Chapter 3

Hence the phalanx or "preponderating mass formation." The Macedonian development of this depends (to reduce the matter to the simple algebraical formula to which all military problems are susceptible) on the fact that if _x_ equals the greatest efficiency of an army, and the rooted square of stability to the _n_th rank equals the phalanx, then the rooted square of stability to the _n_th rank equals _x_ minus the tangential curve of velocity of mobility. This should be plain even to the amateur student of tactics. Blending almost a military expert's appreciation of this cardinal doctrine with his natural selfishness as a leader of cavalry, PHILIP has given to this, the mobile arm, much of the striking power of the original phalanx. This is now placed in the centre, its business being mainly to force a salient in the enemy's line, the two resultant enclaves of which can then be shattered (at their re-entrants) by the cavalry squadrons, hurled forward on both phalanks. It should be noted, as a brilliant example of PHILIP'S staff work, that in the Macedonian Army, for the avoidance of confusion in the field, "phalanks" is now spelt "flanks."

To the intelligent student who has followed me thus far in these articles it should not be necessary to explain again the terms "enclave," "salient," and "re-entrant." "Tactical" is a term used when one is not using the term "strategical," and _vice versâ_.

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"In the words of Bacon, it should be 'read, marked, learned and inwardly digested.'"--_Financial Paper_.

Our gay contemporary does not tell us whether it was before or after completing the works usually attributed to SHAKSPEARE that BACON compiled the Book of Common Prayer.

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THE FLAPPER.

[Dr. ARTHUR SHADWELL, in the January _Nineteenth Century_, in his article on "Ordeal by Fire," after denouncing idlers and loafers and shirkers, falls foul "above all" of the young girls called flappers, "with high heels, skirts up to their knees and blouses open to the diaphragm, painted, powdered, self-conscious, ogling: 'Allus adallacked and dizened oot and a 'unting arter the men.'"]

Good Dr. ARTHUR SHADWELL, who lends lustre to a name Which DRYDEN in his satires oft endeavoured to defame, Has lately been discussing in a high-class magazine The trials that confront us in the year Nineteen Seventeen.

He is not a smooth-tongued prophet; no, he takes a serious view; We must make tremendous efforts if we're going to win through; And though he's not unhopeful of the issue of the fray He finds abundant causes for misgiving and dismay.

Our optimistic journals his exasperation fire, And the idlers and the loafers stimulate his righteous ire; But it is the flapper chiefly that in his gizzard sticks, And he's down upon her failings like a waggon-load of bricks.

She's ubiquitous in theatres, in rail and 'bus and tram, She wears her "blouses open down to the diaphragm," And, instead of realising what our men are fighting for, She's an orgiastic nuisance who in fact _enjoys_ the War.

It's a strenuous indictment of our petticoated youth And contains a large substratum of unpalatable truth; Our women have been splendid, but the Sun himself has specks, And the flapper can't be reckoned as a credit to her sex.

Still it needs to be remembered, to extenuate her crimes, That these flappers have not always had the very best of times; And the life that now she's leading, with no Mentors to restrain, Is decidedly unhinging to an undeveloped brain.

Then again we only see her when she's out for play or meals, And distresses the fastidious by her gestures and her squeals, But she is not always idle or a decorative drone, And if she wastes her wages, well, she wastes what is her own.

Still to say that she's heroic, as some scribes of late have said, Is unkind as well as foolish, for it only swells her head; She oughtn't to be flattered, she requires to be repressed, Or she'll grow into a portent and a peril and a pest.

Dr. SHADWELL to the PREMIER makes an eloquent appeal In firm and drastic fashion with this element to deal; And 'twould be a real feather in our gifted Cambrian's cap If he taught the peccant flapper less flamboyantly to flap.

But, in _Punch's_ way of thinking, 'tis for women, kind and wise, These neglected scattered units to enrol and mobilize, Their vagabond activities to curb and concentrate, And turn the skittish hoyden to a servant of the State.

She's young; her eyes are dazzled by the glamour of the streets; She has to learn that life is not all cinemas and sweets; But given wholesome guidance she may rise to self-control And earn the right of entry on the Nation's golden Roll.

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THE ONLY STEGGLES.

Steggles is my groom, and my crowning mercy. But for his deafness I am sure he would long since have left the humble rank of gunner far beneath him, and the Staff might have gained a brilliant strategist. In addition to dulness of hearing, Steggles is endowed--I should indeed be ungrateful to use the word afflicted--with a vacuity of expression which puts rivals or antagonists off their guard, and doubles his value during the vicissitudes of active service. What would be handicaps to ordinary men Steggles turns to the advantage of himself, Sapphira my mare, and me.

When on the march the Battery arrives at the morass allotted to it for horse lines, I know that all will be well with the mud-bespattered Sapphira. Steggles leaps from the waggon whereon, in company with one of the cooks, he tours the pleasant land of France, and receives the mare. With his toes strangely pointed out, he leads her away from the scene of labour and language, disappearing amidst the hovels of the adjacent village. Often I never see him or obtain news of him till next morning, when he produces Sapphira polished like a silk hat and every scrap of metal about her sparkling. Occasionally I have tracked him to the shelter where he secretes and waits upon Sapphira, always to find that he has discovered and occupied the best stable in the village. The grooms of my brother-officers never learn that Steggles' vacuous expression is the disguise of an intellect subtle, discriminating and alert, so they never trouble to endeavour to forestall him. To find Sapphira is to find Steggles, as he always likes to spread his blanket where she could tread on him if she wanted anything during the night.

From time to time he chooses the occasion of a night's halt on the march to indulge in a bilious attack; but he has no other vice except an inveterate reluctance to leave off polishing my boots when I mount. No matter how Sapphira may prance and back and sidle, he follows her round and round with a remnant of a shirt, rubbing mud-spots off my boots in the stirrup. It is quite useless to bellow, "That will do, Steggles!"--his ideal is the unattainable perfection, and he persists. I have to escape by giving Sapphira the spur at the risk of knocking Steggles into the mud, or be late in turning out.

He never gives anything, even his own performances, unqualified praise; in fact it is extremely hard to win from him any encomium higher than "It's not too bad." Perhaps there is Scotch blood in his veins.

I very much want to recommend him for some decoration, but the organization likely to appreciate the most gallant of his deeds has not yet been formed--the S.P.G.P., or Society for the Preservation of Government Property.

Steggles was once riding behind me down a valley liberally dimpled with shell-holes, further dimples being in process of formation as we rode. I was returning from an O Pip, or Observation Post, and Steggles was carrying a pair of my boots with a rolled puttee stuffed into each. Suddenly I was aware that he had wheeled his horse about, and was trotting back towards the most dimply area of the valley. Out of regard for his family, I cantered after him. He broke into a gallop. When, after a thrilling ride, I caught him and had a little talk amongst the dimples, it appeared that he had dropped one of the puttees, and wished to return and look for it. This incident will, I think, demonstrate the exceptional character of the man, who did not appear to regard himself as a hero, or to pose as a desperate _farceur_, or to aspire to the post of Q.M.S., though, incredible as it may seem, the puttee in question was of the variety G.S.

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OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

(_By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks_.)

To those who would learn what soldiering is like in the armies of democratic France I would heartily commend two books recently published by Messrs. ALLEN AND UNWIN, _Battles and Bivouacs_, by JACQUES ROUJON, and _The Diary of a French Private_, by GASTON RIOU. M. ROUJON, infantryman of the line, was in private life a journalist on _Le Figaro_; M. RIOU, Red Cross orderly, a liberal lay-theologian and writer of European reputation. The former's transliterator ("Munitions are distributed around," writes he undismayed; and has also discovered a territory known as "Oriental Prussia") obtrudes a little between author and reader. M. RIOU fares better; but both contrive to give a really vivid impression of the horrors and anxieties of the early days of the War before the tide turned at the Marne, of the flying rumours so far from the actual truth, of the fine spirit of _camaraderie_ in common danger, of the intimate relations between officers and men, details, terrible or trivial, of campaigning, and, because our spirited brothers-in-arms are not ashamed to express their innermost feelings, of the deeper emotions at work under the surface gaieties. M. RIOU'S narrative is mainly the record of his year's captivity in a Bavarian fort. On his way he faced the fanatical hatred and cruelty of the German civilians, of the women especially, with a cynical fortitude. The commandant of his prison, Baron von STENGEL, was, however, a gentleman and a brick, and did everything in his power to make the difficult life bearable. An episode pleasant to recall is the reception of the Russian prisoners (intended by their captors to cause dissensions) by their French comrades in misfortune. The whole record gives an impression of fine courage and resourcefulness.

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Very probably you are already acquainted with that restful and admirable book, _Father Payne_ (SMITH, ELDER), of which a new edition has just now been published. The point of this new edition is that, in its special Preface, the genesis and authorship of the book are assigned, for the first time on this side the Atlantic, to Mr. A.C. BENSON. And the point of the new preface is that it entirely gives away the original edition (also printed here), in which the secret was elaborately concealed. My wonder is, reading the book with this added knowledge, that anyone can have at any time failed to detect in it the gently persuasive hand of the Master of Magdalene, Cambridge. You remember, no doubt, how _Father Payne_ (a courtesy title), having had a small estate left to him, proceeded to turn it into the home of a secular community for young men desirous of pursuing the literary gift, and how he financed, encouraged and generally supervised them. Leisure, an exquisite setting, and the society of enthusiastic and personally-selected youth--one might call the book perhaps a Tutor's Dream of the Millennium. Anyhow, _Father Payne_, as shown in this volume, which is practically a record of his table-talk upon a great variety of themes, is exactly the gentle, shrewd and idealistic philosopher whom (knowing his parentage) one would expect. Bensonians (of the A.C. pattern) will certainly be glad to have what must surely have been their suspicions confirmed, and to admit _Father Payne_ to the shelves of authenticity.

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Miss DOROTHEA CONYERS has long ere this established herself as a specialist of repute in Irish sporting tales. You will need but one look at the picture wrapper of _The Financing of Fiona_ (ALLEN) to see that a repetition of the same agreeable mixture awaits you within. _Fiona_ was a charming young woman (Irish, of course) with a rich uncle and a poor, very unattractive cousin, who loved her for her expectations. As _Fiona_ had no conception about money beyond the spending of it, the uncle made a will, whose object was that she should have plenty. The suitor, however, knowing of this, and being a naughty, rather improbable person, destroyed part of it, with the result that _Fiona_ was apparently left only the ancestral home and no cash to keep it up. So she was forced to take in gentleman boarders for the hunting, and (for propriety's sake) to invent a mythical chaperon, who lived above stairs. And, after all, she needn't have done any such thing, because the rich uncle, in leaving her all the contents of the mansion, had foolishly forgotten to mention a secret drawer full of Canadian securities. As for the villain, I really hardly dare tell you the impossibly silly way in which he allowed himself to be caught out. But of course all this melodrama is not what matters. The important thing about Miss CONYERS' people is that (whatever their private worries) a-hunting they will go; and _Fiona_, financed by her paying guests, shows in this respect as capital sport as any of her predecessors. For the rest, I can hardly say with honesty that the story is equal to its author's best form.

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What I like particularly about Mr. FREDERICK NIVEN is the friendly way in which he contrives to make his readers and himself into a family party. "We must," he writes at the beginning of a chapter in _Cinderella of Skookum Greek_ (NASH), "get a move on with the story, in case you become more tired of Archer's compound fracture than he was himself." This is by no means the only occasion on which he shows his thoughtfulness for us, and I think it very kind and nice of him. At the same time I will ungraciously admit that the weak point of his story is that it does not move quite fast enough. Admirable artist in psychology and atmosphere, his plot, if you can call it a plot, is very slight. _Cyrus Archer_, the young American of the compound fracture (who had my sympathy from the start because he could never remember dates), goes out into the back of beyond for a spell before settling down to married life and a place in his father's business, and at Skookum Creek, where he grows tomatoes and studies Indians, he meets his _Cinderella_, with the result that his life has to be completely rearranged. A commonplace tale, but there is a rare and distinct flavour about the telling of it. Mr. NIVEN'S manner has indeed a very particular charm, over which one would take an even keener pleasure in lingering if only he himself lingered a little less over his story.

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I hardly think that Madame ALBANESI has chosen quite the most appropriate name for the story that she calls _Hearts and Sweethearts_ (HUTCHINSON). Personally, I fancy that _Suits and Lawsuits_ would have come nearer the mark; because, though there is a certain proportion of love-making in the tale, there is considerably more about going to law. One difficulty with which I fancy the writer had to contend is due to the fact that her hero and heroine are (in a sense) the opposing protagonists in a case of disputed succession; _Jemima Frant_ being engaged in the attempt to turn out _Sir John Norminster_ from his estates and establish the claim to them of her dead sister's child. Naturally, therefore, till this is settled their opportunities for the tender passion are, to put it very gently, restricted. But of course--well, a novel with such a title is hardly likely to leave anybody of importance unmarried at the final page. Before this is turned, you have some pleasant comedy of London in war-time, and meet a number of agreeably sketched persons, whose conversation may amuse you, or, on the other hand, may cause you to wish them a little less discursive. Madame ALBANESI indeed impressed me as having occasionally turned her subordinate characters loose into a chapter, with instructions to fill it up anyhow, while she herself thought out the next move. But the law was always leisurely, so this characteristic might perhaps be expected in a story so much concerned with it.

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Handel in War-Time.

"The anthem 'O Thou that tillest' (Messiah), will be rendered."--_Dublin Evening Mail_.

No pains are being spared to promote agriculture in Ireland.

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"The river in many places has overflown its banks."-- _Henley Newspaper_.

Even Father Thames cannot resist the modern mania for aviation.

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Extract from a review of Dr. JOHN FITZPATRICK'S "_This Realm, This England_":--

"From a Scotsman, we deprecate the definition of 'This Realm' as 'England,' and would suggest to the learned doctor that he would have done nothing derogatory to himself, even in the eyes of Englishmen, if he had used the really correct and comprehensive name Britain."--_Scots Pictorial_.

SHAKSPEARE (ghost of), please note.