixteen, to Frederick aged eight, were fetched in and told they were going to have a treat such as few children had ever had; that they were going to hear a lecture on "Poetry in its Relation to Life"; that they must cheer loudly every now and then, but not interrupt otherwise, and that there would be a chocolate for each of them at the end. In addition Frederick was told that if he felt he really couldn't stand any more of it he was to leave the room very quietly, and that this wouldn't interfere with the chocolate. Thereupon the lecture started. At the end of the seventh minute Frederick rose, bent his body double and tiptoed out of the room. He was a great loss, for, as Muriel remarked afterwards, he represented two hundred of the audience of a thousand. The rest, however, stuck it out heroically, and danced for joy when it came to an end in one hour exactly. Frederick was afterwards discovered writing poetry on his own account in the school-room. As an illustration of the far-reaching influence of a lecture I may cite two of his stanzas:--

Summer is coming,
Then the bees will be humming,
Birds will be flying,
And girls will be buying,
And boys will be running;
Oh, hail! Summer is coming.

Summer is coming,
Then the fox will be cunning,
And all will be glad,
And none will be sad,
And I hope none will be mad,
And I hope none will be bad;
Oh, hail! Summer is coming!

This may be premature and, as to the fox, incorrect, since he requires but little cunning in the summer; but there is a good BROWNING flavour about it which redeems all errors.

R. C. L.

* * * * *

COMMERCIAL CANDOUR.

"There are large stocks of Tailor Costumes Ready-to-Wear, in the
old reliable materials. These cannot last long."--_Provincial
Paper._

* * * * *

_Absent-minded Old Gentleman._ "No, thank you. I have some."]

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

(_By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks._)

Not once or twice have I paid tribute to the craftsmanship of Mr. NEIL LYONS, generally as a portrayer of mean urban streets and their inhabitants. His latest volume, however, _Moby Lane and Thereabouts_ (LANE), finds him at large in the Sussex countryside. But the old skill and quick-witted charm serve him equally in these different surroundings. Mr. LYONS, as I have noticed before, achieves his ingenious effects not only by the quaint unexpected things he says but equally by the things that he skilfully omits to say. As an example of the second method I might cite one of the best of the sketches in the book, that called "Viaduct View," after the name of the detestable and dreary little house which a loving aunt has preserved for the problematical return of the nephew who would certainly not endure it for two days. This shows Mr. LYONS at his best--sympathetic, subtle and gently ironical. I am not saying that every one of the thirty-seven chapters is on the same high level. "Befriending Her Ladyship," for instance, a story that tells how a cottage-dweller repaid in kind the interfering house-inspection of the lady from the Hall, though amusingly told, is neither original in idea nor quite fair in execution. Throughout I found indeed that Mr. LYONS'S natural good-humour and sympathy were severely tried when they came in contact with squires and the ruling classes; and that now and then he was unable to resist the temptation to burlesque. But for one thing at least he deserves unstinted praise; I know of no other writer who can transfer, as he can, the genuine flavour of dialect into print. Try reading some of the _Moby Lane_ dialogue aloud and you will see what I mean.

* * * * *

If spacious hobbies make for happiness then is Sir MARTIN CONWAY the happiest of men. He has been before us at various times of his crowded life, now as an undaunted peak-compeller in Alps and Himalayas, or skiing over Arctic glaciers, or pushing forward into hazardous depths of Tierra del Fuego; now sitting authoritative in the SLADE Chair at Cambridge, or contesting an election, or restoring an old castle, or picking up priceless primitives for paltry pence in Paduan pawnshops; and always as a resourceful author setting it all down (in a couple of dozen books or so) with an easy-flowing pen incapable of boring. In _The Crowd in Peace and War_ (LONGMANS) he makes his bow as the political philosopher. It is a lively essay packed with observation, reflection, modern instances; it intrigues us with audacious and disputable generalisations, acute criticism, and a liberal temper. Solemnity and dulness are banished from it, and it might well serve as a light pendant to the admirable _Human Nature in Politics_ of Mr. GRAHAM WALLAS. Let no student (and no mandarin either) neglect it. And we others, however scornful we may profess to be, are all at heart desperately interested in the confounded thing called politics, and can all appreciate this shrewd analysis of the vices and virtues of the crowd "which lacks reason but possesses faith," whose despotism is now on trial as once was that of our kings--"unlimited crowddom being as wretched a state as unlimited monarchy." As a dose of politics without tears I unreservedly commend this book.

I am like Mr. JACOBS' _Night Watchman_; it's very hard to deceive me. I had read only a few pages of Miss UNA SILBERRAD'S _The Mystery of Barnard Hanson_ (HUTCHINSON) when I guessed who had done the murder. Unfortunately, when I had read a few pages more, I found that I had picked the wrong person. Then I accused another character on perfectly good circumstantial evidence, and he was not the man. After that I decided to withdraw from the detective business and let Miss SILBERRAD unravel her mystery for herself. If you are of the opinion that a woman cannot keep a secret read _The Mystery of Barnard Hanson_ and become convinced that Miss SILBERRAD at least is an exception. If I have ever read a more perfectly sustained mystery novel I cannot recall it. There is just a chance that in the last few pages you may get on the right track, but, if you are honest with yourself, you will have to admit that you did it simply by a process of elimination, after you had made an ass of yourself and arrested every innocent person in the book on suspicion. I think it is Miss SILBERRAD'S manner that throws the detective reader out of his stride. She is so detached. She conveys the impression that she herself is just as puzzled as you are, and that, for all she knows, _Barnard Hanson_ may have been murdered by somebody who is not in the book at all. In other words she gives her story just that reality which a murder mystery has when unfolded day by day in the papers. I confess that, when I unwrapped the book and found that a polished artist like Miss SILBERRAD had written a detective story, I was a little shocked; but I need not have been. There are no dummies in this novel. Each character is as excellently drawn as if delineation of character were the author's main object; and in the matter of style there is no concession to the tastes of the cruder public which makes murder novels its staple diet.

* * * * *

_Mary._ "Yes'm. And wasn't it a saucy one! I wonder it passed the sentry."]

* * * * *

In her preface to _Morlac of Gascony_ (HUTCHINSON) Mrs. STEPNEY RAWSON apologizes for producing an historical novel in these days when the present rather than the past is occupying people's minds. But a good historical novel is never really untimely, and _Morlac of Gascony_ is not only well written but deals with a period of English history not often exploited by the historical novelist--the days of EDWARD THE FIRST, when the future of England as a naval power rested on the energy and determination of the sailors of the Cinque Ports. Although _Jehan Morlac_, the young Gascon, is the principal character in the story the most arresting figure is that of EDWARD himself, as dexterous a piece of character-drawing as I have come upon in historical fiction for some time. The plot is cleverly constructed to throw a high light on one of the most interesting personalities in the history of the English monarchy. We see EDWARD as a young man, wild, reckless and brutal; then, grown to his full powers and sobered by responsibility, making by sheer force of character something abiding and coherent out of the strange welter of warring factions from which Great Britain emerged as a united kingdom. Wales was a hot-bed of rebellion, Scotland the "plague-spot of the North," the Cinque Ports on the verge of going over to France. Only a strong man, with strong men under him, could have saved England then. _Morlac of Gascony_ is not the easy reading which many people insist on in novels which deal with the past, and for this reason it may not be so popular as some historical novels of far less merit; but if you are prepared to make something of an effort to carry the trenches of the earlier portion of the story you will have your reward.

* * * * *

I suppose that what a CRAWFORD doesn't know about Roman society may fairly be dismissed as negligible. Therefore the name of J. CRAWFORD FRASER (in association with Mrs. HUGH FRASER) on the title-page of _Her Italian Marriage_ (HUTCHINSON) is a sufficient guarantee that the local colour at least will be the genuine article. And it happens that the scheme of the tale, the union between a Roman of the old nobility and an American girl, makes the local colour of special significance. It was just this matter of doing as the Romans do that _Elsie Trant_ found at first one of life's little difficulties. There is a very pleasant scene of the dinner-party at which she was formally presented to her husband's family; the contrast in atmospheres between that of the new-risen West and that of the severely Papal circles to which _Prince Pietro_ belonged being suggested most happily. I wish, though, the authors had been content to leave it at that, as a social comedy about pleasant people getting to understand one another. In an ill-inspired moment, however, they decided to have a dramatic plot, and truth compels me to say that this is a dreary affair, tricked out with such dust-laden devices as secret marriages, missing heirs and concealed papers. There is a steward person who alternately is and isn't the rightful Prince, as we delve deeper into the revelations. Finally, if I followed the intrigue correctly, the long arm of coincidence brought it about that _Elsie's_ mother was the eloping wife of _Pietro's_ uncle. Frankly, all this bored me, because we readers could have been so much more profitably engaged in renewing our Roman memories under such expert guidance. But of course this is a merely personal opinion, which you may not share.

* * * * *

AUSTRALIAN CORPS.

"Sydney.--Timely rains have saved the early corps."

The later ones also are now quite recruited, thank you.

* * * * *

"French Official.--Between the Argonne and the Meuse our heavy
huns destroyed an enemy blockhouse in the region of Forges."

_Evening Paper._

Stout fellows, these German renegades.

* * * * *

"Henley (near).--Gentleman offers land, piggeries,
poultry-houses to lady or gentleman as guest. Pleasant
home."--_The Lady._

_The gentleman to the lady_: "Will you occupy a piggery or a
poultry-house?"