Chapter 3

"'Drivin up and down the street in your side-car he'd be, Patsy Burrke, him and his ginerals, till your horse dropped dead on him, and divil a bit he'd care.

"'I'm lookin' at you there, Larry,' sez the Docthor. ''Tis waitin' for Molly to say the wurrd ye are, Larry, me boy: but sure 'tis yourself that'll say the wurrd now. Och, 'tis fallin' over herself Molly will be to see ye in your rigimintals.

"'Ballymurky, is ut? Arrah ye'll not know Ballymurky afther the KAISER has done with it. Isn't it changing the name of the dear ould place that he'll be afther?

"'First-class he'd be thravellin', no less, with the boots of him on the sate, and him without a ticket; and 'tis Rothenberg would be the name on the station, bad cess to him!

"'Rothenberg! d'ye hear that, Casey? And you a railway porther. Isn't KITCHENER an Irishman, good luck to him, and isn't he lookin' for ye all to go? Isn't the TSAR of Russia himself goin' to Berlin, and won't he be lookin' for ye there, Micky? What'll he think if ye are not there to meet him? "So Micky didn't come," he'll say; "what's come over him?" he'll say. "Sure he's not the boy I thought he was," he'll say. Just that. And you there, Micky, ye divil, all the time. Ye'd have the laugh on him thin, Micky, so ye would.

"'"Begorra!" he'll say, looking round, "sure the whole of Ballymurky's here." And why not? Bedad 'tis not the first time that Ballymurky's been on the spree.

"'The KAISER is ut, boys,' sez the Docthor. 'Arrah have done with ye,' sez he. 'Sure there won't be anny KAISER worth mintioning afther Ballymurky's finished wid him...."

"Be this and be that I'm thinkin' the same too," said Old Martin Cassidy, as he relighted his pipe.

* * * * *

THE LIMIT OF IGNORANCE.

(_Mr. ARNOLD BENNETT in one of his recent works speaks of having met a Town Clerk who had never heard of H. G. WELLS._)

As in a Midland city park Great BENNETT latterly was walking, He came across a live Town Clerk, Who, as they stopped and fell a-talking, Confessed--so truthful ARNOLD tells-- _He'd never heard of H. G. WELLS!_

This ghastly ignorance, alas! Of that renowned investigator, Whom every age and every class Hails as its only educator, Is no experience isolated, But can be promptly duplicated.

The only Mayor I know--at least I know by sight--a splendid creature, Whose presence at a civic feast Is always a conspicuous feature, Has lately in his favourite organ Proclaimed his ignorance of DE MORGAN.

Again, the other day I ran Against a friend ('twas in Long Acre), A simple estimable man-- He plies the trade of undertaker-- Who filled me with dismay and awe By asking, "Who is BERNARD SHAW?"

My hatter, too, who ranks among The leaders of his useful calling, Shows in regard to FILSON YOUNG An apathy that's quite appalling, For this benighted, blighted hatter Has never read _The Things that Matter_!

Saddest of all, a Don I know, A man of curious futile learning, Studied JANE AUSTEN long ago With admiration undiscerning, Till _Mr. Bennett_, thanks to JANE, Ousted all others from his brain.

* * * * *

THE OLD BULLDOG BREED.

_The Wavecrest Hydro, Hastings._

_To the Editor of "Punch."_

Dear Sir,--I have on several previous occasions communicated to you some instructive and illuminating examples of the extraordinary intelligence of my dog Boanerges, but so far (doubtless owing to extreme pressure on your space) you have not been able to publish them.

In view of the present grave national emergency, however, I feel confident that you will be able to find space for the latest instance.

Boanerges is of the old bulldog breed; that is to say, he is not precisely a bulldog, but inherits the breed from one of his grandfathers. Superficially he presents more the appearance of a wire-haired retriever pom, and it has been difficult to classify him at Dog Shows. Indeed, I have claimed for him (though unsuccessfully up to the present) a new class, viz., Pom-Poms. _The Canine Chronicle_ lent me the weight of its editorial support, suggesting as an alternative name: Dum-Dums, or Soft-Nosed Bullettes, but I fear me it was scarcely dignified enough to carry weight with the authorities.

However, all that is by the way. His heart is in the right place. No WILHELM shall land upon Hastings soil while Boanerges guards the beach.

To resume, it is my custom to take Boanerges with me on my weekly visit to a local picture palace. He enjoys it; it stimulates his already keen intelligence; and there is no charge made for dogs. He stands on my knees with his fore-paws on the stall in front, and follows the films with rapt attention. Occasionally he will express his approval or disapproval by barking, but always in a thoroughly gentlemanly way. He is critical, but not captious; laudatory, but not fulsome. He makes allowances for the limitations of the camera. He usually cheers at what, I believe, are technically known as "the chases," and his hearty bark of approval is welcomed by the manager of the theatre and by the regular patrons. Indeed, I firmly believe that Boanerges attracts extra patronage to the Thursday matinées. He also enjoys lions and tigers, but not crocodiles or snakes. As I have said, he is of the old bulldog breed.

On Thursday last I took Boanerges with me as usual. It was a dull programme at first, being chiefly devoted to imaginative drama in a Red Indian reservation. Boanerges growled the old bulldog growl once or twice, and I could see that he was disappointed with the performance.

Then came the film of topical events. A heading appeared on the screen: "The Germans in Louvain." I could feel Boanerges stiffen all over his wiry bristles.

The stark ruins were shown, with Prussian soldiers on arrogant sentry-go. Somebody, no doubt a refugee, hissed out: "_A bas les Bosches!_" Boanerges growled a deep menace.

Then came a picture of the main square of Louvain, with a group of generals waiting for the march-past and the salute. The soldiers marched towards us, victorious and triumphant, _at the goose-step_.

That was the breaking-point. Flesh and blood could stand it no longer. All the bulldog strain pounded in his veins. With a roar of anger such as I have never before heard from him, Boanerges leapt from my restraining hands and made for the picture.

He dashed straight at the screen and through it! He devoured a whole company of goose-stepping Prussians at, so to speak, one mouthful.

I also, unwontedly moved, rose in my seat and shouted, "Up and at 'em!"

Boanerges hit the boarding behind the screen, and I think that his nose, now in bandages, is permanently damaged. Still, his brave deed echoes through Hastings, and recruiting in the town is brisker than it has ever been before.

This time, Sir, I feel confident that you will not refuse Boanerges his well-deserved place in your columns.

Yours, etc., ANTONY MCWHIRTER.

* * * * *

Illustration: _Daughter_ (_whose husband is at the front_), "OH, MOTHER, ISN'T IT SPLENDID? HARRY'S SENT ME THIS PAPER WITH A MARKED PASSAGE ABOUT WHAT HE'S BEEN DOING. IT SAYS, 'CAPTAIN ---- OF THE ---- FUSILIERS, UNDER HEAVY ----, RESCUED ---- FROM THE ----.' NOW EVERYBODY WILL KNOW HOW BRAVE HE IS!"

* * * * *

PARIS AGAIN.

Big blue overcoat and breeches red as red, And a queer quaint _képi_ at an angle on his head; And he sang as he was marching, and in the Tuilleries You could meet him _en permission_ with Margot on his knee. At the little _café_ tables by the dusty palms in tubs, In the Garden of the Luxembourg, among the scented shrubs, On the old Boul. Mich. of student days, you saw his red and blue; Did you come to love the _fantassin, le p'tit piou-piou_?

He has gone, gone, vanished, like a dream of yesternight; He is out amongst the hedges where the shrapnel smoke is white; And some of him are singing still and some of him are dead, And blood and mud and sweat and smoke have stained his blue and red. He is out amongst the hedges and the ditches in the rain, But, when the _soixante-quinzes_ are hushed, just hark!--the old refrain, "_Si tu veux faire mon bonheur, Marguérite, O Marguérite_," Ringing clear above the rifles and the trampling of the feet!

Ah, may _le bon Dieu_ send him back again in blue and red, With his queer quaint _képi_ at an angle on his head! So the Seine shall laugh again beneath the sunlight's quick caress; So the Meudon woods shall echo once again to "_La Jeunesse_"; And all along the Luxembourg and in the Tuilleries, We shall meet him _en permission_ with Margot on his knee.

* * * * *

UNWRITTEN LETTERS TO THE KAISER.

No. VIII.

(_From Richard Dickson, generally known as Cock-eyed Dick, Private in the South Loamshire Light Infantry._)

I suppose I ought to beg your Majesty's humble pardon for using a pencil for this letter, but it's a good pencil, and, anyhow, we don't run to ink in the trenches. I don't want to be disrespectful to your Majesty's Highness. Fact is I'm just a bit fond of you; you're doing our chaps such a world of good, keeping our hearts up in a manner of speaking and making us all so angry. When your regiments come out against us, the word goes round, and it's "Steady, boys; remember we're a contemptible little army; let's show 'em a bit of contemptible shooting at 800 yards," or "Fix your contemptible bayonets and go for 'em;" and I warrant there's many a German chap out of the fighting line for good and all just on account of that nasty word.

There's another word, too, that some of your chaps have slung at us. They say we're a "mercenary" lot, meaning that we took up with soldiering just because we're paid to do it. Well, we _are_ paid a shilling or two now and then, but don't you go and make no mistake; we don't stick it out in the trenches, with Black Marias playing bowls with us, and the machine-guns crackling at us and the snipers picking us off just because of getting a few shillings, which very often we don't get regular. We're in for this job, ah, and we're going to see it through, too, because we think it's the right thing to do and because we wanted to do a turn of fighting. We ain't bloodthirsty, and I'm not going to say we shall be miserable when it's all over, but while it's going on we like it. There's risks everywhere, even with the quietest jobs. I knew a chap once as drove a goat-cart for children at the seaside, and one day when the wind was strong it blew off his hat, and he got to chasing it, and before he knew where he was he'd gone over the cliff. A careful man he was, too, but he hadn't reckoned up that particular chance when he put his savings into a goat and a two-wheeled cart. You can't think of everything, even if you happen to be a Kaiser. I've heard, by the way, that you ain't paid so badly for _your_ job of Kaisering; and old Uncle Franky over in Austria, he rakes 'em in, too, but we don't call you a mercenary pair, though what drove you to take up the business is more than I can make out.

I don't want you to go and make no mistake. You've stirred us up a bit with all your talk, but we've got no grudge against your soldiers. We don't _hate_ 'em. They're good fighting men, though I'm not saying that we ain't better, and good fighting men don't hate one another. We got one of your blokes the other day. He came on with the attack, and when we'd beaten it off, there he was still coming on. He'd dropped his rifle and his helmet was off, and he was groping about with his hands, and he wasn't shouting "Hock! Hock!" but he didn't stop. We didn't loose off at him, there was something so funny about him, and in another minute he tumbled in right atop of us and we took him. He told us afterwards he'd lost his spectacles and couldn't see a yard in front of him, and that was the reason for his being so brave. He talked English, too, but in a funny way, slow and particular and like as if he'd got a bit of suet pudding in his mouth. Well, we soon made him snug and tidy and then we started to pull his leg and fill him up, and he swallowed it all down. We told him something had gone wrong with the beefsteak pie and the jam tartlets and the orange jelly, and he'd have to satisfy himself with his own rations; but to-morrow there'd be a prime cut of mutton and an apple-tart; and he believed all our fairy tales and said he'd write the story of the English army's food if ever he got home alive. He was a learned man too, but his lost spectacles gave him a lot of trouble. The end of it was we made quite a pet of him, and we were quite sorry when we got relieved and took him to the rear and handed him over as a prisoner. There wasn't any hatred about it.

Yours, COCK-EYED DICK.

* * * * *

REPATRIATION.

An interesting alien, he charmed our hours of ease, Being either Blue Hungarian or Purple Viennese, And he cut a gorgeous figure in his blue (or purple) suit As he coaxed enticing noises from (I think it was) the flute.

If his name upon the programme ever chanced to be defined, It was Otto Heinrich Ollendorf, or something of the kind, But his casual conversation served surprisingly to show That the accent of Vienna much resembled that of Bow.

When the rumour ran that battle was a-going to begin, He was heard to say _his_ country would inevitably win (Had it chanced that in my presence such an insult had been said, As he wasn't able-bodied, I'd have punched the beggar's head).

He declined in public favour; it was rumoured he was sent To keep watch upon our doings as he puffed his instrument, And we said, "Eject this alien, let him soothe the savage breast In a beer-house at Vienna or a band at Budapest."

But the way was not so lengthy to his own, his native land; And where British flautists whistle in a wholly British band He performs as well as ever, and confesses to the town (With no fear of unemployment) that his proper name is Brown.

* * * * *

Illustration: _Tommy_ (_reaching flooded trench lately occupied by the enemy_). "WELL, THEY SAY THERE'S NO PLACE LIKE 'OME; BUT IT'S A BLOOMIN' UNCOMFORTABLE PLACE TO MAKE SUCH A FUSS ABOUT LEAVIN'!"

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

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

_Sinister Street, Vol. II._ (SECKER) is a book for which I have been waiting impatiently this great while, and I welcomed it with eagerness. The first volume left off, you may remember, with _Michael_ just about to go up to Oxford. Knowing what Mr. COMPTON MACKENZIE could do with such a theme, I have anticipated all these months that to watch his hero at the university would be to renew my own youth. The book has appeared now, and I am justified of my faith. I say without hesitation that the first half of this second volume (which, by the way, to show that it is a second volume and not a sequel, starts at page 499) is the most complete and truest picture of modern Oxford that has been or is likely to be written. For those who, like myself, have their most cherished memories bound up with the life of which it treats, the actuality of the whole thing would make criticism impossible. But as a matter of fact these seventeen chapters seem to me to show Mr. MACKENZIE'S art at its best. They display just that strange combination of realism and aloofness that gives to his writing its special charm. No one has ever (for example) reproduced more perfectly the talk of young men; and this scattered speech, in what Mr. MACKENZIE himself might call its infinitely fugacious quality, contrasts effectively with the deliberate, somewhat mannered beauty of the setting. Mr. MACKENZIE is an overlord of words, old and new, bending them to strange and unexpected uses, yet always avoiding affectation by the sheer vitality of his strength. As for the matter of these first chapters, one might say that nothing whatever happens in them. They are an epic of adolescence wherein growth is the only movement. Events are for the second half of the volume. Here _Michael_ has come down from Oxford, and has set himself to find and rescue by marriage the girl _Lily_, whom (you remember) he loved as a boy, and who has since drifted into the underworld. About this part of the story I will only say that, though the art is still there and the same haunting melody of style, Mr. MACKENZIE has too strong a sense of atmosphere to allow him to treat squalor in a fashion that will be agreeable to the universe. Frankly, the over-nice will be prudent to take leave of _Michael_ on the Oxford platform. The others, following to the end, will agree with me that he has placed his creator definitely at the head of the younger school of English fiction.

* * * * *

For me, the pleasure of travelling consists less in the sight of museums, cathedrals, picture galleries and landscapes, than in the study of the native man in the street and his peculiar ways. When abroad, "I am content to note my little facts," and so is Mr. GEO. A. BIRMINGHAM; in fact, it was he who first thought of mentioning the matter. The reverend canon tours in the U.S.A., which is, when you come to think of it, about the only safe area for the purpose nowadays; he observes the manners and oddities of the Americans, whether as politicians, pressmen, hustlers, holiday-makers, hosts, undergraduates, husbands or wives, and remarks upon them, in _Connaught to Chicago_ (NISBET), with just that quiet and unboisterous humour which his public has come to demand of him as of right. His first chapter shows that he has ever in mind the multitude of his fellow-countrymen who have, in the past, made the same journey but for good and all. This memory leads him at times into excessive praise of his subjects, especially the ladies, and so to apparent disparagement of his people at home. For my part I vastly prefer the Irish, men, women and children, in Ireland to all or any of their relatives and friends elsewhere; for when they leave their island their humour runs to seed and loses that detachment and delicacy which constitute its unique charm. That Mr. BIRMINGHAM, however, was not nearly long enough abroad to suffer this deterioration, must be patent to all who linger over this happy book.

* * * * *

If Miss JESSIE POPE receives her just reward, she will soon have to put a notice in the daily papers to the effect that she is grateful for kind enquiries, but is unable at present to answer them. For I think that any enterprising boy who reads _The Shy Age_ (GRANT RICHARDS) will forthwith make it his business to find out the name of the school at which _Jack Venables_ amused himself, and that even if unavoidable circumstances prevent him from going there he will, at any rate, remain disgruntled until he can place his finger upon it on the map. After reading those tales of school and holiday life, I can only say that the school which harboured me must have been a dull place, and that I should now like to return there for a term at least--I doubt if I should be allowed to stay longer--and liven things up. Miss POPE starts with one great advantage over men who write of boys' schools, because the critics cannot say that her work is autobiographical, and then proceed to "recognise" most of her characters. That is the terror lurking by day and night for any man who dares to write a school-tale. On the other hand, although Miss POPE has fitted herself remarkably well into the skin of _Jack Venables_, who tells these stories but is not (thank goodness) the hero of most of them, she has not been able entirely to avoid what I must call Papal touches. For instance, I do not believe that a boy of _Jack's_ age and character would use the word "feasible," and a special society would have to be started for the prevention of cruelty to any boy who ventured to talk of his "aunties." On the whole, however, she has a fine understanding of boy-nature, and if there are some improbabilities in these ingenious stories, she is armed with the crushing retort that the chief characteristic of any properly equipped boy is his improbability.

* * * * *

Possibly owing to some personal disinclination towards violent bodily exertion on the part of his creator, _Father Brown_, the criminal investigator of Mr. G. K. CHESTERTON'S fancy, is not a fellow of panther-like physique. For him no sudden pouncing on the frayed carpet-edge, or the broken collar-stud dyed with gore. He carries no lens and no revolver. Flashes of psychological insight are more to him than a meticulous examination of the window-sill. When the motive is instantly transparent, why bother about the murderer's boots? In the circumstances it is perhaps fortunate for the reverend sleuth that he nearly always happens to be in either at the death or immediately after it, instead of being summoned a day or two later when the grotesque circumstances of the crime have baffled the panting ingenuity of Scotland Yard. You find him now in this part of England, and now in that, now in America, and now in Italy. He is, in fact, a hedge-priest and has not even a cure of souls in Baker Street. But wherever he goes with his flapping hat and his umbrella he chances on some fantasy of guilt. Yet any pangs we may feel for the absence of the familiar setting--the pale-faced butler in the guarded dining-room of the country-house and the staggered minions of the local constabulary--are assuaged by the brilliant narrative manner in which _The Wisdom of Father Brown_ (CASSELL) is set forth. Here is the paradoxical world of Mr. CHESTERTON'S imagination described in his own verbiage and proved by actual and grisly events. In that starry dream of a detective story which I sometimes have, where sleuth-hounds are pattering along the Milky Way and pursue at last the Great Bear to his den, _Father Brown_ and _Sherlock Holmes_, the one spectacled, the other lynx-eyed, are following the prey in leash.

* * * * *

Should you, among wild by-ways of Donegal or Connemara, meet a procession composed of _Patsy McCann_ the Tinker and the Ass and _Mary_ with _Finaun_ the Archangel, _Caeltia_ the Seraph, _Art_ the Cherub, _Eileen ni Cooley_ (a savage lady of easy morals), _Billy the Music_, the Seraph Cuchulain and _Brien O'Brien_, a lost soul who had a threepenny-bit stolen on him by _Cuchulain_ that same, you would guess there's only one living man could be behind it--to wit JAMES STEPHENS, _Crock-of-Gold_ STEPHENS. Fantastic things indeed happen in _The Demi-Gods_ (MACMILLAN), which is a kind of inspired nightmare, a sort of Chestertonian inconsequence done into Gaelic, a little less violent and with a little less malt, but even less coherent. At the risk of being reckoned among the egregiously imperceptive I would ask Mr. STEPHENS solemnly whether he is not in danger of letting his fancy take bit between teeth and land him in some bog of sheer literary chaos. The most distant of the futurists notwithstanding, there must be some rules to the game or you don't get your work of art. When those modern wizards of the halls set themselves to a piece of _bizarre_ juggling, say, with a string of pearls, a dumb-bell and a rose-petal, they do toss and catch--don't merely let everything just drop. Mr. STEPHENS will know what I mean without caring overmuch. There's something in it all the same. Anyway, there really are in _The Demi-Gods_ delicate shy pearls and gleams of the authentic gold of the original _Crock_. And after all it wasn't written for middle-aged gentlemen of the Saxon tribe.

* * * * *

Illustration: GERMAN SPIES TAKING LESSONS FROM CONJURER IN THE ART OF CONCEALING PIGEONS.

* * * * *

Another Impending Apology.