Chapter LIV

My Dear Charles,--What about this Peace? I suppose that, what with your nice new Governments and all, this is the very last thing you are thinking of making at the moment. I wouldn't believe that the old War was ever going to end at all if it wasn't for the last expert and authoritative opinion I hear has been expressed by our elderly barber in Fleet Street. At the end of July, 1914, he told me confidentially, as he snipped the short hairs at the back of my head, that there was going to be no war; the whole thing was just going to fizzle out. Now he says it is going to be a very, very long business, as he always thought it would.

I find it difficult to maintain consistently either the detached point of view, in which one discusses it as if it was a European hand of bridge, or the purely interested point of view, in which one regards it only as a matter affecting one's individual comfort. I know a Mess, well up in the Front where they measure the mud by feet, in which they were discussing the War raging at their front door as if it had nothing to do with them beyond being a convenient thing to criticise. Men who were then likely to be personally removed at any moment by it saw nothing in the progress of it to be depressed about. As the evening wore on and they all came to find that they knew much more about the subject than they supposed, they were prepared to increase the allowance of casualties in pressing the merits of their own pet schemes. No gloom arose from the possibility that this generous offer might well include their own health and limbs. There was no gloom; there was even no desire to change the subject. Indeed, the better to continue it they called for something to drink. There was nothing to drink, announced the Mess Orderly. Why was there nothing to drink? asked the Mess President, advocate of enormous offensives on a wide front for an indefinite period of years, if need be. The Mess Orderly explained that more drink was on order, it had not arrived because of difficulties of carriage. Why were there difficulties of carriage? Because of the War. "Confound the War," said the Mess President. "It really is the most infernal nuisance."

I know a Captain Jones, resident a cottage on the road to the trenches (he calls this cottage his "Battle Box"), whose mind was very violently moved from the impersonal to the personal point of view by a quite trifling incident. He has one upstairs room for office, bedroom, sitting, reception and dining room. His meals are brought over to him by his servant from an estaminet across the road over which his window looks. The other morning he was standing at this window waiting for his breakfast to arrive. It was a fine frosty day, made all the brighter by the sound of approaching bagpipes. Troops were about to march past, suggesting great national thoughts to Jones and reminding him of the familiar details of his own more active days. Jones prepared to enjoy himself.

Colonels on horses, thought Jones as he contemplated, are much of a muchness--always the look of the sahib about them, the slightly proud, the slightly stuffy, the slightly weather-beaten, the slightly affluent sahib. Company Commanders, also on horses, but somehow or other not quite so much on horses as the Colonels, are the same all the army through--very confident of themselves, but hoping against hope that there is nothing about their companies to catch the Adjutant's eye. The Subaltern walks as he has always done, lighthearted if purposeful, trusting that all is as it should be, but feeling that if it isn't that is some one else's trouble. Sergeants, Corporals, Lance-corporals and men have not altered. The Sergeants relax on the march into something almost bordering on friendliness towards their victims; the Corporals thank Heaven that for the moment they are but men; the Lance-corporals thank Heaven that always they are something more than men, and the men have the look of having decided that this is the last kilometre they'll ever footslog for anybody, but while they are doing it they might as well be cheerful about it. The regimental transport makes a change from the regularity of column of route, and the comic relief is provided, as it has always been and always will be provided whatever the disciplinary martinets may say or do, by the company cooks.

This was a sight, thought Jones, he could watch for ever. He was sorry when the battalion came at last to an end; he was glad when another almost immediately began. He was in luck; doubtless this was a brigade on the move. He proposed to have his breakfast at the window, when it came as come it soon must, thus refreshing his hungry body and his contemplative mind at the same time. The second battalion, as the first, were fine fellows all, suggesting the might of the Allies and the futility of the enemy's protracted resistance. Again the comic relief was provided by the travelling cuisine, reminding Jones of the oddity of human affairs and the need of his own meal, now sufficiently deferred.

The progress of the Brigade was interrupted by the intervention of a train of motor transport. Jones spent the time of its passing in consulting his watch, wondering where the devil was his breakfast and ascertaining that his servant had indeed gone across the road for it at least forty minutes ago.

It was not until there came a break, after the first company of the third battalion, that the reason of this delay became apparent. There was his servant on the far side of the road, and there was his breakfast in the servant's hand, all standing to attention, as they should do when a column of troops was passing....

The remainder of that Brigade suggested no agreeable thoughts to Captain Jones. He saw nothing magnificent in the whole and nothing attractive in any detail of it. It was in fact just a long and tiresome sequence of monotonous and sheeplike individuals who really might have chosen some other time and place for their silly walks abroad. And as for the spirit of discipline exemplified in the servant, who scrupled to defy red tape and slip through at a convenient interval, this was nothing else but the maddening ineptitude of all human conceits.

A wonderful servant is that servant of Captain Jones; but then they all are. Valet, cook, porter, boots, chambermaid, ostler, carpenter, upholsterer, mechanic, inventor, needlewoman, coal-heaver, diplomat, barber, linguist (home-made), clerk, universal provider, complete pantechnicon and infallible bodyguard, he is also a soldier, if a very old soldier, and a man of the most human kind. Jones came across him in the earlier stages of the War, not in England and not in France. The selection wasn't after the usual manner or upon the usual references. He recommended himself to Jones by the following incident:--

A new regiment had come to the station; between them and the old regiment, later to become the firmest friends, some little difference of opinion had arisen and, upon the first meeting of representative elements in the neighbouring town, there had been words. Reports, as they reached Jones at the barracks some four miles from the town, hinted at something more than words still continuing. Jones, having reason to anticipate sequels on the morrow, took the precaution of going round his company quarters then, and there, to find which of his men, if any, were not involved. "There's a fair scrap up in town," he heard a man saying. As he entered, a second man was sitting up in bed and asking, "Dost thou think it will be going on yet?" Hoping for the best, he was for rising, dressing, walking four miles and joining in.

Jones stopped his enterprise that night, but engaged him for servant next day. I don't know why, nor does he; but he was right all the same. Yours ever, HENRY.

* * * * *

_Private_. "VALVULAR DISEASE OF THE HEART, SIR."

_M.O._ "MY WORD! HOW DID YOU GET THAT?"

_Private_. "LAST MEDICAL BOARD GIVE IT ME, SIR."]

* * * * *

"Will anyone knowing where to obtain the game of 'Bounce'
kindly inform A.T.?"--_Advt. in "The Times."_

"A.T." should address himself to the Imperial Palace at Potsdam.

* * * * *

AN ELEGY ON CLOSED STATIONS.

(_SUGGESTED BY AN OFFICIAL NOTICE OF THE L. & N.W.R._)

The whole vicinity of Hooley Hill
Is smitten with a devastating chill,
And the once cheerful neighbourhood of Pleck
Has got the hump and got it in the neck.
The residential gentry of Pont Rug
No longer seem self-satisfied or smug,
And the distressed inhabitants of Nantlle
Are wrapped in discontent as in a mantle.
Good folk who Halted once at Apsley Guise
Are now afflicted with a sad surprise,
While Oddington, another famous Halt,
Is silent as a sad funereal vault;
And the dejected denizens of Cheadle
Look one and all as if they'd got the needle.

* * * * *

AN UNFORTUNATE JUXTAPOSITION.

"Dr. ---- has RESUMED PRACTICE.

---- AND ----, UNDERTAKERS."

_West Australian_.

* * * * *

CHARIVARIA.

According to President WILSON Germany also claims to be fighting for the freedom of the smaller nations. Her known anxiety to free the small nations of South America from the fetters of the Monroe Doctrine has impressed the PRESIDENT with the correctness of this claim.

***

Unfortunately Count REVENTLOW has gone and given away the secret that Germany does not care a rap for the rights of the little nations. It is this kind of blundering that sours your transatlantic diplomatist.

***

General JOFFRE has been made a Marshal of France. While falling short of the absolute omnipotence of London's Provost-Marshal the position is not without a certain dignity.

***

The announcement that the Queen of HUNGARY's coronation robe is to cost over £2,000 has had a distinctly unpleasant effect upon the German people, who are wondering indignantly how Belgium is to be indemnified if such extravagance is permitted to continue.

***

It is stated that as the result of the drastic changes in our railway service the publication of _Bradshaw's Guide_ may be delayed. At a time when it is of vital importance to keep up the spirits of the nation the absence of one of our best known humorous publications will be sorely felt.

***

The failure of King CONSTANTINE to join with other neutrals in urging peace on the belligerents must not be taken as indicating that he is out of sympathy with the German effort.

***

The County Council has after mature deliberation decided to set aside ten acres of waste land for cultivation by allotment holders. It is this ability to think in huge figures that distinguishes the municipal from the purely individual patriot.

***

In anticipation of a Peace Conference German agents at the Hague have been making discreet inquiries after lodgings for German delegates. The latter have expressed a strong preference for getting in on the ground floor.

***

The weighing of a recruit could not be completed at Mill Hill, as the scales did not go beyond seventeen stone, and indignation has been expressed in some quarters at the failure of the official mind to adopt the simple expedient of weighing as much as they could of him and then weighing the rest at a second or, if necessary, a third attempt.

***

It is rumoured that tradesmen's weekly books are to be abolished. We have long felt that the absurd practice of paying the fellows is a relic of the dark ages.

***

The statement of a writer in a morning paper that Wednesday night's fog "tasted like Stilton cheese" has attracted the attention of the Food Controller, who is having an analysis made with the view of determining its suitability for civilian rations. We assume that it would rank as cheese and not count in the calculation of courses.

***

Austria has forbidden the importation of champagne, caviare and oysters, and now that the horrors of war have thus been thoroughly brought home to the populace it is expected that public opinion in the Dual Monarchy will shortly force the EMPEROR to make overtures to the Allies for a separate peace.

***

As a protest against being fined, a Tottenham man has stopped his War Loan subscriptions. Nevertheless, after a series of prolonged discussions with Sir WILLIAM ROBERTSON, Mr. BONAR LAW has decided that the War can go on, subject to the early introduction of certain economies.

***

The Duke of BUCCLEUCH has given permission to his tenants to trap rabbits on the ducal estates. It is hoped that a taste of real sport will cause many of the local residents, though above military age, to volunteer for similar work on the West Front.

***

The prisons in Berlin are said to be full of women who have offended against the Food Laws, and in consequence of this many deserving criminals are homeless.

***

A party of American literary and scientific gentlemen have obtained permission to visit Egypt on a mission of research. In view of the American craze for souvenir-hunting it is anticipated that a special guard will be mounted over the Pyramids.

* * * * *

"'I am being overwhelmed with letters offering services from
all and sundry,' Mr. Chamberlain said yesterday.

'As I haven't even appointed a private secretary at present,'
he added, 'it is obviously impossible for me even to open
them.'"--_Daily Sketch_.

We suppose the Censor must have told him what they were about.

* * * * *

MUSCAT.

An ancient castle crowns the hill
That flanks our sunlit rockbound bay,
Where, in the spacious days of old,
Stout ALBUQUERQUE set his hold
Dealing in slaves and silks and gold
From Hormuz to Cathay.

The Dom has passed, the Arab rules;
Yet still there fronts the morning light
Erect upon the crumbling wall
The mast of some great Amiral,
A trophy of the Portingall
In some forgotten fight.

The wind blows damp, the sun shines hot,
And ever on the Eastern shore,
Faint envoys from the far monsoon,
There in the gap the breakers croon
Their old unchanging rhythmic rune
(The noise is such a bore).

And week by week to climb that hill
The SULTAN sends some sweating knave
To scan the misty deep and hail
With hoisted nag the smoky trail
That means (hurrah!) the English mail,
So we still rule the wave!

Hurrah!--and yet what tales of woe!
My home exposed to Zeppelin shocks,
The long-drawn agony of strife,
The daily toll of precious life,
And a sad screed from my poor wife
Of babes with chicken-pox.

All this it brings--yet brings therewith
That which may help us bear and grin.
"Boy, when you hear the boat's keel scrunch,
Ask the mail officer to lunch;
But give me time to peep at _Punch_
Before you let him in."

* * * * *

LONDON'S LITTLE SUNBEAMS.

THE TAXI-MEN.

What (writes a returned traveller) has happened to London's taxi-drivers? When I went away, not more than three months ago, they occasionally stopped when they were hailed and were not invariably unwilling to convey one hither and there. But now ... With flags defiantly up, they move disdainfully along, and no one can lure them aside. Where on these occasions are they going? How do they make a living if the flag never comes down? Are they always on their way to lunch, even late at night? Are they always out of petrol? I can understand and admire the independence that follows upon overwork; but when was their overwork done? The only tenable theory that I have evolved is that Lord NORTHCLIFFE (whose concurrent rise to absolutism is another phenomenon of my absence) has engaged them all to patrol the streets in his service.

Sometimes, however, a taxi-driver, breaking free from this bondage, answers a hail; but even then all is not necessarily easy. This is the kind of thing:--

_You_. I want to go to Bedford Gardens.

_The Sunbeam_ (_indignantly_). Where's that?

_You_. In Kensington.

_The Sunbeam_. That's too far. I've got another job at half-past four (_or_ My petrol's run out).

_You_. If I gave you an extra shilling could you just manage it?

_The Sunbeam_ (_scowling_). All right. Jump in.

This that follows also happens so frequently as to be practically the rule and not the exception:--

_You_. 12, Lexham Gardens.

_The Sunbeam_. 12, Leicester Gardens.

_You_. No; LEXHAM.

_The Sunbeam_. 12, Lexham Road?

_You_ (_shouting_). No; Lexham GARDENS!

_The Sunbeam_. What number?

_You_. TWELVE!

To illustrate the power that the taxi-driver has been wielding over London during the past week or so of mitigated festivity, let me tell a true story. I was in a cab with my old friend Mark, one of the most ferocious sticklers for efficiency in underlings who ever sent for the manager. His maledictions on bad waiters have led to the compulsory re-decorating of half the restaurants of London months before their time, simply by discolouring the walls with their intensity. Well, after immense difficulty, Mark and I, bound for the West, induced a driver to accept us as his fare, and took our places inside.

"He looks a decent capable fellow," said Mark, who prides himself on his skill in physiognomy. "We ought to be there in a quarter of an hour."

But we did not start. First the engine was cold. Then, that having consented and the flag being lowered, a fellow-driver asked our man to help him with his tail-light. He did so with the utmost friendliness and deliberation. Then they both went to the back of our cab to see how our tail-light was doing, and talked about tail-lights together, and how easy it was to jolt them out, and how difficult it was to know whether they had been jolted out or not, and how jolly careful one had to be nowadays with so many blooming regulations and restrictions and things.

Meanwhile Mark was becoming purple with suppressed rage, for the clock was ticking and all this wasted time should, in a decently-managed world, have belonged to us. But he dared not let himself go. It was a pitiful sight--this strong man repressing impulse. At any moment I expected to see him dash his arm through the window and tell the driver what he thought of him; but he did not. He did nothing; but I could hear his blood boil.

Then at last our man mounted the box, and just at that moment (this is an absolutely true story) it chanced that an errand-boy asked him the way to Panton Street, and he got down from the box and walked quite a little way with the boy to show him. And while he was away the engine stopped. It was then that poor Mark performed one of the most heroic feats of his life. He still sat still; but I seemed to see his hat rising and falling, as did the lid of WATT's kettle on that historic evening which led to so much railway trouble, from strikes and sandwiches to _Bradshaw_. Still he said nothing. Nor did he speak until the engine had been started again and we were really on our way and thoroughly late. "If it had only been in normal times," he said grimly, "how I should have let that man have it. But one simply mustn't. It's terrible, but they've got us by the short hairs!"

No doubt of that.

* * * * *

_Mary_. "WELL, MA'AM, YOU SEE, THE GENTLEMAN I WALK OUT WITH HAS JUST GOT A JOB IN A MUNITION FACTORY, AND I SHALL BE OBLIGED TO DRESS UP TO HIM."]

* * * * *

_Hans_. "AND THESE EVERLASTING SARDINES FOR EVERY MEAL."]

* * * * *

WARS OF THE PAST.

(_AS RECORDED IN THE PRESS OF THE PERIOD._)