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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9528bca --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #65577 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/65577) diff --git a/old/65577-0.txt b/old/65577-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index eac433f..0000000 --- a/old/65577-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,12100 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook, Adventures in Journalism, by Philip Gibbs - - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - - -Title: Adventures in Journalism - - -Author: Philip Gibbs - - - -Release Date: June 9, 2021 [eBook #65577] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - - -***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ADVENTURES IN JOURNALISM*** - - -E-text prepared by Tim Lindell, Martin Pettit, and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images generously made -available by Internet Archive (https://archive.org) - - - -Note: Images of the original pages are available through - Internet Archive. See - https://archive.org/details/adventuresinjour00gibb - - - - - -ADVENTURES IN JOURNALISM - - -[Illustration: Decoration] - - -ADVENTURES IN JOURNALISM - -by - -PHILIP GIBBS - -Author of -“Now It Can Be Told,” “More That -Must Be Told,” etc. - - -[Illustration: Logo] - - - - - - -Harper & Brothers, Publishers -New York and London - -ADVENTURES IN JOURNALISM - -Copyright, 1923 -By Harper & Brothers -Printed in the U.S.A. - -First Edition - - - - -ADVENTURES -IN JOURNALISM - - - - -Adventures in Journalism - - - - -I - - -The adventure of journalism which has been mine--as editor, reporter, -and war correspondent--is never a life of easy toil and seldom one of -rich rewards. I would not recommend it to youth as a primrose path, nor -to anyone who wishes to play for safety in possession of an assured -income, regular hours, and happy home life. - -It is of uncertain tenure, because no man may hold on to his job if -he weakens under the nervous strain, or quarrels on a point of honor -with the proprietor who pays him or with the editor who sets his task. -Even the most successful journalist--if he is on the writing side of -a newspaper--can rarely bank on past achievements, however long and -brilliant, but must forever jerk his brain and keep his curiosity -untired. - -As nobody, according to the proverb, has ever seen a dead donkey, so -nobody has ever seen a retired reporter living on the proceeds of his -past toil, like business men in other adventures of life. He must go on -writing and recording, getting news until the pen drops from his hand, -or the little bell tinkles for the last time on his typewriter, and -his head falls over an unfinished sentence.... Well, I hope that will -happen to me, but some people look forward to an easier old age. - -I have known the humiliation of journalism, its insecurity, its -never-ending tax upon the mind and heart, its squalor, its fever, -its soul-destroying machinery for those who are not proof against its -cruelties. Hundreds of times, as a young reporter, I was stretched to -the last pull of nervous energy on some “story” which was wiped out for -more important news. Often I went without food and sleep, suffered in -health of body and mind, girded myself to audacities from which, as a -timid soul, I shrank, in order to get a “scoop”--which failed. - -The young reporter has to steel his heart to these disappointments. -He must not agonize too much if, after a day and night of intense and -nervous effort, he finds no line of his work in the paper, or sees -his choicest prose hacked and mangled by impatient subeditors, or his -truth-telling twisted into falsity. - -He is the slave of the machine. Home life is not for him, as for other -men. He may have taken unto himself a wife--poor girl!--but though she -serves his little dinner all piping hot, he has to leave the love feast -for the bleak streets, if the voice of the news editor calls down the -telephone. - -So, at least, it was in my young days as a reporter on London -newspapers, and many a time in those days I cursed the fate which had -taken me to Fleet Street as a slave of the press. - -Several times I escaped; taking my courage in both hands--and it -needed courage, remembering a wife and babe--I broke with the spell of -journalism and retired into quieter fields of literary life. - -But always I went back! The lure of the adventure was too strong. The -thrill of chasing the new “story,” the interest of getting into the -middle of life, sometimes behind the scenes of history, the excitement -of recording sensational acts in the melodrama of reality, the meetings -with heroes, rogues, and oddities, the front seats at the peep show of -life, the comedy, the change, the comradeship, the rivalry, the test -of one’s own quality of character and vision, drew me back to Fleet -Street as a strong magnet. - -It was, after all, a great game! It is still one of the best games in -the world for any young man with quick eyes, a sense of humor, some -touch of quality in his use of words, and curiosity in his soul for -the truth and pageant of our human drama, provided he keeps his soul -unsullied from the dirt. - -Looking back on my career as a journalist, I know that I would not -change for any other. Fleet Street, which I called in a novel _The -Street of Adventure_, is still my home, and to its pavement my feet -turn again from whatever part of the world I return. - -When I first entered the street, twenty years ago alas! the social -status of press men was much lower than at present, when the pendulum -has swung the other way, so that newspaper proprietors wear coronets, -the purlieus of Fleet Street are infested with barons and baronets, -and even reporters have been knighted by the King. In my early days -a journalist did not often get nearer to a Cabinet Minister than the -hall porter of his office. It was partly his own fault, or at least, -the fault of those who paid him miserably, because the old-time -reporter--before Northcliffe, who was then Harmsworth, revised his -salary and his status--was often an ill-dressed fellow, conscious of -his own social inferiority, cringing in his manner to the great, and -content to slink round to the back doors of life, rather than boldly -assault the front-door knocker. Having a good conceit of myself and a -sensitive pride, I received many hard knocks and humiliations which, no -doubt, were good for my soul. - -I resented the insolence of society women whom I was sent to interview. -Even now I remember with humiliation a certain Duchess who demanded -that, in return for a ticket to her theatrical entertainment, I should -submit my “copy” to her before sending it to the paper. Weakly, I -agreed, for my annoyance was extreme when an insolent footman demanded -my article and carried it on a silver salver, at some distance from -his liveried body, lest he should be contaminated by so vile a thing, -to Her Grace and her fair daughters in an adjoining room. I heard them -reading it, and their mocking laughter.... I raged at the haughty -arrogance of young government officials who treated me as “one of those -damned fellows on the press.” I laughed bitterly and savagely at a -certain Mayor of Bournemouth who revealed in one simple sentence (which -he thought was kind) the attitude of public opinion toward the press -which it despised--and feared. - -“You know,” he told me in a moment of candor, “I always treat -journalists as though they were gentlemen.” - -For some time I disliked all mayors because of that confession, and a -year or two later, when conditions were changing, I was able to take a -joyous revenge from one of them, who was the Mayor of Limerick. He did -not even treat journalists as though they were gentlemen. He treated -them as though they were ruffians who ought to be thrust into the outer -darkness. - -King Edward was making a Royal Progress through Ireland--it was before -the days of Sinn Fein--and, with a number of other correspondents, some -of whom are now famous men, it was my duty to await and describe his -arrival at Limerick and report his speech in answer to the address. - -Seeing us standing in a group, the Mayor demanded to know why we dared -to stand on the platform where the King was about to arrive, when -strict orders had been given that none but the Mayor and Corporation, -and the Guard of Honor, were permitted on that space. “Get outside the -station!” shouted the Mayor of Limerick, “or I’ll put my police on to -ye!” - -Explanations were useless. Protests did not move the Mayor. To avoid an -unpleasant scene, we retired outside the station, indignantly. But I -was resolved to get on that platform and defeat the Mayor at all costs. -I noticed the appearance of an officer in cocked hat, plumes, and full -uniform, whom I knew to be General Pole-Carew, commanding the troops -in Ireland, and in charge of the royal journey. I accosted him boldly, -told him the painful situation of the correspondents who were there -to describe the King’s tour and record his speeches. He was courteous -and kind. Indeed, he did a wonderful and fearful thing. The Mayor and -Corporation were already standing on a red carpet enclosed by brass -railings, immediately opposite the halting place of the King’s train. -General Pole-Carew gave the Mayor a tremendous dressing down which -made him grow first purple and then pale, and ordered him, with his -red-gowned satellites, to clear out of that space to the far end of -the platform. General Pole-Carew then led the newspaper men to the red -carpet enclosed by brass railings. It was to us that King Edward read -out his reply to the address which was handed to him, while the Mayor -and Corporation glowered sulkily. - -Unduly elated by this victory, perhaps, one of my colleagues who had -been a skipper on seagoing tramps before adopting the more hazardous -profession of the press, resented, a few days later, being “cooped -up” in the press box at Punchestown races which King Edward was to -attend in semi-state. Nothing would content his soul but a place on -the Royal Stand. I accompanied him to see the fun, but regretted my -temerity when, without challenge, we stood, surrounded by princes and -peers of Ireland, at the top of the gangway up which the King was to -come. I think they put down my friend the skipper as the King’s private -detective. He wore a blue reefer coat and a bowler hat with a curly -brim. By good luck I was in a tall hat and morning suit, like the rest -of the company. Presently the King came, in a little pageant of state -carriages with outriders in scarlet and gold, and then, with his -gentlemen, he ascended the gangway, shaking hands with all who were -assembled on the stairs. The skipper, who was a great patriot, and -loved King Edward as a “regular fellow,” betrayed himself by the warmth -of his greeting. Grasping the King’s hand in a sailorman’s grip, he -shook it long and ardently, and expressed the hope that His Majesty was -quite well. - -King Edward was startled by this unconventional welcome, and a few -moments later, after some whispered words, one of his equerries touched -the skipper on the shoulder and requested him politely to seek some -other place. I basely abandoned my colleague, and betrayed no kind of -acquaintance with him, but held to the advantage of my tall hat, and -spent an interesting morning listening to King Edward’s conversation -with the Irish gentry. Prince Arthur of Connaught was there, and I -remember that King Edward clapped him on the back and chaffed him -because he had not yet found a wife. “It’s time you got married, young -fellow,” said his illustrious uncle. - -That memory brings me to the importance of clothes in the career of -a journalist. It was Lord Northcliffe, then Alfred Harmsworth, who -gave me good advice on the subject at the outset of my journalistic -experience. - -“Always dress well,” he said, “and never spoil the picture by being in -the wrong costume. I like the appearance of my young men to be a credit -to the profession. It is very important.” - -That advice, excellent in its way, was sometimes difficult to follow, -owing to the rush and scurry of a reporter’s life. It is difficult to -be correctly attired for a funeral in the morning and for a wedding in -the afternoon, at least so far as the color of one’s tie. - -I remember being jerked off to a shipwreck on the Cornish coast in a -tall hat and frock coat which startled the simple fishermen who were -rescuing ladies on a life line. - -A colleague of mine who specialized in dramatic criticism was suddenly -ordered to write a bright article about a garden party at Buckingham -Palace. Unfortunately he had come down to the office that morning in a -blue serge suit and straw hat, which is not the costume worn on such -occasions. One of the King’s gentlemen, more concerned, I am sure, than -the King, at this breach of etiquette, requested him to conceal himself -behind a tree. - -The absence of evening dress clothes, owing to a hurried journey, has -often been a cause of embarrassment to myself and others, with the risk -of losing important news for lack of this livery. - -So it was when I was invited to attend a banquet given to Doctor Cook -in Copenhagen, when he made his claim of having discovered the North -Pole. For reasons which I shall tell later in these memories, it was -of great importance to me to be present at that dinner, where Doctor -Cook was expected to tell the story of his amazing journey. But I -had traveled across Europe with a razor and a toothbrush, and had -no evening clothes. For a shilling translated into Danish money, I -borrowed the dress suit of an obliging young waiter. He was a taller -man than I, and the sleeves of his coat fell almost to my wrists, and -the trousers bagged horribly below the knees. His waistcoat was also -rather grease-stained by the accidents inevitable to his honorable -avocation. In this attire I proceeded self-consciously to the Tivoli -Palace where the banquet was held. I had to ascend a tall flight of -marble steps, and, being late, I was alone and conspicuous. - -Feeling like Hop-o’-my-Thumb in the giant’s clothes, I pulled myself -together, hitched up my waiter’s trousers, and advanced up the marble -stairs. Suddenly I was aware of a fantastic happening. I found myself, -as the fairy tales say, receiving a salute from a guard of honor. -Swords flashed from their scabbards and my fevered vision was conscious -of a double line of figures dressed in the scarlet coats and buckskin -breeches of the English Life Guards. - -“This,” I said to myself, “is what comes to a man who hires a waiter’s -clothes. I have undoubtedly gone crazy. There are no English Life -Guards in Copenhagen. But there is certainly a missing button at the -back of my trousers.” - -It was the chorus of the Tivoli Music Hall which was providing the -Guard of Honor, and they were tall and lovely ladies. - -I was caught napping again, not very long ago, when the King of the -Belgians granted my request for a special interview. An official of the -British Embassy, who conveyed that acceptance to me, also advised me -that I must wear a frock coat and top hat when I visited the Palace, -for that appointment which, he said, was at four o’clock. I had come -to Brussels without a frock coat--and indeed I had not worn that -detestable garment for years--and without a top hat. I decided to buy -or hire them in Brussels. - -It was Saturday morning, and I spent several hours searching for -ready-made frock coats. Ultimately I hired one which had certainly been -made for a Belgian burgomaster of considerable circumference--and I am -a lean man, and little. I also acquired a top hat which was of a style -favored by London cabbies forty years ago, low in the crown and broad -and curly in the brim. I carried these parcels back, hoping that by -holding my hat in the presence of Majesty, and altering the buttons on -the frock coat, I might maintain a dignified appearance. - -I did not make a public appearance in that costume however, as I missed -the hour for the interview owing to a mistake of the British Embassy. - -As a young man, before serious things like wars and revolutions, -plagues and famines entered into my sphere of work, I spent most of my -days on _The Daily Mail_, _The Daily Chronicle_, and other papers, -chasing the “stunt” story, which was then a new thing in English -journalism, having crossed the water from the United States and excited -the imagination of such pioneers as Harmsworth and Pearson. The old -dullness and dignity of the English Press had been rudely challenged -by this new outlook on life, and by the novel interpretation of the -word “news” by men like Harmsworth himself. Formerly “news” was -limited in the imagination of English editors to verbatim reports of -political speeches, the daily record of police courts, and the hard -facts of contemporary history, recorded in humdrum style. Harmsworth -changed all that. “News,” to him, meant anything which had a touch of -human interest for the great mass of folk, any happening or idea which -affected the life, clothes, customs, food, health, and amusements of -middle-class England. Under his direction, _The Daily Mail_, closely -imitated by many others, regarded life as a variety show. No “turn” -must be long or dull. Whether it dealt with tragedy or comedy, high -politics or other kinds of crime, it was admitted, not because of its -importance to the nation or the world, but because it made a good -“story” for the breakfast table. - -In pursuit of that ideal--not very high, but not a bad school for -those in search of human knowledge--I became one of that band of -colleagues and rivals who were sent here, there, and everywhere on -the latest “story.” It led us into queer places, often on foolish and -futile missions. It brought us in touch with strange people, both high -and low in the social world. It was my privilege to meet kings and -princes, murderers and thieves, politicians and publicans, saints and -sinners, along the roads of life in many countries. As far as kings -are concerned, I cannot boast that familiarity once claimed by Oscar -Browning who, when he showed the ex-Kaiser over Cambridge, asserted to -the undergraduates who questioned him afterward that “He is one of the -nicest emperors I have ever met.” - -With rogues and vagabonds I confess I have had a more extensive -acquaintance. The amusement of the game of finding a “story” was the -unexpectedness of the situation in which one sometimes found oneself, -and the personal experience which did not appear in print. As a trivial -instance, I remember how I went to inquire into a ghost story and -became, surprisingly, the ghost. - -Down in the West of England there was, and still is, a great house so -horribly haunted (according to local tales) that the family to which -it has belonged for centuries abandoned its ancient splendor and lived -near by in a modern villa. Interest was aroused when a young chemist -claimed that he had actually taken a photograph of one of the ghosts -during a night he had spent alone in the old house. I obtained a copy -of this photograph, which was certainly a good “fake,” and I was asked -to spend a night in the house myself with an Irish photographer who -might have equal luck with some other spirit. - -Together we traveled down to the haunted house, which we found to be an -old Elizabethan mansion surrounded by trees, and next to a graveyard. -It was dark when we arrived, with the intention of making a burglarious -entry. Before ten minutes had passed the Irish photographer was saying -his prayers, and I had a cold chill down my spine at the sighing of -the wind through the trees, the hooting of an owl, and the little -squeaks of the bats that flitted under the eaves. With false courage we -endeavored to make our way into the house. Every window was shuttered, -every door bolted, and we could find no way of entry into a building -that rambled away with many odd nooks and corners. At last I found a -door which seemed to yield. - -“Stand back!” I said to the Irish photographer. I took a run and -hurled my shoulder against the door. It gave, and I was precipitated -into a room--not, as I found afterward, part of the Elizabethan -mansion, but a neighboring farmhouse, where the farmer and his family -were seated at an evening meal. Their shrieks and yells were piercing, -and they believed that the ghosts next door were invading them.... I -and the photographer fled without further explanation. - -On another day I went down into the country to interview a dear old -clergyman, who had reached his hundredth year, and had been at school -with the famous Doctor Arnold of Rugby. The old gentleman was stone -deaf and for some time could not make out the object of my visit. -At last it seemed to dawn on him. “Ah, yes!” he said. “You are the -gentleman who is coming to sing at our concert to-night. How very kind -of you to come all the way from London!” Vainly I endeavored to explain -that I had come to interview him for a London paper. Presently he took -me by the arm, and led me into his drawing-room, where a charming old -lady was sitting by the fire knitting. - -“My dear,” said the centenarian parson, “this gentleman has come all -the way from London to sing at our concert to-night.” - -I explained to her gently that it was not so, but she was also deaf, -and could only hear her husband when she used her ear trumpet. - -“How very kind of you to come all this way!” she said graciously. - -Presently another old gentleman appeared on the scene and I was -presented to him as the young gentleman who had come down from London -to sing at the concert. - -“Pardon me,” I said; “it’s all a mistake. I’m a newspaper reporter.” - -But the second old gentleman ignored my explanation. He had only caught -the word “concert.” - -“Delighted to meet you!” he said. “We are all looking forward to your -singing to-night!” - -I slunk out of the house later, and drove back fifteen miles to the -station. On the way I passed an old horse cab conveying a young man in -the opposite direction. I felt certain that he actually was the young -gentleman who was going to sing at the concert that night. - -On another occasion I had the unfortunate experience of being taken for -Mr. Winston Churchill. It was his luck and not mine, because it was at -a time when a great number of Irishmen were lusting for his blood. I am -no more like Mr. Churchill than I am like Lloyd George, except that we -are both clean shaven and both happened to be driving in a blue car. It -was on a day when there was trouble in Belfast (that city of peace!) -and the Orangemen had sworn to prevent Churchill from speaking to the -Catholic community on the Celtic Football Ground. They lined up for -him thousands strong outside the railway station where he was due to -arrive, and their pockets were loaded with “kidney” stones, and iron -nuts from the shipyards. Churchill is a brave man, and faced them with -such pluck that they did not attempt to injure him at that moment of -his arrival, though afterwards they attacked his car in Royal Avenue -and would have overturned it but for a charge of mounted police. He -made his speech to the Catholic Irish and slipped out of Belfast by -a different station. The mobs of Orangemen were awaiting his return -in a blue car to a hotel in Royal Avenue, and it was my car, and my -clean-shaven face under a bowler hat which went back to that hotel -and caused a slight mistake among them. I was suddenly aware of ten -thousand men yelling at me fiercely and threatening to tear me limb -from limb. The police made a rush, and I and my companion escaped with -only torn collars and the loss of dignity after a wild scrimmage on the -steps of the hotel. For hours the mob waited outside for Mr. Winston -Churchill to depart, and I did not venture forth until the news of his -going spread among them. - -Such incidents are not enjoyable at the time. But a newspaper man with -a sense of humor takes them as part of his day’s work, and however -trivial they may be, bides his time for big events of history in which, -after his apprenticeship, he may find his chance as a chronicler of -things that matter. - - - - -II - - -It is one of the little ironies of a reporter’s life that he finds -himself at times in the company of those who sit in the seats of the -mighty and those who possess the power of worldly wealth, when he, poor -lad, is wondering whether his next article will pay for his week’s -rent, and jingles a few pieces of silver in a threadbare pocket. - -It is true that most newspaper offices are liberal in the matter of -expenses, so that while a “story” is in progress the newspaper man is -able to put up at the best hotels, to hire motor cars with the ease -of a millionaire, and to live so much like a lord that hall porters, -Ministers of State, private detectives, and women of exalted rank are -willing to treat him as such, if he plays the part well, and conceals -his miserable identity. But there is always the feeling, to a sensitive -fellow on the bottom rung of the journalistic ladder, that he is only a -looker-on of life, a play actor watching from the wings, even a kind of -Christopher Sly, belonging to the gutter but dressed up by some freak -of fate, and invited to the banquet of the great. - -The young newspaper man, if he is wise, and proud, with a sense of -the dignity of his own profession, overcomes this foolish sense of -inferiority by the noble thought that he may be (and probably is) of -more importance to the world than people of luxury and exalted rank, -and that, indeed, it is only by his words that many of them live -at all. Unless he writes about them they do not exist. He is their -critic, their judge, to some extent their creator. He it is who--as a -man of letters--makes them famous or infamous, who gives the laurels -of history to the man of action--for there is no Ulysses without -Homer--and who moves through the pageant of life as a modern Froissart, -painting the word pictures of courts and camps, revealing what happens -behind the scenes, giving the immortality of his words to little people -he meets upon the way, or to kings and heroes. That point of view, -with its youthful egotism, has been comforting to many young gentlemen -who have taken rude knocks to their sensibility because of their -profession; and there is some truth in it. - -As a descriptive writer on London newspapers, I had that advantage of -being poor among the rich, and lowly among the exalted. Among other -experiences which fell to my lot was that of being a chronicler of -royal processions, ceremonies, marriages, coronations, funerals, and -other events in the lives of kings and princes. - -I was once a literary attendant at the birth of a Princess, and look -back to that event with particular gratitude because it gave me -considerable acquaintance with the masterpieces of Dutch art and the -beauties of Dutch cities. I also learned to read Dutch with fair ease, -owing to the long delay in the arrival of Queen Wilhelmina’s daughter. - -For some reason, at a time before the Great War had given a new -proportion to world events, this expectation of an heir to the Dutch -throne was considered of enormous political importance, as the next of -kin was a German prince. Correspondents and secret agents came from all -parts of Europe to the little old city of the Hague, and I had among my -brothers of the pen two of the best-known journalists in Europe, one of -whom was Ludovic Nodeau of _Le Journal_ and the other Hamilton Fyfe of -_The Daily Mail_. - -Every night in the old white palace of the Hague we three, and six -others of various nationalities, were entertained to a banquet in -the rooms of the Queen’s Chamberlain, the Junkheer van Heen, who -had placed his rooms at our disposal. Flunkeys in royal livery, with -powdered wigs and silk stockings, conducted us with candles to a -well-spread table, and always the Queen’s Chamberlain announced to us -solemnly in six languages, “Gentlemen, the happy event will take place -to-morrow!” - -To-morrow came, and a month of to-morrows, but no heir to the throne of -Holland. Three times, owing to false rumors, the Dutch Army came into -the streets and drank not wisely but too well to a new-born Prince who -had not come! - -Ludovic Nodeau, Hamilton Fyfe, and I explored Holland, learned Dutch, -and saw the lime tree outside the palace become heavy with foliage, -though it was bare at our coming. - -The correspondent of _The Times_ had a particular responsibility -because he had promised to telephone to the British Ambassador, who, -in his turn, was to telegraph to King Edward, at any time of the day -or night that the event might happen. But the correspondent of _The -Times_, who was a very young man, and “fed up” with all this baby -stuff, absented himself from the banquet one night. In the early -hours of the morning, when he was asleep at his hotel, the Queen’s -Chamberlain appeared, with tears running down his cheeks, and announced -in six languages that a Princess had been born. - -It was Hamilton Fyfe and I who gave the news to the Dutch people. As we -ran down the street to the post office men and women came out on the -balconies in their night attire and shouted for news. - -“Princess! Princess!” we cried. An hour later the Hague was thronged -with joyous, dancing people. That morning the Ministers of State linked -hands and danced with the people down the main avenue--as though Lloyd -George and his fellow ministers had performed a fox-trot in Whitehall. -With quaint old-world customs, heralds and trumpeters announced the -glad tidings, already known, and driving in a horse cab to watch I had -a fight with a Dutch photographer who tried to take possession of my -vehicle. That night the Dutch Army rejoiced again, boisterously. - -Although I cannot boast of familiarity with emperors, like Oscar -Browning, and have been more in the position of the cat who can look -at a king, according to the proverb, I can claim to have heard one -crowned head utter an epigram on the spur of the moment. It was in the -war between Bulgaria and Turkey in 1912, and I was standing on the -bridge over the Maritza River at Mustapha Pasha (now the new boundary -of the Turks in Europe) when Ferdinand of Bulgaria arrived with his -staff. Because of the climate, which was cold there, I was wearing the -fur cap of a Bulgarian peasant, a sheepskin coat, and leggings, and -believed myself to be thoroughly disguised as a Bulgar. But the King--a -tall, fat old man with long nose and little shifty eyes, like a rogue -elephant--“spotted” me at once as an Englishman, and, calling me up to -him, chatted very civilly in my own language, which he spoke without -an accent. At that moment there arrived the usual character who always -does appear at the psychological moment in any part of the world’s -drama--a photographer of _The Daily Mail_. Ferdinand of Bulgaria had -a particular hatred and dread of cameramen, believing that he might -be assassinated by some enemy pretending to “snap” him. He raised his -stick to strike the man down and was only reassured when I told him -that he was a harmless Englishman, trying to carry out his profession -as a press photographer. - -“Photography is not a profession,” said the King. “It’s a damned -disease.” - -One of the pleasantest jobs in pre-war days was a royal luncheon at -the Guildhall, when the Lord Mayor of London and his Aldermen used -to give the welcome of the City to foreign potentates visiting the -Royal Family. The scene under the timbered roof of the Guildhall was -splendid, with great officers of the Army and Navy in full uniform, -Ministers of State in court dress, Indian princes in colored turbans, -foreign ambassadors glittering with stars and ribbons, the Lord Mayor -and Aldermen in scarlet gowns trimmed with fur, and the royal Guest -and his gentlemen in ceremonial uniforms. In the courtyard ancient -coaches, all gilt and glass, with coachmen and footmen in white wigs -and stockings, and liveries of scarlet and gold, brought back memories -of Queen Anne’s London and the pictures of Cinderella going to the -ball. The gigantic and grotesque figures of Gog and Magog, carved in -wood, grinned down upon the company as they have done through centuries -of feasts, and at the other end of the hall, mounted in a high pulpit, -a white-capped cook carved the Roast Beef of Old England, while music -discoursed in the minstrels’ gallery. - -Our souls were warmed by 1815 port, only brought out for these royal -banquets, and we sat in the midst of the illustrious and in the -presence of princes, with a conviction that in no other city on earth -could there be such a good setting for a good meal. There I have -feasted with the ex-Kaiser, the Kings of Portugal, Italy, and Spain, -several Presidents of the French Republic, and the King and Queen of -England. I remember the 1815 port more than the speeches of the kings. - -I also remember on one occasion at the Guildhall that it was a -brother journalist who seemed to be the most popular person at the -party. Admirals of the Fleet clapped him on the back and said “Hullo, -Charlie!” Generals and officers beamed upon the little man and uttered -the same words of surprise and affection. Diplomats and foreign -correspondents who had met “dear old Charlie” in South Africa, Japan, -Egypt, and the Balkans, and drunk wine with him in all the capitals of -Europe, greeted him when they passed as though they remembered rich -jests in his company. It was Charles Hands of _The Daily Mail_, war -correspondent, knight-errant of the pen, ironical commentator on life’s -puppet show, and good companion on any adventure. - -I once spent an afternoon with the King of Spain and his grandees, -though I had no right at all to be in their company. It was at the -marriage of a prince of the House of Bourbon with a white-faced lady -who had descended from the Kings of France in the old _régime_. This -ceremony was to take place in an old English house at Evesham, in the -orchard of England, which belonged to the Duke of Orleans, by right of -blood heir to the throne of France, as might be seen by the symbol of -the _fleur-de-lis_ carved on every panel and imprinted on every cup and -saucer in his home of exile, where he kept up a royal state and looked -the part, being a very handsome man and exceedingly like Henri IV, his -great ancestor. - -The Duke of Orleans could not abide journalists, and strict orders were -given that none should be admitted before the wedding in a pasteboard -chapel, still being tacked up and painted to represent a royal and -ancient chapel on the eve of the ceremony. - -For fear of anarchists and journalists a considerable body of police -and detectives had been engaged to hold three miles of road to Wood -Norton and guard the gates. But I was under instructions to describe -the preparations and the arrival of all the princes and princesses of -the Bourbon blood who were assembling from many countries of Europe. -With this innocent purpose, I hired a respectable-looking carriage at -the livery stables of Evesham, and drove out to Wood Norton. As it -happened, I fell into line with a number of other carriages containing -the King and Queen of Spain and other members of the family gathering. -Police and detectives accepted my carriage as part of the procession, -and I drove unchallenged through the great gilded gates under the Crown -of France. - -I was received with great deference by the Duke’s major domo, who -obviously regarded me as a Bourbon, and with the King and Queen of -Spain and a group of ladies and gentlemen, I inspected the pasteboard -chapel, the wedding presents, the floral decorations of the banqueting -chamber, and the Duke’s stables. The King of Spain was very merry -and bright, and believing, no doubt, that I was one of the Duke’s -gentlemen, addressed various remarks to me in a courteous way. I drove -back in the dark, saluted by all the policemen on the way, and wrote a -description of what I had seen, to the great surprise of my friends and -rivals. - -Next day I attended the wedding, and saw the strange assembly of the -old Blood Royal of France and Spain and Austria. One of the Bourbon -princes came from some distant part of the Slav world, and, in a heavy -fur coat reaching to his heels, a fur cap drawn over his ears, a gold -chain round his neck, and rings, not only on all his fingers, but on -his thumbs as well, looked like a bear who had robbed the jewelers’ -shops in Bond Street. At the wedding banquet one of the foreign -noblemen drank too deeply of the flowing cup, and, upon entering his -carriage afterward, danced a kind of _pas seul_ and hummed a little -ballad of the Paris boulevards, to the scandal of the footmen and the -undisguised amusement of King Alfonso. - -I made another uninvited appearance among royalty, and to this day -blush at the remembrance of my audacity, which was unnecessary and -unpardonable. It was when King George and Queen Mary opened the -Exhibition at the White City at Shepherd’s Bush, London. - -They had made a preliminary inspection of the place, on a filthy day -when the exhibition grounds were like the bogs of Flanders, and when -the King, with very pardonable irritation, uttered the word “Damn!” -when he stepped into a puddle which splashed all over his uniform. -“Hush, George!” said the Queen. “Wait till we get home!” - -On the day of the opening, vast crowds had assembled in the grounds, -but were not allowed to enter the exhibition buildings until the royal -party had passed through. The press were kept back by a rope at the -entrance way, in a position from which they could see just nothing -at all. I was peeved at this lack of consideration for professional -observers, and when the royal party entered and a cordon of police -wheeled across the great hall to prevent the crowd from following, I -stepped over the rope and joined the royal procession. As it happened, -the police movement had cut off one of the party--a French Minister of -State who, knowing no word of English, made futile endeavors to explain -his misfortune, and received in reply a policeman’s elbow in his chest -and the shout of “Get back there!” - -I took his place. The King’s detective had counted his chickens and -was satisfied that I was one of them. As I was in a new silk hat and -tail coat, I looked as distinguished as a French Minister, or at least -did not arouse suspicion. The only member of the party who noticed my -step across the rope was Sir Edward Grey. He did not give me away, but -smiled at my cool cheek with the suspicion of a wink. As a matter of -fact, I was not so cool as I looked. I was in an awkward situation, -because all the royal party and their company were busily engaged in -conversation, with the exception of Queen Alexandra who, being deaf, -lingered behind to study the show cases instead of conversing. Having -no one to talk to, I naturally lingered behind also, and thus attracted -the kindly notice of the Queen Mother, who made friendly remarks about -the exhibition, not hearing my hesitating answers. For the first time -I saw a royal reception by great crowds from the point of view of -royalty instead of the crowd--a white sea of faces, indistinguishable -individually, but one big, staring, thousand-eyed face, shouting and -waving all its pocket handkerchiefs, while bands played “God save the -King” and cameras snapped and cinema operators turned their handles. -When I returned to my office I found the news editor startled by -many photographs of his correspondent walking solemnly beside Queen -Alexandra.... The French Minister made a formal protest about his ill -treatment. - -King Edward was not friendly to press correspondents, especially if -they tried to peep behind the scenes, but many times I used to go -down to Windsor, sometimes to his garden parties, and often when the -German Emperor or some other sovereign was a guest at the castle. I am -sure there was more merriment in the Castle Inn where the journalists -gathered than within the great old walls of the castle itself, where, -curiously enough, my own father was born. - -These royal visits were generally in the autumn, and the amusement -of the day was a _battue_ of game in Windsor Forest, in which the -Prince of Wales, now King George, was always the best shot. The German -Emperor was often one of the guns, but seemed to find no pleasure in -that “sport”--which was a massacre of birds, and preserved an immense -dignity which never relaxed. Little King Manuel, then of Portugal, -shivered with cold in the dank mists of the English climate, and only -King Alfonso seemed to enjoy himself, as he does in most affairs of -life. - -Another journey to be made once a year by a little band of descriptive -writers--we were mostly always the same group--was when King Edward -paid his yearly visit to the Duke of Devonshire in his great mansion -at Chatsworth, in the heart of Derbyshire. Always there was a -torchlight procession up the hills from the station to the house, and -the old walls of Chatsworth were illumined by fireworks which turned -its fountains into fairy cascades, and the great, grim, ugly mansion -into an enchanter’s palace. Private theatricals were provided for the -entertainment of the King--Princess Henry of Pless and Mrs. Willie -James being the star turns. The performances struck me as being on the -vulgar side of comedy, but King Edward’s love of a good laugh was a -reasonable excuse, and surely a king, more than most men, gains more -wisdom from the vulgar humor of people than from the solemnities of -state. - -I used to be billeted in a cottage at Eversley near Chatsworth, while -other members of the press put up at an old hotel kept by an old -lady who had more dignity even than the Duchess. She insisted upon -everybody going to bed, or turning out, at eleven o’clock, and this was -a grievance to a young journalist named Holt White, then of _The Daily -Mail_, who was neck and neck with me in a series of chess games. One -night when we were all square on our games and walking back together -to the cottage at Eversley, he said: “We must have that decisive game. -Let’s go back and get the chess things.” - -I agreed, but when we returned to the hotel, we found it in darkness -and both bolted and barred. By means of a clasp knife, Holt White made -a burglarious entry into the drawing-room, but unfortunately put his -foot on a table laden with porcelain ornaments, and overturned it with -an appalling crash. We fled. Dogs barked, bells rang, and the dignified -old lady who kept the hotel put her head out of the window and screamed -“Thief!” This attempted burglary was the talk of the breakfast table -next morning at the Devonshire Arms, and was only eclipsed in interest -by a “scoop” of Holt White’s, who startled the readers of _The Daily -Mail_ by the awful announcement that the Duke had cut his whiskers, -historic in the political caricatures of England. - -I had the honor of acting as one of a bodyguard, in a very literal -sense, to King Edward on the day he won the Derby. When Minoru won, -a hundred thousand men broke all barricades and made a wild rush -toward the Royal Stand, cheering with immense enthusiasm. According to -custom, the winner had to lead in his horse, and without hesitation -King Edward left the safety of his stand to come on to the course amid -the seething, surging, stampeding mass of roughs. The Prince of Wales, -now King George, looked very nervous, for his father’s sake, and King -Edward, though outwardly calm, was obviously moved to great emotion. I -heard his quick little panting breaths. He was in real danger, because -of the enormous pressure of the foremost mob, being pushed from behind -by the tidal wave of excited humanity. The King’s detective shouted and -used his fists to keep the people back, as involuntarily they jostled -the King. The correspondents, photographers, and others linked arms and -succeeded in keeping a little air space about the King until he had led -his horse safely inside. - -By a curious freak of chance, I and a young colleague on the same -paper--_The Daily Chronicle_--were the first people in the world, -outside Buckingham Palace, to hear of the death of King Edward. - -The official bulletins were grave, but not hopeless, and the last -issued on the night of his death was more cheerful. All day I had been -outside the Palace, writing in the rain under an umbrella, a long -description of the amazing scenes which showed the depths of emotion -stirred in the hearts of all classes by the thought that Edward VII was -passing from England. - -I believe now that beyond the hold he had on the minds of great numbers -of the people because of his human qualities and the tradition of his -statesmanship and “tact,” there was an intuitive sense in the nation -that after his death the peace of Europe would be gravely disturbed -by some world war. I remember that thought was expressed to me by -a man in the crowd who said: “After Edward--Armageddon!” It was a -great, everchanging crowd made up of every condition of men and women -in London--duchesses and great ladies, peers and costers, actresses, -beggars, workingwomen, foreigners, politicians, parsons, shop girls, -laborers, and men of leisure, all waiting and watching for the next -bulletin. At eight o’clock, or thereabouts, I went into the Palace with -other press men, and Lord Knollys assured us that the King was expected -to pass a good night, and that no further bulletin would be issued -until the following morning. - -With that good news I went back to the office and prepared to go home, -but the news editor said, as news editors do, “Sorry, but you’ll have -to spend the night at the Palace--in case of anything happening.” - -I was tired out, and hungry. I protested, but in vain. The only -concession to me was that I should take a colleague, named Eddy, to -share the vigil outside the Palace. - -Eddy protested, but without more avail. Together we dined, and then -decided to hire a four-wheeled cab, drive into the palace yard, and go -to sleep as comfortably as possible. This idea proceeded according to -plan. By favor of the police, our old cab was the only vehicle allowed -inside the courtyard of the Palace, though outside was parked an -immense concourse of automobiles in which great folk were spending the -night. - -Eddy unlaced his boots, and prepared to sleep. I paced the courtyard, -smoking the last cigarette, and watching the strange picture outside. - -Suddenly a royal carriage came very quietly from the inner courtyard -and passed me where I stood. The lights from a high lamp-post flashed -inside the carriage, and I saw the faces of those who had been the -Prince of Wales and Princess Mary. They were dead white, and their -eyes were wet and shining. - -I ran to the four-wheeled cab. - -“Eddy!” I said, “I believe the King is dead!” - -Together we hurried to the equerries’ entrance of the Palace and went -inside through the open door. - -I spoke to one of the King’s gentlemen, standing with his back to the -fire, talking to an old man whom I knew to be the Belgian Minister. - -“How is the King?” I asked. - -He looked up at the clock, with a queer emotional smile which was not -of mirth, but very sad. - -“Sir,” he said, in a broken voice, “King Edward died two minutes ago.” - -The news was confirmed by another official. Eddy and I hurried out of -the Palace and ran out of the courtyard. From the Buckingham Palace -Hotel I telephoned the news to _The Daily Chronicle_ office.... The -official bulletin was not posted at the gate until an hour later, but -when I went home that night I held a copy of my paper which had caught -the country editions, with the Life and Death of King Edward VII. - - - - -III - - -On the day following the death of King Edward, I obtained permission -to see him lying in his death chamber. The little room had crimson -hangings, and bright sunlight streamed through the windows upon the bed -where the King lay with a look of dignity and peace. I was profoundly -moved by the sight of the dead King who had been so vital, so full of -human stuff, so friendly and helpful in all affairs of state, and with -all conditions of men who came within his ken. - -In spite of the severe discipline of his youth in the austere tradition -of Queen Victoria--perhaps because of that--he had broken the gloomy -spell of the Victorian Court, with its Puritanical narrowing influence -on the social life of the people, and had restored a happier and more -liberal spirit. Truly or not, he had had, as a young Prince of Wales, -the reputation of being very much of a “rip,” and certain scandals -among his private friends, with which his name was connected, had made -many tongues wag. But he had long lived all that down when, in advanced -middle age, he came to the throne, and no one brought up against him -the heady indiscretions of youth. - -He had played the game of kingship well and truly, with a desire for -his people’s peace and welfare, and had given a new glamour to the -Crown which had become rather dulled and cobwebbed during the long -widowhood of the old Queen. In popular imagination he was the author of -the Entente Cordiale with France, which seemed to be the sole guarantee -of the peace of Europe against the growing menace of Germany, though -now we know that it had other results. Anyhow, Edward VII, by some -quality of character which was not based on exalted idealism but was -perhaps woven with the genial wisdom of a man who had seen life in all -its comedy and illusion, and had mellowed to it, stood high in the -imagination of the world, and in the affection of his people. Now he -lay with his scepter at his feet, asleep with all the ghosts of history. - -His death chamber was disturbed by what seemed to me an outrageous -invasion of vulgarity. In life King Edward had resented the click of -the camera wherever he walked, but in death the cameramen had their -will of him. A dozen or more of them surrounded his bed, snapping him -at all angles, arranging the curtains for new effects of lights, fixing -their lenses close to his dead face. There was something ghoulish in -this photographic orgy about his deathbed. - -The body of King Edward was removed to Westminster Hall, whose timbered -roof has weathered seven centuries of English history, and there he -lay in state, with four guardsmen, motionless, with reversed arms -and heads bent, day and night, for nearly a week. That week was a -revelation of the strange depths of emotion stirred among the people -by his personality and passing. They were permitted to see him for the -last time, and, without exaggeration, millions of people must have -fallen into line for this glimpse of the dead King, to pay their last -homage. From early morning until late night, unceasingly, there were -queues of men and women of all ranks and classes, stretching away from -Westminster Hall across the bridges, moving slowly forward. There was -no preference for rank. Peers of the realm and ladies of quality fell -into line with laboring men and women, slum folk, city folk, sporting -touts, actors, women of Suburbia, ragamuffin boys, coster girls, and -all manner of men who make up English life. History does not record -any such demonstration of popular homage, except one other, afterward, -when the English people passed in hundreds of thousands before the -grave of the Unknown Soldier in Westminster Abbey. - -I saw George V proclaimed King by Garter King-at-Arms and his -heralds in their emblazoned tabards, from the wall of St. James’s -Palace. Looking over the wall opposite, which enclosed the garden of -Marlborough House, was the young Prince of Wales with his brothers and -sister. That boy little guessed then that this was the beginning of a -new chapter of history which would make him a captain in the greatest -war of the world, where he would walk in the midst of death and see the -flower of English youth cut down at his side. - -At Windsor, in St. George’s Chapel, I saw the burial of King Edward. -His body was drawn to the Castle on a gun carriage by bluejackets, -and the music of Chopin’s Funeral March, that ecstasy of the spirit -triumphing over death, preceded him up the castle hill. Against the -gray old walls floral tributes were laid in masses from all the -people, and their scent was rich and strong in the air. On the castle -slopes where sunlight lay, spring flowers were blooming, as though -to welcome this home-coming of the King. Kings and princes from all -nations, in brilliant uniforms, crowded into St. George’s Chapel, and -it was a foreign King and Emperor who sorted them out, put them into -their right places, acted as Master of the Ceremony, and led forward -Queen Alexandra, as though he were the chief mourner, and not King -George. It was the German Kaiser. The Kings of Spain and Portugal -wept unaffectedly, like two schoolboys who had lost their father, and -indeed, this burial of King Edward in the lovely chapel where so many -of his family lie sleeping was strangely affecting, because it seemed -like the passing of some historic era, and was so, though we did not -know it then, certainly. - -The task fell to me of describing the coronation of the new King in -Westminster Abbey, and of all the great scenes of which I have been -an eyewitness, this remains in my memory as the most splendid and -impressive. As a lover of history, that old Abbey, which has stood as -the symbol of English faith and rule since Norman days, is to me always -a haunted place, filled with a myriad ghosts of the old vital past. -And the coronation of an English king, in its ancient ritual, blots -out modernity, and takes one back to the root sentiment of the race -which is our blood and heritage. One may, in philosophical moments, -think kingship an outworn institution, and jeer at all its pomp and -pageantry. One’s democratic soul may thrust all its ritual into the -lumber room of antique furniture, but something of the old romance -of its meaning, something of its warmth and color in the tapestry of -English history, something of that code of chivalry and knighthood by -which the King was dedicated to the service of his peoples, stirs in -the most prosaic mind alive when a king is crowned again in the Abbey -Church of Westminster. - -The ceremony is, indeed, the old ritual of knighthood, ending with the -crowning act. The arms and emblems of kingship are laid upon the altar, -as when a knight kept vigil. He is stripped of his outer garments, -and stands before the people, bare of all the apparel which hides his -simplicity, as a common man. - -There was a dramatic moment when this unclothing happened to King -George. The Lord Chamberlain could not untie the bows and knots of his -cloak and surcoat, and the ceremony was held up by an awkward pause. -But he was a man of action, and pulling out a clasp knife from his -pocket, slashed at the ribbons till they were cut.... - -Looking down the great nave from a gallery above, I saw the long purple -robes of the peers and peeresses, the rows of coronets, the little -pages, like fairy-tale princes, on the steps of the sanctuary, the -Prince of Wales himself like a Childe Harold, in silk doublet and -breeches, the Archbishop and Bishops, Kings-at-Arms, and officers of -state, busy about the person of the King who was helpless in their -hands as a victim of sacrifice, clothing him, anointing him, crowning -him, before the act of homage in which all the Lords of England moved -forward in their turn to swear fealty to their liege, who, in his turn, -had sworn to uphold the laws and liberties of England. A cynic might -scoff. But no man with an artist’s eye, and no man with Chaucer and -Shakespeare in his heart, could fail to see the beauty of this mediæval -picture, nor fail to feel the old thrill in that heritage of ancient -customs which belong to the poetry and the heart of England. - -I, at least, was moved by this sentiment, being, in those days, an -incurable romantic, though the war killed some of my romanticism. But -even romance is not proof against the material needs of human flesh, -and as the ceremony went on, hour after hour, I felt the sharp bite -of hunger. We had to be in our places in the Abbey by half-past seven -that morning, and keep them until three in the afternoon. I had come -provided with half a dozen sandwiches, but, with a foolish trust in -hungry human nature, left them for a few minutes while I walked to the -end of the gallery to see another aspect of the picture below. When I -came back, my sandwiches had disappeared. I strongly suspected, without -positive proof, a famous lady novelist who was in the next seat to -mine. It was a deplorable tragedy to me, as after the ceremony I had to -write a whole page for my paper, and there was no time for food. - -Among other royal events which I had to record was King George’s -Coronation Progress through Scotland, which was full of picturesque -scenes and romantic memories. The Scottish people were eager to prove -their loyalty and for hundreds of miles along the roads of Scotland -they gathered in vast cheering crowds, while all the way was guarded by -Highland and Lowland troops of the Regular and Territorial Armies. For -the first time I saw the fighting men of bonnie Scotland, and little -dreamed then that I should see their splendid youth in the ordeal of -battle, year after year, and foreign fields strewn with their bodies, -as often I did, in Flanders and in France. - -There were four or five correspondents, of whom I was one, allowed to -travel with the King. We had one of the royal motor cars, and wherever -the King drove, we followed next to his equerries and officers. It was -an astonishing experience, for we were part of the royal procession -and in the full tide of that immense, clamorous enthusiasm of vast and -endless crowds which awaited the King’s coming. Our eyes tired of the -triumphal arches, floral canopies, flag-covered cities and hamlets, -through which we passed, and of those turbulent waves of human faces -pressing close to our carriage. Our ears wearied of the unceasing din -of cheers, the noise of great multitudes, the skirl of the pipes, the -distressing repetition of “God Save the King” played by innumerable -brass bands, sung for hundreds of miles by the crowds, by masses of -school children, by Scottish maidens of the universities, by old -farmers, standing bareheaded as the King passed. We pitied any man who -had to pass his life in such a way, smiling, saluting, keeping the -agony of weariness out of his eyes by desperate efforts. - -I am bound to say that the correspondents’ car brightened up the -royal procession considerably. One of our party was an Edinburgh -correspondent, who has been made by nature in the image of a celebrated -film actor of great fatness, with a cheery, full-moon face of -benevolent aspect. The appearance of this figure immediately following -the King, and so quick upon the heels of solemnity, had a devastating -effect upon the crowds. They positively yelled with laughter, -believing that they recognized their “movie” favorite. Highland -soldiers, with their rifles at the “present,” stiff and impassive as -statues, wilted, and grinned from ear to ear. Scottish lassies from the -factories and farms, whose eyes had shone and cheeks flushed at the -sight of the King, had a quick reaction, and shrieked with mirth. - -They could not place the correspondents at all. Some thought we were -“the foreign ambassadors.” Others put us down as private detectives. -But the most astonishing theory as to our place and dignity in the -procession was uttered by an old Scottish farmer at Perth. The King -had halted to receive a loyal address, and the crowd was jammed tight -against our carriage. We could hear the comments of the crowd and the -usual question about our identity. The old farmer gazed at us with his -blue eyes beneath shaggy brows, and plucked his sandy beard. - -“Eh, mon,” he said, seriously, “they maun be the King’s barstards.” - -I laughed from Perth to Stirling Castle, and back again to Edinburgh. - -We dined in old castles, lunched with Scottish regiments, saw the -old-time splendor of Holyrood at night, with old coaches filled with -the beauty of Scottish ladies passing down the High Street where once, -in these old wynds and courtyards, the nobility of Scotland lived -and quarreled and fought, and where now barefoot bairns and ragged -women dwell in paneled rooms in direst poverty. Again and again they -sang old Jacobite songs as the King passed, forgetting his Hanoverian -ancestry, and one sweet song to Bonnie Charlie--“Will ye no come back -again?”--haunts me now, as I write. - -With the King, we saw the great shipbuilding works on the Clyde, where -thousands of riveters gathered round the King, cheering like demons, -and looking rather like demons with their black faces and working -overalls. The King was admirable in his manner to all of them, and, -though his fatigue must have been great, his good nature enabled him to -hide it. His laughter rang out loudest when he passed under the hulk of -a ship on the stocks and saw scrawled hugely in chalk upon its plates: -“Good old George! We want more Beer!” - -Another great scene of which I was an eyewitness was the King’s -Coronation Review of the British fleet at Spithead. It was a marvelous -pageant of the grim and silent power of the British navy as the royal -yacht passed down the long avenues of battleships and cruisers, -in perfect line, enormous above the water line, terrible in the -potentiality of their great guns. Every navy in the world had sent a -battleship to salute the King-Admiral of the British navy. The Stars -and Stripes, the Rising Sun of Japan, the long coils of the Chinese -Dragon, the tricolor of France, the imperial colors of Germany, were -among the flags, which included those of little nations, with a few -destroyers and light cruisers as their naval strength. - -All the ships were “dressed” and “manned,” with sailors standing on -the yard arms and along the decks, and as the King’s yacht passed each -ship, the royal salute was fired, and the crew cheered lustily in the -echo of the guns. All but one ship, which was the _Von der Thann_ of -Germany. No sound of cheering came from that battleship, but the German -crew maintained absolute silence. Few noticed it at the time, but I -remarked it with uneasy foreboding. - -I also contrasted it later with the greeting given to the Kaiser by -a group of English people at Hamburg, not a year before the war, in -which England and Germany devoted all their strength to each other’s -destruction. I was on a voyage in one of the Castle Line boats, and -we put off at Hamburg to be entertained by the Mayor in his palace of -the Town Hall. The Kaiser was expected, and we lined up to await his -arrival. It was heralded by the three familiar notes of his motor -horn, and when he appeared there was a loud “Hip, hip, horrah!” from -the English party. The Emperor acknowledged the greeting with a grim -salute. He had no love for England then in his heart, and believed, I -think, in that “_unvermeidlicher Krieg_”--that “unavoidable war”--which -was already the text of German newspapers, though in England the -warnings of a few men like Lord Roberts seemed to be the foolishness of -old age, and popular imagination refused to believe in a world gone mad -and tearing itself in pieces for no apparent cause. - -When that war happened, I caught a glimpse, now and again, in lulls -between its monstrous battles, of the man I had seen when he went -weeping from the bedside of King Edward; whom I had seen bowing his -head under the burden of the crown which came to him; whom I had -followed in triumphant processions through his peaceful kingdom--peace -seemed so lasting and secure, then--and who had come to visit his youth -of the Empire, dying in heaps in defense of their race and power and -tradition, as they truly believed, and as, indeed, was so, whatever -the wickedness and folly that led to that massacre, on the part of -statesmen of all countries who did not foresee and prevent the world -conflict. - -On his first visit the King was not allowed to get anywhere near -the firing line, but was restricted to base areas and hospitals and -convalescent camps, and distant views of the battlefields. On his -second visit, he insisted upon going far forward, and would not be -deterred by the generals, who, naturally, were intensely anxious for -his safety. - -With another war correspondent--Percival Phillips, I think--I went with -the King over the Vimy Ridge where there was always, at that time, the -chance of meeting a German shell, and to the top of “Whitesheet Hill,” -which was a very warm place indeed a few days after the battle which -captured it. The Prince of Wales was with his father, and by that time -well hardened to the noise of guns and shell bursts. To the King it was -all new, but he was perfectly at ease and lingered, far too long, as -the generals thought, among the ruins of a convent, reduced to the size -of a slag-heap, on the top of the hill looking over the German lines. -As though they were aware of his visit, the Germans put down a very -stiff dose of five-point-nines on the very spot where the King had been -standing, but a few minutes too late, because he had just descended the -slope of the hill and was examining one of the monster mine craters -which we had blown at the beginning of the battle. He was there for ten -minutes or so, and had hardly moved away before the Germans lengthened -their range and laid down harassing fire around the crater. The King -adjusted his steel hat, and laughed, while the Prince of Wales strolled -about, looking rather bored. - -The Prince did a real job out there, and though, as an officer on the -“Q” side of the Guards, he was not supposed to go into the danger zone, -he was constantly in forward places which were not what the Tommies -called “health resorts.” I met him one day going into Vermelles, which -was a very ugly place indeed, with death on the prowl amid its ruins. -He and a Divisional General left their car on the edge of the ruins -while they walked forward, and, on their return, found that their poor -chauffeur had had his head blown off. - -Another time when the King saw a little of the “real thing” was when -he visited the Guards in their camp behind the lines near Pilkem. -Their headquarters were in an old monastery, and the King and the -officers took tea in the garden, while the band of the Grenadiers -played selections from Gilbert and Sullivan. I remember it was when -they were playing “Dear Little Buttercup” that three German aëroplanes -came overhead, flying very low. To our imagination they seemed to -be searching for the King, and we expected at any moment they would -unload their bombs upon his tea table and his body. Our anti-aircraft -guns immediately opened fire, and there was a shrieking of three-inch -shells until the blue sky was all dappled with the white puffs of -the “Archies.” The enemy planes circled round, had a good look, and -then flew away without dropping a bomb, much to our relief, for one -good-sized bomb would have made a horrible mess in the Guards’ camp, -and might have killed the King. - -That afternoon I was trapped into a little conspiracy against the King -by the old abbot of the monastery. He was immensely anxious for the -King to sign the visitors’ book, but the officers put the old man off -by various excuses. Feeling sorry for his disappointment, I promised to -say a word to the King’s aide-de-camp, and advised the old gentleman -to intercept the King down the only path he could use on his way out, -carrying the great leather book, and a pen and ink, so that there would -be no escape. This little plot succeeded, to the huge delight of the -abbot, and the monks who afterward gave me their united blessings. - -On the King’s first visit to the army in France, a most unfortunate -accident happened to him, which was very painful and serious. He was -reviewing part of the Air Force on a road out of Béthune, mounted on a -horse which ought to have been proof against all the noise of military -maneuvers. But it was too much for the animal’s nerves when, at the -conclusion of the review, the silent lines of men suddenly broke into -deafening cheers. The horse reared three times, and the King kept his -seat perfectly. But the third time, owing to the greasy mud, the horse -slipped and fell sideways, rolling over the King. Generals dismounted, -and ran to where he lay motionless and a little stunned. They picked -him up and put him into his motor car, where he sat back feebly, -and with a look of great pain. I happened to be standing on a bank -immediately opposite, and one of the King’s A.D.C.’s, greatly excited, -ran up to me and said: “Tell the men not to cheer!” It was impossible -for me, as a war correspondent, to give any such order, and, indeed, it -was too late, for when the King’s car moved down the road, the other -men, who had not seen the accident, cheered with immense volleys of -enthusiastic noise. - -The King tried to raise his hand to the salute, but had not the -strength. He had been badly strained, suffered acute pain, and that -night was in a high fever. On the following day I saw him taken away -in an ambulance, like an ordinary casualty, and no soldiers in the -little old town of Béthune knew that it was the King of England who was -passing by. - -Before the end of his second visit, the King received the five war -correspondents who had followed the fortunes of the British Armies in -France through all their great battles, and he spoke kind words to us -which we were glad to hear. - - - - -IV - - -In spite of my long and fairly successful career as a journalist, I -have rarely achieved what is known as a “scoop,” that is to say, an -exclusive story of sensational interest. On the whole, I don’t much -believe in the editor or reporter who sets his soul on “scoops,” -because they create an unhealthy rivalry for sensation at any -price--even that of truth--and the “faker” generally triumphs over the -truthteller, until both he and the editor who encouraged him come a -cropper by being found out. - -That is not to say that a man should not follow an advantage to the -utmost and his luck where it leads him. It is nearly always luck -that is one of the essential elements in journalistic success, and -sometimes, as in a game of cards, it deals a surprisingly fine hand. -The skill is in making the best use of this chance and keeping one’s -nerve in a game of high stakes. - -The only important “scoop” that I can claim, as far as I remember, -was my discovery of Doctor Cook after his pretended discovery of the -North Pole. That was due to a lucky sequence of events which led me -by the hand from first to last. The story is amusing for that reason, -and this is the first time I have written the narrative of my strange -experiences in that affair. - -My first stroke of luck, strange as it may seem, was my starting -twenty-four hours later than forty other correspondents in search of -the explorer at Copenhagen. If I had started at the same time, I should -have done what they did, and perhaps taken the same line as they did. -As it was, I had to play a lone hand and form my own judgment. - -I had arrived at the _Daily Chronicle_ office from some country place -when E. A. Perris, the news editor, now the managing editor, said in a -casual way: - -“There’s a fellow named Doctor Cook who has discovered the North Pole. -He may arrive at Copenhagen to-morrow. Lots of other men have the start -of you, but see if you can get some kind of a story.” - -I uttered the usual groan, obtained a bag of gold from the cashier, and -set out for Copenhagen by way of the North Sea. On a long and tiresome -journey I repeated the name “Doctor Cook,” lest I should forget it, -wondered if I knew anything about Arctic exploration, and decided I -didn’t, and accepted the probability that I should be too late to find -the great explorer, and shouldn’t know what to ask him if I found him. - -I arrived in Copenhagen dirty, tired, and headachy in the evening. I -wanted above all things a cup of strong coffee, and with the German -language, communicated my desire to a taxi driver. He took me to a -rather low-looking café, filled with men and women and tobacco smoke. -That was my second stroke of luck, for if I had not gone to that -particular café I should never have met Doctor Cook in the way that -happened. - -Over my cup of coffee I looked at the Danish paper, and could read only -two words, “Doctor Cook.” A young waiter served me, and when I found -that he spoke English, I asked him if Doctor Cook, the explorer, had -arrived in Copenhagen. - -“No,” said the waiter. “He ought to have been here at midday. But -there’s a fog in the Cattegat, and his boat will not come in until -to-morrow morning. All Denmark is waiting for him.” - -So he had not arrived! Well, I might be in time, after all. I looked -round for any journalist I might know, but did not see a familiar face. - -Presently, as I sat smoking a cigarette, I perceived a suddenly -awakened interest among the people in the café. It was due to the -arrival of a very pretty lady in a white fur toque, with a white -fox-skin round her neck, accompanied by another young lady, and a tall -Danish fellow with tousled hair. They took their seats at the far end -of the café. - -The young waiter came up to me and whispered with some excitement: - -“Did you see that beautiful lady? That is Mrs. Rasmussen!” - -The name meant nothing to me, and when I told him so, he was shocked. - -“She’s the wife of Knud Rasmussen, the famous explorer. It was he who -provided Doctor Cook with his dogs before he set out for the North -Pole. They are great friends.” - -I was aware that luck was befriending me. From that lady, if I had the -pluck to speak to her, I could at least find out something about the -mysterious Doctor Cook, and perhaps get a good story about him, whether -I could meet him or not. - -I struggled with my timidity, and then went across the café and made -my bow to the pretty lady, explaining that I was a newspaper man from -London, who had come all the way to interview Doctor Cook, who was, I -understood, a friend of her distinguished husband. Could she tell me -how to find him? - -Mrs. Rasmussen who was highly educated and extremely handsome, spoke a -little French, a little German, and a very little English. In a mixture -of these three tongues we understood each other, helped out by the -young Dane, who was Peter Freuchen, a well-known traveler in the Arctic -regions, and a very good linguist. - -Mrs. Rasmussen was friendly and amused. She told me it was true her -husband was a great friend of Doctor Cook, and that he was the last -man who had seen him before he went toward the North Pole. For that -reason she wanted to be one of the first to greet him. A launch, or -tug, belonging to the director of the Danish-Greenland Company, had -made ready to go down the Cattegat to meet the _Hans Egede_ with Doctor -Cook on board, and she had hoped to make that journey. But the fog had -spoiled everything, and the launch would leave in the morning instead -at a very early hour. It was very disappointing! - -“Surely,” I said, “if you really want to go, it would be excellent to -travel to Elsinore to-night, put up at a hotel, and get on board the -launch at dawn. If you would allow me to accompany you----” - -Mrs. Rasmussen laughed at my adventurous plan. - -According to her, the last train had gone to Elsinore. - -“Let us have a taxi and drive there!” - -She told me that no motor car was allowed to drive at night beyond -a certain distance from Copenhagen. It would mean a fine, or -imprisonment, for the driver without special license. - -It seemed incredible. - -I summoned my friendly young waiter, and asked him to bring in a taxi -driver. In less than a minute a burly fellow stood before me, cap in -hand. Through the waiter I asked him how much he wanted to drive a -party that night to Elsinore. He shook his head, and, according to the -waiter, replied that he could not risk the journey, as he might be -heavily fined. - -“How much, including the fine?” I asked. - -If he had demanded fifty pounds, I should have paid it--with _Daily -Chronicle_ money. - -To my amazement, he asked the modest sum of five pounds, including the -fine. - -I turned to Mrs. Rasmussen, Peter Freuchen, and the other lady, and -invited them all to make the journey in “my” motor car. - -They hesitated, laughed, whispered to each other, and were, as I could -see, tempted by the lure of the adventure. - -“But,” said Mrs. Rasmussen, “when we get there, supposing you were not -allowed on the launch by the Director of the Danish-Greenland Company? -He is our friend. But you are, after all, a stranger!” - -“I should have had an amusing drive,” I said. “It would be worth while. -Perhaps you would tell me what Doctor Cook says, when you return.” - -They laughed again, hesitated quite a time, then accepted the -invitation. It was arranged that we should start at ten o’clock, when -few people would be abroad outside the city, where we should have to -travel with lights out to avoid the police. There still remained an -hour or so. We had dinner, talked of Doctor Cook, and at ten o’clock -started out in the taxi, and I thought how incredible it was that I -should be sitting there, opposite a beautiful lady with a silver fox -round her throat, with a laughing girl by her side, and a young Danish -explorer next to the driver, riding through Denmark with lights out, -to meet a man who had discovered the North Pole, and whose name I had -never heard two days before. These things happen only in journalism and -romance. - -We had not gone very far when, driving through a village, we knocked -over a man on a bicycle. People came running up through the darkness. -Peter Freuchen leaped down from his seat to pick up the man, who -seemed to be uninjured, and there was a great chatter in the Danish -tongue, while I kept on shouting to Freuchen, “How much to pay?” After -a while he resumed his seat and said, “Nodings to pay!” So we went on -again, and after a long, cold drive without further incident, reached -Elsinore, where Hamlet saw his father’s ghost. - -At the hotel there we had something hot to drink, and then Mrs. -Rasmussen caught sight of a dapper little man who was the Director of -the Danish-Greenland Company and the owner of the launch which was to -meet Doctor Cook. - -I was left in the background while my three companions entered into -conversation with him. From the expression on their faces, I soon saw -that they were disappointed, and I resigned myself to the thought that -I had the poorest chance of meeting the explorer’s ship at sea. - -Presently Mrs. Rasmussen came back. - -“He won’t take us,” she said. - -“Hard luck!” - -“But,” she added, “he will take you!” - -That sounded ridiculous, but it was true. The pompous little man, -it seemed, had had applications from half the ladies of Copenhagen, -including his own wife, perhaps, to take them on his tug to meet the -hero of the North Pole. He had refused them all, in order to favor -none at the expense of others. It was impossible for him to take Mrs. -Rasmussen and her friends. He very much regretted that. But when they -told him that I was an English journalist, he said there would be a -place for me with two or three Danish correspondents. - -Amazing chance! But hard on the little party I had brought to Elsinore! -They were very generous about the matter, and wished me good luck when -I embarked on the small tug which was to steam out to a lightship in -the Cattegat and at dawn go out to meet the _Hans Egede_, as Cook’s -ship was called. Like a fool, I left my overcoat behind and nearly -perished of cold, until an hour later I had climbed up an iron ladder -to the lightship in a turbulent sea and descended into the skipper’s -cabin, where there was a joyous “fugg” and some hot cocoa spiced with a -touch of paraffin. - -At dawn we saw, far away up the Cattegat, a little ship all gay with -bunting. It was the _Hans Egede_. We steamed toward it, lay alongside, -and climbed to its top deck up a rope ladder. There I saw a sturdy, -handsome Anglo-Saxon-looking man, in furs, surrounded by a group of -hairy and furry men, Europeans and Eskimos, and some Arctic dogs. There -was no journalistic rival of mine aboard, except the young Danes with -us. - -I went up to the central figure, whom I guessed to be Doctor Cook, -introduced myself as an English press man, shook hands with him, and -congratulated him on his heroic achievement. - -He took my arm in a friendly way, and said, “Come and have some -breakfast, young man.” - -I sat next to him in the dining saloon of the _Hans Egede_, which was -crowded with a strange-looking company of men and women, mostly in furs -and oilskins, with their faces burned by sunlight on snow. The women -were missionaries and the wives of missionaries, and their men folk -wore unkempt beards. - -I studied the appearance of Doctor Cook. He was not bearded, but had -a well-shaven chin. He had a powerful face, with a rather heavy nose -and wonderfully blue eyes. There was something queer about his eyes, -I thought. They avoided a direct gaze. He seemed excited, laughed a -good deal, talked volubly, and was restless with his hands, strong -seaman’s hands. But I liked the look of him. He seemed to me typical of -Anglo-Saxon explorers, hard, simple, true. - -In response to my request for his “story,” he evaded a direct reply, -until, later in the morning, the Danes and I pressed him to give us an -hour in his cabin. - -It was in the saloon, however, that he delivered himself, unwillingly, -I thought, into our hands. As the two or three young Danes knew but -little English, the interview became mainly a dialogue between Doctor -Cook and myself. I had no suspicion of him, no faint shadow of a -thought that all was not straightforward. Being vastly ignorant of -Arctic exploration, I asked a number of simple questions to extract his -narrative; and, to save myself trouble and get good “copy,” I asked -very soon whether he would allow me to see his diary. - -To my surprise, he replied with a strange defensive look that he had -no diary. His papers had been put on a yacht belonging to a man named -Whitney, who would take them to New York. - -“When will he get there?” I asked. - -“Next year,” said Doctor Cook. - -“But surely,” I said, still without suspicion, “you have brought your -journal with you? The essential papers?” - -“I have no papers,” he said, and his mouth hardened. - -“Perhaps I could see your astronomical observations?” I said, and was -rather pleased with that suggestion. - -“Haven’t I told you that I have brought no papers?” he said. - -He spoke with a sudden violence of anger which startled me. Then he -said something which made suspicion leap into my brain. - -“You believed Nansen,” he said, “and Amundsen, and Sverdrup. They had -only their story to tell. Why don’t you believe me?” - -I had believed him. But at that strange, excited protest and some -uneasy, almost guilty, look about the man, I thought, “Hullo! What’s -wrong? This man protests too much.” - -From that moment I had grave doubts of him. I pressed him several -times about his papers. Surely he was not coming to Europe, to claim -the greatest prize of exploration, without a scrap of his notes, or -any of his observations? He became more and more angry with me, until -for the sake of getting some narrative from him, I abandoned that -interrogation, and asked him for his personal adventures, the manner of -his journey, the weights of his sledges, the number of his dogs, and -so on. As I scribbled down his answers, the story appeared to me more -and more fantastic. And he contradicted himself several times, and -hesitated over many of his answers, like a man building up a delicate -case of self-defense. By intuition, rather than evidence, by some quick -instinct of facial expression, by some sensibility to mental and moral -dishonesty, I was convinced, absolutely, at the end of an hour, that -this man had not been to the North Pole, but was attempting to bluff -the world. I need not deal here with the points in his narrative, and -the gaps he left, which served to confirm my belief.... - -In sight of Copenhagen the _Hans Egede_ was received by marvelous -demonstrations of enthusiasm. The water was crowded with craft of every -size and type, from steam yachts to rowing boats, tugs to pinnaces, -with flags aflutter. Cheers came in gusts, unceasingly. Sirens shrieked -a wailing homage, whistles blew. Bands on pleasure steamers played “See -the Conquering Hero Comes.” - -Doctor Cook, the hero, was hiding in his cabin. He had to be almost -dragged out by a tall and splendid Dane named Norman Hansen, poet and -explorer, who afterward constituted himself Doctor Cook’s champion and -declared himself my enemy, because of my accusations against this man. - -Doctor Cook came out of his cabin with a livid look, almost green. I -never saw guilt and fear more clearly written on any human face. He -could hardly pull himself together when the Crown Prince of Denmark -boarded his ship and offered the homage of Denmark to his glorious -achievement. - -But that was the only time in which I saw Cook lose his nerve. - -Landing on the quayside, I had to fight my way through an immense -surging crowd, which almost killed the object of their adoration by the -terrific pressure of their mass, in which each individual struggled -to get near him. I heard afterward that W. T. Stead, the famous old -journalist of the _Review of Reviews_, which afterward I edited, flung -his arms round Doctor Cook, and called upon fellow journalists to form -his bodyguard, lest he should be crushed to death. - -On the edge of the crowd I met the first English journalist I had seen. -It was Alphonse Courlander, a very brilliant and amusing fellow, with -whom I had a close friendship. When he heard that I had been on Cook’s -ship and had interviewed him for a couple of hours, he had a wistful -look which I knew was a plea for me to impart my story. But this was -one of the few times when I played a lone hand, and I ran from him, and -jumped on a taxi in order to avoid the call of comradeship. I knew that -I had the story of the world. - -In a small hotel, distant from the center of the city, I wrote it to -the extent of seven columns, and the whole of it amounted to a case -of libel, making a definite challenge to Cook’s claim and ridiculing -the narrative which I set forth as he had told it to me. When I had -handed it into the telegraph office I knew that I had burned my boats, -and that my whole journalistic career would be made or marred by this -message. - -During the time I had been writing, Doctor Cook had been interviewed by -forty journalists in one assembly. W. T. Stead, as doyen of the press, -asked the questions, and at the end of the session spoke on behalf -of the whole body of journalists in paying his tribute of admiration -and homage to the discoverer of the North Pole. Spellbound by Stead’s -enthusiasm, and not having had my advantage of that experience on -the _Hans Egede_, there was not a man among that forty who suggested -a single word of doubt about the achievement claimed by Cook. By a -supreme chance of luck, I was alone in my attack. - -I will not disguise my sense of anxiety. I had a deep conviction that -my judgment was right, but whether I should be able to maintain my -position by direct evidence and proof, was not so certain in my mind. -I knew, next day, that my dispatch had been published by my paper, for -great extracts from it were cabled back to the Danish press and they -caused an immense sensation in Copenhagen, and as the days passed in an -astounding fortnight, when I continued my attack by further and damning -accusations against Cook, I was the subject of hostile demonstrations -in the restaurants and cafés, and the Danish newspaper _Politiken_ -published a murderous-looking portrait of me and described me as “the -liar Gibbs”--a designation which afterward they withdrew with handsome -apologies. - -The details of the coil of evidence I wove about the feet of Cook need -not be told in full. He claimed that he had told his full story to -Sverdrup, a famous explorer in Copenhagen, and that Sverdrup pledged -his own honor in proof of his achievement. - -Afterward I interviewed Sverdrup and obtained a statement from him that -Cook had given no proof whatever of his claim. - -He professed to have handed his written narrative and astronomical -observations to the University of Copenhagen, and it was claimed on -his behalf by the Danish press that these papers had been examined by -astronomical and geographical experts who were absolutely satisfied -that Cook had reached the North Pole. - -From the head of the University I obtained a statement that Cook had -submitted no such papers and had advanced no scientific proof. - -Using his own narrative to me, which I had scribbled down as he talked, -I enlisted the help of Peter Freuchen and other Arctic travelers, to -analyze his statements about his distances, his sledge weights, the -amount of food drawn by his dogs, and his time-table. They proved to be -absurd, and when he contradicted himself to other interviewers, I was -able, with further expert advice, to contradict his contradictions. It -was a great game, which I thoroughly enjoyed, though I worked day and -night, with only snatches of rest for food and sleep. - -But I had some nasty moments. - -One was when a statement was published in every newspaper of the world -that the Rector of the Copenhagen University had flatly denied my -interview with him and reiterated his satisfaction with the proofs -submitted by Doctor Cook. - -_The Daily Chronicle_ telegraphed this denial to me and said, “Please -explain.” - -I remember receiving that telegram shortly after reading the same -denial in the Danish newspapers, brought to me by Mr. Oscar Hansen, the -Danish correspondent of my own paper, who was immensely helpful to me. -I was thunderstruck and dismayed, for if the Rector of the University -denied what he had told me, and maintained a belief in the _bona fides_ -of Cook, I was utterly undone. - -At that moment W. T. Stead approached me and put his hand on my -shoulder. He, too--still the ardent champion of Cook--had read that -denial. - -“Young man,” he cried, in his sonorous voice, “you have not only ruined -yourself, which does not matter very much, but you have also ruined -_The Daily Chronicle_, for which I have a great esteem.” - -“Mr. Stead,” I said, “I am a young and obscure man, compared with you, -and I appeal to your chivalry. Will you come with me to the Rector of -Copenhagen University and act as my witness to the questions I shall -put to him, and to the answers he gives?” - -“By all means,” he said, “and to make things quite beyond doubt, -we will take two other witnesses--the correspondent who issued the -statement about the denial, and another of established character.” - -The two other witnesses were a French count, acting as the -correspondent of a great French newspaper and the representative of a -news agency who had issued the university statement, and believed in -its truth. - -It was a strange and exciting interview with that Rector. For a long -time he refused to open his lips to say a single word one way or the -other about the Cook case. He relented slowly when W. T. Stead made an -eloquent plea on my behalf, and said that my honor was at stake on his -word. - -The correspondent who had published the denial of my interview tried -to intervene, speaking in rapid German which I could hardly follow, -endeavoring to persuade the Rector to uphold the statement issued with -regard to the University. But the Frenchman, acting as my second, as -it were, sternly bade him speak in English or French which all could -understand, and to give me the right of putting my questions. This was -upheld by Stead. - -I put my questions exactly word for word as I had done in the first -interview. - -Had Doctor Cook submitted any journal of his travels to the University? - -Had he submitted any astronomical observations? - -Had he presented any proof at all of his claim to have reached the Pole? - -The Rector hesitated long before answering each question in the -negative. The man was profoundly disturbed. Undoubtedly, as I knew -later, the University, with the King as its President, had deeply -involved itself by offering an honorary degree to Cook. As its chief -representative, this man was in a difficult and dangerous position, if -he turned down Cook’s claim. It was at least five minutes before he -answered the last question. Then, as an honest man, he answered, as he -had done before when I saw him alone, “No!” - -I breathed a deep sigh of relief. If he had been a dishonest man, my -reputation and career would have been utterly ruined. - -I asked him to sign the questions and answers as I had written them -down, but for a long time he refused to put his signature. Then he -signed, but as he handed me the paper, he said: “Of course that must -not be published in the newspapers.” - -I protested that in that case it was useless, and both Stead and the -French correspondent argued on my behalf. I had the paper in my breast -pocket, and when the Rector gave a timorous consent to its publication, -I left the room with deep words of thanks, and fairly ran out of the -gate of the University lest he should change his mind, or the paper -should be taken from me. It was published in _The Daily Chronicle_, and -in hundreds of other papers. - -A second blow befell me. - -I had resumed acquaintanceship with Peter Freuchen and Mrs. Rasmussen, -and at lunch one day she showed me a long letter which she had received -from her husband, the explorer who, as I have told, had been Cook’s -best friend, and had provided his dogs and Eskimos. - -Mrs. Rasmussen, smiling, said: “You, of all men, would like to read -that letter.” - -“Alas that I do not know Danish!” I answered. - -She marked one paragraph with a pencil, and said, “Perhaps I will let -you copy out those words.” - -It was Peter Freuchen who copied out the words in Danish, and Oscar -Hansen who translated them into English, on a bit of paper which I tore -out of my notebook. - -They were a repudiation by Knud Rasmussen of his faith in Cook, and a -direct suggestion that he was a knave and a liar. - -These words were, of course, vitally interesting to me, and, indeed, -to the world, for the fame and honor of Rasmussen were high, and his -name had been used as the best guarantee of Cook’s claim. With Mrs. -Rasmussen’s permission, I telegraphed her husband’s words in my -message that day. They were immediately reproduced in all the Danish -papers, and made a new sensation. - -But my private sensation was far more emotional when, in crossing a -square the following evening, a Danish journalist showed me a paper and -said, “Have you seen this?” - -It was a formal denial by Mrs. Rasmussen that she had ever shown me a -letter from her husband, or that he had ever written the words I had -published. - -That was a severe shock to me. I could not understand it, or indeed -believe it. That very day Peter Freuchen and Mrs. Rasmussen had been my -guests at lunch, and as friendly as possible. Probably some malicious -journalist had invented the letter.... - -It was late at night, and I could not find either Peter Freuchen or -Mrs. Rasmussen, nor did I ever see the lady again, because, on account -of certain high influences, she disappeared from Copenhagen. - -I remembered the bit of paper on which the words had been written -down in Danish by Peter Freuchen and translated into English by Oscar -Hansen. That document was very precious, and my only proof, but I -couldn’t find it in my pockets or my room. My room at the hotel was a -wreck of papers, but that one scrap evaded all search. At last, down on -my hands and knees, I found it screwed up under the bed, and gave a cry -of triumph. - -My old friend and true comrade, Oscar Hansen, made an affidavit that he -had translated Freuchen’s words, the editor of a news agency swore to -Freuchen’s handwriting, and I issued an invitation to Mrs. Rasmussen to -submit her husband’s letter to a committee of six, half appointed by -herself and half by me. If they denied that the letter contained the -words I had published, I would pay a certain heavy sum, which I named, -to Danish charities. That invitation was not accepted, and my words -were believed. - -I have already described in a previous column of these memories the -banquet to Doctor Cook which I attended in the dress clothes of my -young friend the waiter. It was an historic evening, for, in the middle -of that dinner came the famous message from Peary in which he announced -his own arrival at the Pole and repudiated Cook’s claim. - -I stood close to Doctor Cook when that message was handed to him, and I -am bound to pay a tribute to his cool nerve. He read the message on the -bit of flimsy, handed it back, and said, “If Peary says he reached the -Pole, I believe him!” - -His manner at all times, after that temporary breakdown on the _Hans -Egede_ was convincing. It was marvelous on the day when the doctor’s -degree--the highest honor of the University--was conferred upon him, -and before all the learned men there he ascended the pulpit of the -University chapel and in a solemn oration stretched out his arms and -said, “I show you my hands--they are clean!” - -At that moment I was tempted to believe that Cook believed he had been -to the North Pole. Sometimes, remembering the manner of the man, I am -tempted to think so still--though now there is no doubt that he never -went anywhere near his goal. - -I used to meet him on neutral ground at the American Minister’s house -in Copenhagen, where I handed round Miss Egan’s tea cakes. Doctor Cook -would never accept any cake from me! Maurice Egan, the Minister, was -immensely courteous and kind, and Miss Egan confided to me that if I -proved to be right about Doctor Cook, in whom she believed, she would -lose her faith in human nature. Since then, though I was proved right, -she has regained her faith in human nature, as I know from her happy -marriage in the United States. - -One other slight shock disturbed my mental poise in this fortnight of -sensation. It was when I read in the _Politiken_ a challenge to a duel, -publicly addressed to me by Norman Hansen, the poet and explorer. He -was a tall man, six foot three or so in his socks, and very powerful. I -am five-foot-six or so in my boots. If we met, I should die. I did not -answer that challenge! But on the day when Doctor Cook left Copenhagen, -with a wreath of roses round his bowler hat, and when I had done my job -with him, the crowd which had gone down to the quayside to see the last -of him, parted, and I found myself face to face with Norman Hansen. - -Some one in the crowd said: - -“When is that duel to be fought?” - -Norman Hansen came toward me, and held out his hand, with a great jolly -laugh. - -“We will never fight with the sword,” he said, “but only with the pen!” - -We didn’t even fight with the pen, for he lost all faith in Cook, and -sometimes from northern altitudes I get kind and generous messages from -him. - -W. T. Stead maintained his belief in Cook until the University of -Copenhagen formally rejected Cook’s claim and canceled his honorary -degree, when the evidence of his own papers, which afterward arrived, -and the story of his own Eskimos, left no shred of doubt in his favor. - -Then I had a note from the great old journalist. - -“I have lost and you have won,” he wrote, and after that used generous -words which I need not publish. - -Truly it was a queer, exciting incident in my journalistic life, and -looking back upon it, I marvel at my luck. - - - - -V - - -By a young journalist, or an old one, there is always an adventure -to be found in London, as in any great city of the world where the -passions of men and women, the conflict of life, the heroism and crimes -of human nature, its dreams, its madness, and its faith, are but thinly -masked behind the commonplace aspect of modern streets, and beneath the -drab cloak of dullness of modern civilization. - -It was my hobby in those early Fleet Street days to explore the -underworld of London and to get behind the scenes of its monstrous -puppet show. I sought out the queer characters not yet “standardized” -by the discipline of compulsory education or the conventions of -middle-class manners. - -I dived into the foreign quarters of London and found that most nations -of Europe, and the races of the East, had their special sanctuaries in -the great old city, in which they preserved their own speech and habits -and faith. - -In the Russian quarter I met victims of the tyranny of Czardom, who -had escaped from Siberian prisons and still bore the marks of their -chains and lashes; and the Russian Jews, too, who had come to England -to save themselves from the pogroms of Riga and other cities. I found -many of them working as tailors and seamstresses in back rooms of -tenement houses, Whitechapel way, abominably overcrowded, but earning -high wages. It was a revelation to me that they did most of the “black” -work for great West End firms, so that Mayfair received its garments -from the East End, with any diseases that might be carried with them -from those fœtid little factories. Thousands of them were employed -in cigarette factories, and spent their days filling little spills of -paper with the yellow weed, incredibly fast. According to the tradition -of not muzzling the ox that treads the corn, they were allowed to smoke -as much as they liked, and both men and women smoked continually. - -I made a study of German London, which, at that time, before something -happened like an earthquake, had as many German clubs as any good-sized -city of the Fatherland, and several German churches, workers’ unions, -theatrical and musical societies. - -In Soho I poked about French London, lunched at the _Petit Riche_ -or dined at the Gourmet, and between Wardour Street and Old Compton -Street met the French girls who made artificial flowers for the ballets -and pantomimes, silk tights for the fairies of the footlights, and -embroidered shoes which twinkled on the boards. - -Italy in London was one of my earliest discoveries as a young writer in -search of the picturesque. It was but a ten minutes’ walk from my first -office, and often in lunch time I used to saunter that way, stopping to -listen to the English cheap-jacks in Leather Lane, on the other side -of Holborn, and then plunging into a labyrinth of narrow lanes and -courtyards entirely inhabited by Italians. - -It was a little Naples, in its color, its smells, its dirt. Across the -courtyards Italian women stretched their “washing”; and blue petticoats -and scarlet bodices, and silk scarves for women’s hair gave vivid color -to these London alleys. The women, as beautiful as Raphael’s Madonnas, -sang at their washtubs, surrounded by swarms of _bambini_. - -Here, under a baker’s shop kept by an Italian _padrone_, slept o’ -nights the little organ grinders and hurdy-gurdy boys, who used to -wander through the London suburbs and far into the countryside, to -the delight of English nurseries from which coppers were flung down -to these grubby, dark-eyed urchins with little shivering monkeys in -their coat pockets or on their music boxes. They were the slaves of -the _padrone_ and had to bring him all their earnings and get beaten -if they did not bring enough, before they slept in the cellars of this -London slum, among the black beetles and the rats. - -In one back yard lived a gray bear, belonging to two wanderers from the -mountains of Savoy, and I used to hear the rattle of his chains before -they led him out on his hind legs with a big pole between his paws. - -Above a big yard crowded with piano organs sat, in a little room at -the top of a high ladder, a fat old Italian who put the music on the -streets. He sat before an open organ case with a roll of cartridge -paper into which he stabbed little holes, which afterward made the -notes played by a spiked cylinder when the organ grinder turned his -handle. It was he who selected the tunes, thus conferring immortality -on many poor devils of musicians who heard their melodies whistled -by the errand boys to this music of the streets, and became famous -thereby. But it was the fat old Italian at the top of the tall ladder -who was the interpreter of their genius to the popular ear of the -great public of the streets and slums. He put in the trills, and the -“twiddley bits,” stabbing with his bradawl on the cartridge roll, -as though inspired by the divine afflatus, while his hair, above a -massive face and three chins, was all curls and corkscrews, as though -crotchets, and quavers, semiquavers, and demi-semiquavers, arpeggios -and chromatics were thrusting through his brain. - -In other yards were men all white from head to heel, who made the -plaster casts of Napoleon and Nelson, Queen Victoria and General -Gordon, Venus and Mercury, and other favorite characters of history, -sold by hawkers in Ludgate Hill and other haunts of high art at low -prices. They also made the casts of classical figures for art schools -and museums. - -In the back yards, the basements and the slum kitchens was another -profitable form of industry which was a monopoly of Italians in London -in the pre-war days. That was the ice cream trundled through the -streets with that alluring call to youth, “Hokey-pokey penny a lump!” -From surroundings appallingly free from sanitary supervision came this -nectar and ambrosia which the urchins of the London streets found an -irresistible temptation. - -It was a careless word on the subject of this lack of sanitation in the -ice-cream factories which nearly ended my career as a journalist before -it was fairly begun. Requiring some additional photographs for the -second instalment of some articles I was writing for a magazine--the -first, almost, that I ever wrote--I went one Sunday morning to Italy in -London with an amateur photographer. We went into one of the courtyards -where I had made friends with some of the pretty washerwomen, but I -was no sooner observed by a few of them than, as though by magic, -the courtyard was filled with a considerable crowd of those whom the -Americans call “Wops.” - -They came up from the basements where they slept as many as forty in -a cellar--organ grinders, ice-cream vendors, bear leaders, waiters. -I was obviously the object of passionate dislike. They surrounded me -with violent gestures and torrential speech, not one word of which -did I understand. At first I was mildly curious to know what all this -noise was about, but I saw that things were serious when several young -men began to flash about their clasp-knives. Help came at a critical -moment. Three London “Bobbies” appeared on the scene, as they generally -do, in the nick of time. - -“Now, what’s all this about?” - -Seldom before had I heard such a friendly and comforting inquiry. - -The crowd melted away. In the quietude that followed, one young waiter -who remained explained to me that my published article on the Italian -quarter had caused great offense, as my reference to the ice-cream -factories had been taken as an insult. I had used the phrase “dirty -places” and the Italian colony desired my death. They did not get it -that Sunday morning. But I was sorry to have hurt their feelings, as I -had an affectionate regard for those people. - -I was abominably near a nasty accident, owing to a misplaced sense of -humor, when the Mohammedans in London celebrated the Feast of Ramadan, -as they do each year at the Holborn Restaurant. That is one of the most -unlikely places in which to meet Romance. On all the other days of -the year it is given over to public banquets of Odd Fellows and Good -Fellows, Masons, and Rotarians, and the business man of London when -he puts on a hard white shirt, and expands his manly bosom under the -influence of comradeship, and the sense of holding an honorable place -among his fellow men of the same social grade as himself. Yet, in the -Holborn Restaurant there is the mystery and the romance of the East, an -astonishing, and almost incredible, assembly of Oriental types, on that -day of Mohammedan rejoicing. - -The first time I went, there were several Indian princes in richly -colored turbans and gold-embroidered coats, some Persians in white -robes, Turks wearing the scarlet fez, a number of Arabs, some -full-blooded African negroes, and a group of Indian students. White -tablecloths, used as a rule by business men at their banquets, were -spread on the floor, and these were used as kneeling mats by the -Mohammedans, who bowed to the East with their foreheads touching the -ground and joined in a chant, rising and falling in the Oriental -scale, with strange wailings, as one among them read extracts from the -Koran, and between whiles seemed to carry on a musical and melancholy -conversation with the Faithful. - -My trouble was that I wanted to laugh. There was nothing to laugh at, -and much to admire in the intense faith of these Mohammedan worshipers, -but there are times, probably due to nervousness, when some little -demon tickles one into a desperate desire to relieve one’s emotion by -mirth. It is what schoolgirls call “the giggles.” I caught the eye of -an enormous negro, staring at me ferociously, and I failed to hide a -fatuous smile. It was the queer nasal lamentations of those kneeling -men, and this scene in the Holborn Restaurant, where I had dined the -very night before with business men in boiled shirts, which stirred -my sense of the ridiculous, against all my spirit of reverence and -decency. I was alarmed at myself, and hurriedly left the room. - -Outside the door I leaned against the wall and laughed with my -handkerchief to my mouth, because of this Arabian Nights’ dream in the -ridiculous commonplace of the Holborn Restaurant. As I did so, the -tall negro who had been eying me appeared suddenly before me in the -darkness of the passage. His eyes seemed to blaze with rage, and all -the wrath of Islam was in him, and he crouched a little as though to -make a spring at me. My misplaced sense of humor left me immediately! I -was out of the Holborn Restaurant and on top of a ’bus bound for Oxford -Circus, with astonishing rapidity. - -It was not only among the foreigners of London that I found strange -scenes and odd characters. The life of a journalist brings him into -touch with the eccentricities of human nature, and trains him to keep -his eyes open for rare birds, philosophers in back streets, odd volumes -in the bookshelf. - -It was by accident that I discovered a very queer fellow who revealed -to me a romantic profession. I was calling on a Member of Parliament -in the old Queen Anne house behind Westminster Abbey, when I saw a -smart gig standing by the pavement, a well-dressed young man with a -clean-shaven face, long nose, and green eyes, and, up against the -wall, a sack. It was the sack which astonished me. Filled with some -bulky-looking material, it was not like an ordinary sack, but was -heaving in a most peculiar way. I ventured to address the young man -with the gig. - -“What on earth’s the matter with that sack?” - -He grinned, and said, “Want to know?” - -Then, very cautiously, he opened the mouth of the sack, made a sharp -nip with forefinger and thumb, and brought out a big-sized rat. - -“There are four hundred in that bag,” he remarked proudly, “and all -alive and kicking. One has to handle ’em carefully. They bite like -blazes.” - -“What are they for?” I asked. “What are you going to do with them?” - -“Sell ’em to fancy gents who like a little sport with their dogs on -Sunday, down Mitcham way. Care to have my card?” - -He handed me a visiting card, and I read the inscription, which -notified that my new acquaintance was - -“_Rat Catcher to the Lord Mayor and the City of London._” - -I made an appointment with this dignitary, and found that he was the -modern Pied Piper, who spent his nights in luring the rats of London -from riverside warehouses, city restaurants, and other establishments -along the bed of the Thames where they swarmed by the thousand. - - - “Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats, - Brown rats, black rats, grey rats, tawny rats, - Grave old plodders, gay young friskers, - Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins, - Cocking tails and pricking whiskers, - Families by tens and dozens....” - - -Every night when the city folk had left their chop-houses or their -warehouses, this mysterious fellow with the greenish eyes went in -quietly with four big wire cages, some netting, and a long willow wand. -The nets, which had pouched pockets, he put up against the passages and -doorways. Then, in the absolute darkness, he stood motionless for an -hour. Presently there came a patter of tiny feet, a squeaking, a glint -of ravenous little eyes. They were all round him, searching for the -crumbs, ravenously. Suddenly he uttered a strange beastlike cry, in his -throat, like yodeling, and whipped the floor with his long white wand. -The rats were mesmerized, stupefied. They tried to make their way back -to their holes, but fell into the poacher’s nets, dozens and scores, on -a good hunting night. He emptied them into the cages, covered them with -white cloths, stood motionless again, waited again, made a second bag. -At dawn he departed with his sack well loaded, to sell to “fancy gents” -at four-pence each, in the suburbs of London. - -The foreign element in London was, on the whole, very law abiding. For -centuries London had been the sanctuary of political refugees from many -countries of persecution, and it was a tradition, and a good tradition, -of England, that no questions should be asked as to the political -faith of those who desired shelter from their own rulers. Even the -revolutionaries of Europe, and the “intellectual” anarchists, had the -good sense, for a long time, not to stir up trouble or attack the -laws of the land in which they found such generous exile. This rule, -however, was abruptly broken by a gang of foreign bandits who carried -out a series of alarming robberies, and, when tracked down at last, -shot a police inspector and wounded others. - -One of their own men was mortally wounded in the affray and carried -bleeding to a house in Grove Street, Whitechapel, one of the worst -streets in London, where he died. He was a young Russian, as handsome -as a Greek god, in the opinion of the surgeons of the London Hospital, -with whom I happened to be lunching when one of the juniors rushed -in with the news that the corpse had been secured, against all -competitors, by the “London.” - -It was the death of this Russian which gave the clue to the habits -and whereabouts of the gang with whom he had been connected. Their -women were caught, and “blew the gaff,” and it was discovered that the -leader of the gang was another young Russian called Peter the Painter. -Scores of Scotland Yard detectives set out on the trail, and another -police inspector lost his life in the endeavor to arrest three of the -bandits at a house in Sidney Street, Whitechapel, where they defied all -attempts at capture by a ruthless use of automatic pistols. Siege was -laid to the house by the police and detectives, armed with revolvers, -and an astounding episode happened in the heart of London. - -For some reason, which I have forgotten, I went very early that morning -to the _Chronicle_ office, and was greeted by the news editor with -the statement that a hell of a battle was raging in Sidney Street. He -advised me to go and look at it. - -I took a taxi, and drove to the corner of that street, where I found a -dense crowd observing the affair as far as they dared peer round the -angle of the walls from adjoining streets. Heedless at the moment of -danger, which seemed to me ridiculous, I stood boldly opposite Sidney -Street and looked down its length of houses. Immediately in front of me -four soldiers of one of the Guards’ regiments lay on their stomachs, -protected from the dirt of the road by newspaper “sandwich” boards, -firing their rifles at a house halfway down the street. Another young -Guardsman, leaning against a wall, took random shots at intervals while -he smoked a woodbine. As I stood near him, he winked and said, “What a -game!” - -It was something more than a game. Bullets were flicking off the wall -like peas, plugging holes into the dirty yellow brick, and ricocheting -fantastically. One of them took a neat chip out of a policeman’s -helmet, and he said, “Well, I’ll be blowed!” and laughed in a foolish -way. It was before the war, when we learned to know more about the -meaning of bullets. Another struck a stick on which a journalistic -friend of mine was leaning in an easy, graceful way. His support and -his dignity suddenly departed from him. - -“That’s funny!” he said, seriously, as he saw his stick neatly cut in -half at his feet. - -A cinematograph operator, standing well inside Sidney Street, was -winding his handle vigorously, quite oblivious of the whiz of bullets -which were being fired at a slanting angle from the house, which seemed -to be the target of the prostrate Guardsmen. - -A large police inspector, of high authority, shouted a command to his -men. - -“What’s all that nonsense? Clear the people back! Clear ’em right back! -We don’t want a lot of silly corpses lying round.” - -A cordon of police pushed back the dense crowd, treading on the toes of -those who would not move fast enough. - -I found myself in a group of journalists. - -“Get back there!” shouted the police. - -But we were determined to see the drama out. It was more sensational -than any “movie” show. Immediately opposite was a tall gin palace--“The -Rising Sun.” Some strategist said, “That’s the place for us!” We raced -across before the police could outflank us. - -A Jew publican stood in the doorway, sullenly. - -“Whatcher want?” he asked. - -“Your roof,” said one of the journalists. - -“A quid each, and worth it,” said the Jew. - -At that time, before the era of paper money, some of us carried golden -sovereigns in our pockets, one to a “quid.” Most of the others did, -but, as usual, I had not more than eighteenpence. A friend lent me the -necessary coin, which the Jew slipped into his pocket as he let me -pass. Twenty of us, at least, gained access to the roof of “The Rising -Sun.” - -It was a good vantage point, or O.P., as we should have called it -later in history. It looked right across to the house in Sidney Street -in which Peter the Painter and his friends were defending themselves -to the death--a tall, thin house of three stories, with dirty window -blinds. In the house immediately opposite were some more Guardsmen, -with pillows and mattresses stuffed into the windows in the nature of -sandbags as used in trench warfare. We could not see the soldiers, -but we could see the effect of their intermittent fire, which had -smashed every pane of glass and kept chipping off bits of brick in the -anarchists’ abode. - -The street had been cleared of all onlookers, but a group of detectives -slunk along the walls on the anarchists’ side of the street at such an -angle that they were safe from the slanting fire of the enemy. They -had to keep very close to the wall, because Peter and his pals were -dead shots and maintained something like a barrage fire with their -automatics. Any detective or policeman who showed himself would have -been sniped in a second, and these men were out to kill. - -The thing became a bore as I watched it for an hour or more, during -which time Mr. Winston Churchill, who was then Home Secretary, came to -take command of active operations, thereby causing an immense amount -of ridicule in next day’s papers. With a bowler hat pushed firmly down -on his bulging brow, and one hand in his breast pocket, like Napoleon -on the field of battle, he peered round the corner of the street, and -afterward, as we learned, ordered up some field guns to blow the house -to bits. - -That never happened, for a reason which we on “The Rising Sun” were -quick to see. - -In the top-floor room of the anarchists’ house we observed a gas jet -burning, and presently some of us noticed the white ash of burnt paper -fluttering out of a chimney pot. - -“They’re burning documents,” said one of my friends. - -They were burning more than that. They were setting fire to the house, -upstairs and downstairs. The window curtains were first to catch -alight, then volumes of black smoke, through which little tongues of -flame licked up, poured through the empty window frames. They must have -used paraffin to help the progress of the fire, for the whole house was -burning with amazing rapidity. - -“Did you ever see such a game in London!” exclaimed the man next to me -on the roof of the public house. - -For a moment I thought I saw one of the murderers standing on the -window sill. But it was a blackened curtain which suddenly blew outside -the window frame and dangled on the sill. - -A moment later I had one quick glimpse of a man’s arm with a pistol -in his hand. He fired and there was a quick flash. At the same moment -a volley of shots rang out from the Guardsmen opposite. It is certain -that they killed the man who had shown himself, for afterward they -found his body (or a bit of it) with a bullet through the skull. It was -not long afterward that the roof fell in with an upward rush of flame -and sparks. The inside of the house from top to bottom was a furnace. - -The detectives, with revolvers ready, now advanced in Indian file. -One of them ran forward and kicked at the front door. It fell in, and -a sheet of flame leaped out.... No other shot was fired from within. -Peter the Painter and his fellow bandits were charred cinders in the -bonfire they had made. - -So ended the “Battle of Sidney Street,” which created intense -excitement and indignation throughout England, and threw a glare of -publicity on to the secret haunts of the foreign anarchists in London. - -I was one of those who directed the searchlight, for the very next day, -with Eddy, my colleague, I took up residence at 62 Sidney Street, and -explored the underworld of Whitechapel and the Anarchist clubs of the -Russian and German Jews, who were the leading spirits of a philosophy -which is now known as Bolshevism. And in that quest I had some strange -adventures, and met some very queer folk. - - - - -VI - - -Before taking lodgings in Sidney Street, Whitechapel, to study the -haunts of Peter the Painter and his fellow “thugs,” I tried to get a -room in the house in Grove Street to which the handsome young Russian -had been carried when he was mortally wounded by the police. - -With my companion Eddy, I knocked at the door of this dark little -dwelling place, in a sinister street with a railed sidewalk, where -foreign-looking men lounged about in doorways, and young drabs with -painted faces started out at dusk for the lighted highways. Eddy and I -believed ourselves to be disguised adequately for East End life. We had -put on our oldest clothes and cloth caps, but we were both aware that -our appearance in Grove Street aroused immediate suspicion. After three -knocks, the door was opened on a chain, and a frowsy woman spoke to me -in Yiddish. I answered in German, which she seemed to understand. Upon -my asking for a room, she undid the chain and opened the door a little -way, so that I could see the crooked wooden stairs up which the man’s -body had been carried by two of those men who now lay burned to death -in Sidney Street. - -The woman asked us to wait, and then went down a stinking passage -and spoke to a man, as I could hear by the voices. While we waited, -shadows crept up out of the dark street about us, and I saw that we -were surrounded by the foreign-looking men who had been lounging in -the doorways. The woman came back with a tall, bearded man who spoke -English. - -“What do you want?” - -“A room for the night.” - -“What the hell for?” he asked. “Do you know there’s been a murder in -this house?” - -“That makes no difference,” I said, casually. “It’s late and raining, -and we want to sleep.” - -“Not here. We don’t want no narks in this house. We’re honest people.” - -“All right,” said Eddy. “We’ll go somewhere else.” - -He was moving off, when the man took hold of his arm. - -“Perhaps you won’t,” he snarled. “I may get into trouble about this, -with the cops. You’ll stay here till I send a word round to the -station.” - -He gave a whistle, and the men lurking in the darkness about us pressed -closer. They were young Jews of Russian type, anæmic and white-faced. - -He shoved the man off, and pushed his way through the crowd. They -jabbered in a foreign tongue, and followed a little way, but did not -touch us. - -“Let go of my arm, or I’ll hit you,” said Eddy. - -The rain fell faster, and we were splashed with mud. With good warm -houses in the West of London, it was ridiculous to be tramping about -the East like this, homeless and cold. We knocked at many doors in -other streets, and every answer we had was a rough refusal in Yiddish -or German to take us in. Not even when we offered as much as a -sovereign for a night’s shelter. - -“These people don’t like the look of us,” said Eddy. “What’s the matter -with our money?” - -The truth was, I think, that the affair in Sidney Street had thoroughly -scared the foreign element in the East End, and these people to whom we -applied for rooms were on their guard at once against two strangers who -might be police spies or criminals in search of a hiding place. They -were not accepting trouble either way. - -It was late at night when at last we persuaded an Israelite, and master -tailor, to rent us a room in Sidney Street, next door to the house in -which Peter the Painter and his friends had defied the armed police of -London, and escaped capture by dying in the flames. - -From that address Eddy and I wrote a series of articles describing our -experiences in the East End, among anarchists, criminals, and costers. -The anarchists were the most interesting, and we visited them in their -night clubs. - -We went, I remember, to a Russian hotel in Whitechapel, where the chief -anarchist club in London had established its headquarters through fear -of a police raid at its old address. Certainly they took no precautions -to ensure secrecy, for even outside the hotel, down a side street, Eddy -and I could hear the stentorian voice of one of their orators, and see -the shadows of his audience on the window blinds. We went into the -hotel and found the stairs leading to the club room densely packed by -young men and women, for the most part respectably, and even smartly, -dressed, of obviously foreign race--Russian, German, and Jewish. - -Eddy and I wormed our way upstairs by slow degrees, sufficiently -close to hear the long, excited speech that was being made in German. -Here and there at least I heard snatches of it, and such phrases as -“the tyranny of the police,” “the fear of the _bourgeoisie_,” “the -dictatorship of the people,” “the liberty of speech,” and “the rights -of labor to absolute self-government.” Such phrases as these were -loudly applauded whenever the speaker paused. - -“Who is speaking?” I asked of a good-looking young fellow sitting on -the stairs. - -He answered sullenly: - -“Rocca. What’s that to you?” - -Presently there was a whispering about us. Sullen faces under bowler -hats held close consultation. Then there was a movement on the stairs, -jamming Eddy and myself against the banisters. - -“What do you want here?” asked one of the young men, aggressively. “If -you’re police narks, we’ll turn you out!” - -“Yes, or do you in!” said another. - -“We don’t want any bleeding spies here,” said a woman. - -Other expressions of hostility were uttered, and there was an ugly look -on the faces of these foreign youths. - -I thought it best to tell them frankly that I was merely a newspaper -reporter on _The Daily Chronicle_, finding a little descriptive -material. I should be interested to hear the speech upstairs, if they -had no objection. - -This candor disarmed them, or most of them, though a few raised the cry -of “Turn them out!” - -But an elderly man who seemed to have some authority raised his hand, -and took me under his protection. - -“That’s all right. We’ve nothing to hide. If _The Daily Chronicle_ -wants our views, it can have them. Better come and see Mrs. Rocca.” - -The crowd made way for us on the stairs and my companion and I were led -to a narrow landing outside the room, where the orator still bellowed -in German to a packed audience, and then into a little slip of a room -which I found to be an ordinary bathroom. - -On the edge of the bath sat a well-dressed, rather good-looking and -pleasant-eyed lady, to whom I was introduced, and who was introduced to -me as Mrs. Rocca. She was the wife of the orator in the next room, and, -like himself, German. - -She spoke English perfectly, and in the presence of half a dozen -men who crowded in to listen, we had an argument lasting at least -an hour, on the subject of anarchy. She began by disclaiming, for -the anarchists in London, all knowledge of and responsibility for -the affair of Peter the Painter and his associates. They were merely -common thieves. But it was laughable, she thought, what a panic fear -had been caused in middle-class London by the killing of a policeman -or two. It filled columns of the newspapers, with enormous headlines. -It seemed to startle them as something too horrible and monstrous for -imagination. Why all that agitation over the deaths of two guardians -of property, when there was no agitation at all, no public outcry, no -fierce clamor for vengeance, because every night men and women of the -toiling classes were being killed by the inhuman conditions of their -lives, in foul slums, in overcrowded bedrooms, in poisonous trades, in -sweated industries, as the helpless slaves of that capitalistic system -which protected itself by armies of police. The English people were -the world’s worst hypocrites. They hid a putrid mass of suffering, -corruption, and disease, caused by modern industrialism, and pretended -that it did not exist. - -“What is your philosophy?” I asked. “How do you propose to remedy our -present state?” - -“I am an intellectual Nihilist,” said the lady very calmly. “I believe -in the ultimate abolition of all law, all government, all police, and -in a free society with perfect liberty to the individual, educated in -self-discipline, love for others, and moral purpose.” - -I need not here repeat her arguments, nor their fantastic disregard of -human nature and the stark realities of life. She was well read, and -quoted all manner of writers from Plato to Bernard Shaw, and I marveled -that such a woman should be living in the squalor of Whitechapel as -a preacher of the destructive gospel. We had a vehement argument, in -which Eddy joined, and though we waxed hot, and disagreed with each -other on all issues, we maintained the courtesies of debate, in which, -beyond any mock modesty, I was hopelessly out-argued by this brilliant, -extraordinary, and dangerous woman. - -It was from acquaintances made in that club that we were led into other -byways of Whitechapel and heard strange and terrible tales of Russian -revolutionaries, who showed me the sores of fetters and chains about -their wrists and legs, and swore eternal hatred of the Russian Czardom, -which crushed the souls of men and women and tortured their bodies. -They were, doubtless, true tales, and it was with the remembrance -of those horrors that the Russian Revolution was made, in all its -cruelty and terror, until the autocracy of the Czars was replaced by -the tyranny of Lenin and the Soviet State, when the dream of Russian -liberty was killed, for a generation at least, in the ruin and famine -and pestilence of the people. - -Eddy and I dined in the kosher restaurants of the East End, went to the -Jewish theater, and explored the haunts of the Russian and Oriental -Jews of London. - -In our wanderings we discovered the most Oriental place this side of -Constantinople. It was Hessell Street Market, in a deep sunken road, -reached by flights of steep steps through blocks of buildings in the -Commercial Road, and quite unknown to most Londoners. On each side of -the sunken street were wooden booths which looked as though they had -been there since the time of Queen Elizabeth, and at night, when we -went, they were lit, luridly, by naptha flares. In these booths sat, -cross-legged, old bearded men with hooked noses, who looked as though -they were contemporaries of Moses and the Prophets. They were selling -cheap Oriental rugs, colored cottons and silks, sham jewelery, rabbit -skins, kosher meat, skinny fowls, and embroidered slippers. The crowd -marketing in this place, chaffering, quarreling, picking over the -wares, with the noise of a Turkish bazaar, were mostly of Oriental -types. Some of the men wore fur caps, or astrakhan caps, like the -Persians who cross the Galata bridge at Constantinople. Others wore fur -coats reaching to their heels, and top hats of ancient architecture. -It was the market of the London Ghetto, and thronged with flashy young -Jews and Jewesses, starved-looking men of Slav aspect, and shifty-eyed -boys who were professional pickpockets and sold the harvest of their -day’s toil to the old villains in the booths. - -It was a young thief who acted as our guide to some of these places, -and he performed a delicate operation in the way of housebreaking for -our benefit. We were eager to get a photograph of Peter the Painter, -and he told us that he knew of the only one in existence. It belonged -to a “young lady” who had been Peter’s friend, and naturally wished to -keep secret her association with this bandit. It stood on her bedroom -mantelpiece, and if we would give him half an hour, he would “pinch” it -for us. But he would have to replace it after we had made use of it. At -the end of an hour he returned with the photograph of a good-looking -young Russian, and told us that it had been an “easy job.” This -photograph was reproduced as the only authentic portrait of Peter the -Painter, but I have grave doubts about it. - -With this lad, who was an intelligent fellow and vowed that henceforth -he was going to lead an honest life, as burglary was a mug’s game, -he went into the cellars below a certain restaurant which were used -as a library of anarchist literature. Doubtless there was more high -explosive here, in the way of destructive philosophy, than one might -find in Woolwich Arsenal, but we did not examine those dangerous little -pamphlets and books which preached the gospel of revolution. At that -time, before the advent of Bolshevism in the history of the world, -that propaganda seemed to have no bearing upon the ordinary facts -of life, and did not interest us. It was at a later period that the -international anarchist in London translated his textbooks and touted -them outside the gates of English factories, and slipped them into the -hands of unemployed men. - -In those pre-war days, the foreign revolutionaries in London kept -themselves aloof from English life and, as I have said, generally -avoided unpleasant contact with the English law. Living in the foulest -lodgings--I sicken still at the memory of the stench we encountered in -some of their tenement houses--many of these young tailors, cigarette -makers, and factory hands dressed themselves up in the evening and came -down West with their girl friends to the music halls and night clubs in -the neighborhood of Piccadilly, leaving the older folk to their squalor -and the children to the playground of the streets and courts. Now -and again they stabbed each other, or cut each other’s throats, but, -as a rule, such incidents were hushed up by their neighbors, and the -London police were not invited to inquire into affrays between these -aliens.... The war made a great clearance of these foreigners, and many -of their old haunts have disappeared. - -By the merest chance I saw the disappearance of one of the oldest and -most historic haunts of London lawbreakers. It was the abandonment -of the Old Bailey, before its grim and ancient structure was pulled -down to make way for the new and imposing building where Justice again -pursues its relentless way with those who fall into its grip. Ever -since Roman days there has been a prison on the site of the Old Bailey, -and for hundreds of years men and women have languished there in dark -cells, rattled their chains behind its bars, rotted with jail fever, -and died on the gallows tree within its walls. The dark cruelties of -English justice which, in the old days, was merciless with all who -broke its penal laws, however young and innocent till then, belong -to forgotten history, for the most part, but as time is counted in -history, it is not long since the judges of the Old Bailey condemned -young girls to death for stealing a few ribbons or handkerchiefs, and -my own grandfather saw their executions, in batches. - -But on the last day of the Old Bailey, when the police were withdrawn -from its courtroom and corridors, before its furniture and fittings -were to be put up for public auction, the crowd I met there did not -remember those old ruthless days. They were the criminals of a later -generation who had been put in the cells as “drunks and disorderlies,” -as pickpockets and “petty larcenies,” brought up for judgment with the -knowledge that short sentences would be inflicted on them. - -It was one of the most remarkable crowds I have ever seen. Some queer -sentiment had brought all these crooks and jailbirds to see the last -of their old “home.” Frowzy women and “flash” girls, old scamps of the -casual ward and doss house, habitual drunkards, and young thieves, -sporting touts and burglars of the Bill Sikes brand, had gathered -together, as though by special invitation, to the “private view.” -Laughing, excited, full of loquacious reminiscences, they wandered -through the charge room and the cells where they had been “lagged,” -pointed out the cell from which Jack Sheppard had escaped, and other -cells once inhabited by famous murderers and criminals, and surged -into the great court where they had stood in the dock facing the -scarlet-robed judge and all the majesty of law. They stood in the dock -again, lots of them, jeering, with bursts of hoarse laughter at the -merry jest. - -They crowded up to the judge’s throne. One young coster, with a gift -of mimicry, put on a judicial manner, wagged his head solemnly, and -sentenced his pals to death. Shrieks of laughter greeted his pantomime. -An old ruffian with a legal-looking face, sodden with drink, played the -part of prosecuting counsel, addressed an imaginary judge as “M’lud,” -the crowd as “gentlemen of the jury,” and asserted that the evidence -was overwhelming as to the guilt of the prisoner, who was indeed “a -naughty, naughty man.” - -“The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth!” screamed a -girl with big feathers in her hat, and she laughed hysterically at her -own humor. - -There was something grim and tragic beneath the comedy of the scene. -This travesty of the law by those who had been in its clutches revealed -a vicious psychology lost to all shame and decency, but was also a -condemnation of society which produced such types of men and women, -for the most part victims of slum life, foul surroundings, and evil -upbringing, tolerated, and indeed created, by the social system of -England. It needed the pen of Dickens to describe this scene, and truly -it was a hark-back to the days of Dickens himself. I was astounded that -such characters as Bill Sikes, Old Fagin and Nancy, and Charley Bates -should still remain in the London of Edward VII, as they appeared in -the living image that day in the Old Bailey. - -I wandered upstairs into deserted rooms. They were strewn with papers -ankle-deep, and on the table I saw a bulky volume, bound in iron, which -was the old charge book, dating from 1730. To this day I regret that I -did not “pinch” it, for it was an historic relic which, with scandalous -carelessness, was thrown away. But I was afraid of carrying off such -a big thing, lest I should find myself on a more modern charge-sheet -at another court. I did, however, stuff a number of papers into my -pockets, and when I reached home and examined them, I found that they -were also historical documents of great interest. - -One of them, for instance, was a list of eighty convicts, or so, -condemned to penal servitude and transportation to Botany Bay. Many -of them--boys and girls--had been sentenced to death for the crime -of stealing a few potatoes, a pinafore, some yards of cotton, or, in -one case, for breaking a threshing machine, and had been “graciously -reprieved by His Majesty King William IV” and condemned to that -ferocious punishment of penal servitude in the convict settlements -of Australia, which to many of them was a living death, until by -flogging, and insanitary conditions, and disease, death itself released -them. That was but a few years before the reign of Queen Victoria! - -It was in the new Old Bailey, very handsomely paneled, nicely warmed, -lighted with delicate effects of color through high windows--doubtless -the clerks of the court thought it quite a privilege for the criminals -to be judged in such a place--that I saw the trial of that famous and -astonishing little murderer, Doctor Crippen. - -It will be remembered that he was captured on a ship bound for Halifax, -with a girl named Ethel le Neve, dressed up in boy’s clothes, with whom -he had eloped after killing his wife and dissecting her body for burial -in his cellar. - -Crippen looked a respectable little man, with weak, watery eyes and a -drooping moustache, so ordinary a type of middle-class business man in -London that quite a number of people, including one of my own friends, -were arrested by mistake for him when the hue and cry went forth. - -I was at Bournemouth at that time, in one of the aviation meetings -which were held in the early days of flying. It was celebrated by -fancy fêtes, open-air carnivals, fancy-dress balls, and all kinds of -diversions. The most respectable town in England, inhabited mostly by -retired colonels, well-to-do spinsters, and invalids, seemed to take -leave of its senses in a wild outburst of frivolity. Even the Mayor -was to be seen in the broad glare of sunshine, wearing a false nose. -Into that atmosphere of false noses and fancy frocks came telegrams to -several newspaper correspondents from their editors. - -“Scotland Yard believes Crippen at Bournemouth. Please get busy.” - -That was the tenor of the telegram sent to me, and I saw by the pink -envelopes received by friends at table in the Grand Hotel one night -that they had received similar messages. One by one they stole out, -looking mightily secretive--in search of Crippen, who, by that time was -nearing Halifax. - -With a friend named Harold Ashton, a well-known “crime sleuth,” I went -into the hall, and after a slight discussion decided that if Crippen -was in Bournemouth it was not our job to find him. We were, for the -time, experts in aviation, and couldn’t be put off by foolish murders. - -As we went upstairs, Ashton put his head over the banisters, and then -uttered an exclamation. - -“Scotland Yard!” - -Looking over the stair rail, I saw a pair of boots, belonging to a man -sitting in the hall. True enough, they had come from Scotland Yard, -according to the tradition which enables any detective to be recognized -at a glance by any criminal. One of those detectives had been sent down -on the false rumor, and probably hoped to find Doctor Crippen and Ethel -le Neve disguised as Pierrot and Columbine on the pier. - -Ashton and I decided to have a game with the man. We wrote a note in -block letters, as follows: - - - “ARE YOU LOOKING FOR DOCTOR CRIPPEN? IF SO, BEWARE!” - - -By a small bribe, we hired a boy to deliver it to the detective, and -then depart quickly. - -The effect was obviously disconcerting to the man, for he looked most -uneasy, and then hurried out of the hotel. Doubtless he could not -understand how anybody in Bournemouth could know of his mission. Ashton -and I followed him, and he was immediately aware that he was being -shadowed. He went into a public house and ordered a glass of beer which -he did not drink. Ashton and I did the same, and were quick on his -heels when he slipped out by a side door. We kept up this game for -quite a time, until we tired of it, and to this day the detective must -wonder who shadowed him so closely in Bournemouth, and for what fell -purpose. - -Curiously, by the absurd chances of journalistic life, I became mixed -up in the Crippen case, not only by having to describe the trial, but -by having to write the life story of Ethel le Neve. That girl, who -had been Crippen’s typist, was quite a pretty and attractive little -creature, and in spite of her flight with him in boy’s clothes, -the police were satisfied that she was entirely innocent of the -murder. Anyhow, she was not charged, and upon her liberation she was -immediately captured at a price, by _The Daily Chronicle_, who saw -that her narrative would make an enormous sensation. They provided -her with a furnished flat, under an assumed name, and for weeks _The -Daily Chronicle_ office was swarming with her sister’s family, while -office boys fetched the milk for the baby, and sub-editors paid the -outstanding debts of the brother-in-law, in order that Ethel le Neve -should reserve her tale exclusively to the nice, kind paper! Such is -the dignity of modern journalism, desperate for a “scoop.” - -Eddy and I were again associated in the extraction of Ethel le Neve’s -tale. Eddy, as a young barrister, now well-known and prosperous at -the Bar, cross-examined her artfully, and persistently, with the firm -belief that she knew all about the murder. Never once, however, did he -trap her into any admission. - -From my point of view, the psychology of the girl was extremely -interesting. Just a little Cockney girl, from a family of humble -class and means, she had astonishing and unusual qualities. It is -characteristic of her that when she was staying in Brussels with -Crippen, disguised as a boy--and a remarkably good-looking boy she -appeared--because she knew that Crippen was wanted by the law for “some -old thing or other,” which she didn’t bother to find out, she spent -most of her time visiting the art galleries and museums of the Belgian -capital. She had regarded the whole episode as a great “lark,” until at -Halifax detectives came aboard and arrested the fugitives on a charge -of murder. She admitted to me that, putting two and two together, -little incidents that had seemed trivial at the time, and remembering -queer words spoken by Crippen--“the doctor,” as she called him--she -had no doubt now of his guilt. But, as she also admitted, that made no -difference to her love for him. “He was mad when he did it,” she said, -“and he was mad for me.” That was the extraordinary thing--that deep, -sincere, and passionate love between the little weak-eyed, middle-aged -quack doctor, and this common, pretty little Cockney girl. - -I read Crippen’s love letters, written to Ethel le Neve from prison, -immensely long letters, written on prison paper in a neat little -writing, without a blot or a fault. All told, there were forty thousand -words of them--as long as a novel--and they were surprising in their -good style, their beauty of expression, their resignation to death. -These two people from the squalor of a London suburb, might have been -mediæval lovers in Italy of Boccaccio’s time, when murder for love’s -sake was lightly done. - -In a little restaurant in Soho I sat with Ethel le Neve, day after -day, while all the journalists of England were searching for her. Many -times she was so gay that it was impossible to believe that she had -escaped the hangman’s rope by no great distance, and that her lover was -a little blear-eyed man lying under sentence of death. Yet that gayety -of hers was not affected or forced. It bubbled out of her because of -a quick and childish sense of humor, which had not been killed by the -frightful thing that overshadowed her. When that shadow fell upon her -spirit again, she used to weep, but never for long. Her last request -to me was that I should have Doctor Crippen’s photograph made into -a miniature which she could wear concealed upon her breast. On the -morning of his execution she put on black for him, and wished that she -might have died with him on the scaffold. - -I am certain, as the police were, that she was guiltless of all -knowledge and participation in the murder of Mrs. Crippen, but she -seemed as careless of that crime as any woman of the Borgias when a -rival was removed from her path of love. Some old strain of passionate -blood had thrust up again in this London typist girl, whose name of le -Neve might hold the clue, if we knew her family history, to this secret -of her personality. - -I was glad to see the last of her, having written down her tale, -because that was not the kind of journalism which appealed to my -instincts or ideals, and I sickened at the squalor of the whole story -of love and murder, as I sat with Ethel le Neve in friendly discourse, -not without pity for this girl whose life had been ruined by her folly, -and who would be forever haunted by the grim tragedy of Crippen’s crime. - - - - -VII - - -Although my reminiscences hitherto have dealt with my adventures as -a special correspondent, I have from time to time sat with assumed -dignity in the editorial chair. Indeed, I was an editor before I was -twenty-one, and I may say that I began life very high up in the world -and have been climbing down steadily ever since. - -I was at least very high up--on the top floor of the House of Cassell, -in La Belle Sauvage Yard--when I assumed, at the age of nineteen, the -enormous title of Educational Editor, and gained the microscopic salary -of a hundred and twenty pounds a year. - -With five pounds capital and that income, I married, with an audacity -which I now find superb. I was so young, and looked so much younger, -that I did not dare to confess my married state to my official chief, -who was the Right Honorable H. O. Arnold-Forster, in whose room I sat, -and one day when my wife popped her head through the door and said -“Hullo!” I made signs to her to depart. - -“Who’s that pretty girl?” asked Arnold-Forster, and with shame I must -confess that I hid the secret of our relationship. - -That first chief of mine was one of the most extraordinary men I ever -met, and quite the rudest to all people of superior rank to himself. - -As Secretary to the Admiralty, and afterward Minister of War, many -important visitors used to call on him in his big room at the top -of Cassell’s, where he was one of the Directors. I sat opposite, -correcting proofs of school books and advertisements, writing fairy -tales in spare moments, and listening to Arnold-Forster’s conversation. -He treated distinguished admirals, generals, and colonels as though -they were office boys, so that they perspired in his presence, and -were sometimes deeply affronted, but, on the other hand, as a proof -of chivalry, he treated office boys and printers’ devils as though -they were distinguished admirals, generals, and colonels, with a most -particular courtesy. - -I saw him achieve the almost incredible feat of dictating a complete -history of England as he paced up and down his room, with hardly a -note. It is true that his patient secretary had to fill in the dates -afterward, and verify the “facts,” which were often wrong, but the -result was certainly the most vivid and illuminating history of England -ever written for young people, and Rudyard Kipling wrote to him that it -was one of the few books that had kept him out of bed all night. - -To me Arnold-Forster was the soul of kindness, and encouraged me to -write my first book, “Founders of the Empire,” which is still selling -in English schools, after twenty years, though I make no profit thereby. - -At twenty-three years of age, I heard of a new job, and applied for -it. It was the position of managing editor of the Tillotsons’ Literary -Syndicate, in the North of England. The audacity of my application -alarmed me as I wrote the letter, and I excused myself, as I remember, -in the final sentence. “As Pitt said,” I wrote, “I am guilty of the -damnable crime of being a Young Man.” - -That sentence gained me the position, as I afterward heard. The -Tillotsons were three young brothers who believed in youth. They were -amused and captured by that phrase of mine. So I went North for a time, -with my young wife. - -It was a great experience in the market of literary wares. My task was -to buy fiction and articles for syndicating in the provincial and -colonial press, and my judgment was put to test of the sales list. - -I “spotted” some winners who are now famous. Among them I remember -was Arnold Bennett. He sent in a story called “The Grand Babylon -Hotel”--his first romance--and I read it with the conviction that it -was first-class melodrama. He asked a paltry price, which I accepted, -and then I asked him to lunch in London--the joy of seeing London -again!--and made him an offer for the book rights. He agreed to that -fee, but afterward, when the book was immensely successful, he grieved -over his bad bargain, and in one of his later books he warned all -authors against a pale-faced young man, with his third finger deeply -stained by nicotine, who had a habit of asking authors to lunch and -robbing them over the coffee cups. Later in life he forgave me. - -Although I had hard work as editor in Bolton of the Black Country--the -city was ugly, but the people kind--it was there that I found my pen, -and whatever quality it has. - -I wrote an immense number of articles on every kind of subject, to be -syndicated in the provincial press, and I made a surprising success -with a weekly essay called “Knowledge is Power.” Like Francis Bacon, “I -took all knowledge for my province” by “swotting up” the great masters -of drama, poetry, novels, essays, philosophy, and art. It was my own -education, condensed into short essays, written with the simplicity, -sincerity, and enthusiasm of youth, for people with less chances than -myself. I began to get letters from all parts of the earth, partly -for the reason that the articles appeared in _The Weekly Scotsman_, -among other papers, which goes wherever a Scottish heart beats. -Correspondents confided in me, as in an old wise man--the secrets -of their lives, their hopes and ambitions, their desire to know the -strangest and quaintest things. Old ladies sent me cakes, flowers, and -innumerable verses. Young men asked me how they could become the Lord -Mayor’s coachman (that was an actual question!), or find the way to -Heaven. - -Meanwhile Fleet Street called to me with an alluring voice. Kind as -the people were to me in Bolton--beyond all words kind--I sickened for -London. One night I wrote a letter to Alfred Harmsworth, founder of -_The Daily Mail_, and afterward Lord Northcliffe. Almost by return post -he asked me to call on him, and I took the chance. - -I remember as though it were yesterday my first interview with that -genius of the new journalism. He kept me waiting for a while in an -antechamber of Carmelite House. Young men, extremely well dressed, -and obviously in a great hurry on business of enormous importance -to themselves, kept coming and going. Messenger boys in neat little -liveries bounced in and out of the “Chief’s” room, in answer to his -bell. Presently one of them approached me and said, “Your turn.” I drew -a deep breath, prayed for courage, and found myself face to face with -a handsome, clean-shaven, well-dressed man, with a lock of brown hair -falling over his broad forehead, and a friendly, quizzical look in his -brown eyes. - -Sitting back in a deep chair, smoking a cigar, he read some of the -articles I had brought, and occasionally said “Not bad!” or “Rather -amusing!” Once he looked up and said, “You look rather pale, young man. -Better go to the South of France for a bit.” - -But it was the air of Fleet Street I wanted. - -Presently he gave me the chance of it. - -“How would you like to edit Page Four, and write two articles a week?” - -I went out of Carmelite House with that offer accepted, uplifted to the -seventh heaven of hope, and yet a little scared by the dangerous and -dazzling height which I had reached. - -A month later, having uprooted my home in the North, brought a wife and -babe to London, incurred heavy expenses with a mortgage on the future, -I presented myself at _The Daily Mail_ again, and awaited the leisure -and pleasure of Alfred Harmsworth. - -When I was shown into his room, he only dimly remembered my face. - -“Let me see,” he said, groping back to the distant past, which was four -weeks old. - -When I told him my name, he seemed to have a glimmer of some -half-forgotten compact. - -“Oh, yes! The young man from the North.... Wasn’t there some talk of -making a place for you in _The Daily Mail_?” - -My heart fell down a precipice.... I mentioned the offer that had been -made and accepted. But Harmsworth looked a little doubtful. - -“Page Four? Well, hardly that, perhaps. I’ve appointed another editor.” - -I thought of my wife and babe, and unpaid bills. - -“Do you mind touching the bell?” asked Harmsworth. - -The usual boy came in, and was ordered to send down a certain gentleman -whose name I did not hear. Presently the door opened, and a tall, thin, -pale, handsome, and extremely haughty young gentleman sauntered in and -said “Good afternoon,” icily. - -Harmsworth presented me to Filson Young, whom afterward I came to know -as one of the most brilliant writers in Fleet Street, as he still -remains. Not then did I guess that we should meet as chroniclers of -world war in the ravaged fields of France. - -“Oh, Young,” said Harmsworth, in his suavest voice, “this is a -newcomer, named Philip Gibbs. I half promised him the editorship of -Page Four.” - -Here he tapped Young on the shoulder, and added in a jocular way: - -“And if you’re not very careful, young man, he may edit Page Four!” - -Young offered me a cold hand, and there was not a benediction in his -glance. I was put under his orders as a writer, as heir presumptive -to his throne. As it happened, we became good friends, and he had no -grudge against me when, some months later, he vacated the chair in my -favor and went to Ireland for _The Daily Mail_, to collect material for -his brilliant essays on “Ireland at the Crossroads.” - -So there I was, in the Harmsworth _régime_, which has made many men, -and broken others. It was the great school of the new journalism, which -was very new in England of those days, and mainly inspired by the -powerful, brilliant, erratic, and whimsical genius of Alfred Harmsworth -himself. - -I joined his staff at the end of the Boer War period, when there was -a brilliant group of men on _The Daily Mail_, such as Charles Hands, -Edgar Wallace, H. W. Wilson, Holt White, and Filson Young. The editor -was “Tom” Marlowe, still by a miracle in that position, which he -kept through years of turbulence and change, by carrying out with -unfaltering hesitation every wish and whimsey of The Chief, and by a -sense of humor which never betrayed him into regarding any internal -convulsion, revolution, or hysteria of _The Daily Mail_ system as more -than the latest phase in an ever-changing game. Men might come, and men -might go, but Marlowe remained forever, bluff, smiling, imperturbable, -and kind. - -Above him in power of direction, dynamic energy, and financial -authority, was Kennedy Jones, whom all men feared and many hated. -He had a ruthless brutality of speech and action which Harmsworth, -more human, more generous, and less cruel (though he had a strain of -cruelty), found immensely helpful in running an organization which -could not succeed on sentiment or brotherly love. Kennedy Jones would -break a man as soon as look at him, if he made a mistake “letting -down” the paper, if he earned more money for a job which could be done -for less by a younger man, if he showed signs of getting tired. That -was his deliberate policy as a “strong man” out to win at any price, -but, as in most men of the kind, there lay beneath his ruthlessness -a substratum of human quality which occasionally revealed itself -in friendly action. He had a cynical honesty of outlook on life, -which gave his conversation at times the hard sparkle of wit and the -bitter spice of truth. Beyond any doubt, the enormous success of the -Northcliffe press, as it was afterward called, owed a great deal to the -business genius of this man. - -Alfred Harmsworth himself provided the ideas, the policy, the spirit of -the machine. He was the enthusiast, the explorer, and the adventurer, -with the world’s news as his uncharted seas. He had only one test of -what was good to print, “Does this interest Me?” As he was interested, -with the passionate curiosity of a small boy who asks continually -“How?” and “Why?”, in all the elementary aspects of human life, in its -romances and discoveries, its new toys and new fads, its tragedies and -comedies of the more obvious kind, its melodramas and amusements and -personalities, that test was not narrow or one-eyed. The legend grew -that Harmsworth, afterward Northcliffe, had an uncanny sense of public -opinion, and, with his ear to the ground, knew from afar what the -people wanted, and gave it to them. But, in my judgment, he had none of -that subtlety of mind and vision. He had a boyish simplicity, overlaid -by a little cunning and craft. It was not what the public wanted that -was his guiding rule. It was what he wanted. His luck and genius lay in -the combination of qualities which made him typical to a supreme degree -of the average man, as produced by the triviality, the restlessness, -the craving for sensation, the desire to escape from boredom, the -impatience with the length and dullness and difficulty of life and -learning, the habit of taking short cuts to knowledge and judgment, -which characterized that great middle-class public of the world before -the war. - -One method by which Harmsworth impressed his own views and character -on the staff and paper was to hold a daily conference in _The Daily -Mail_ office, which all editors, sub-editors, reporters, special -correspondents, and glorified office boys were expected to attend. -Freedom of speech was granted, and free discussion invited, without -distinction of rank. The man who put a good idea into the pool was -rewarded by Harmsworth’s enthusiastic approbation, while he himself -criticized that day’s paper, pointed out its defects, praised some -article which had caught his fancy, and discussed the leading matter -for next day’s paper. Cigarettes and cigars lay ready to the hand. -Tea was served, daintily. Laughter and jokes brightened this daily -rendezvous, and Harmsworth, at these times, in those early days, was at -his best--easy, boyish, captivating, to some extent inspiring. But it -was an inspiration in the triviality of thought, in the lighter side -of the Puppet Show. Never once did I hear Harmsworth utter one serious -commentary on life, or any word approaching nobility of thought, or any -hint of some deep purpose behind this engine which he was driving with -such splendid zest in its power and efficiency. On the other hand, I -never heard him say a base word or utter an unclean or vicious thought. - -He was very generous at times to those who served him. I know one man -who approached him for a loan of £100. - -He was shocked at the idea. - -“Certainly not! Don’t you know that I never lend money? I wouldn’t do -it if you were starving in the gutter.” - -Then he wrote a cheque for £100, and said, “But I’ll give it to you, my -dear fellow. Say no more about it.” - -Now and again, when he saw one of his “young men” looking pale and run -down, he would pack him off for a holiday in the South of France, with -all his expenses paid. In later years he gave handsome pensions to many -who had served him in the early days. - -He had his court favorites, like the mediæval kings, generally one of -the newcomers who had aroused his enthusiasm by some little “scoop,” -or a brilliant bit of work. But he tired of them quickly, and it was a -dangerous thing to occupy that position, because it was almost certain -to mean a speedy fall. - -For a little while I was one of his favorites. He used to chat with me -in his room and say amusing, indiscreet things, about other members of -the staff, or his numerous brothers. - -I remember his looking up once from his desk where he sat in front of -a bust of Napoleon, to whom he bore a physical resemblance, and upon -whose character and methods with men he closely modeled himself. - -“Gibbs,” he said, “whenever you see a man looking like a codfish -walking about these passages, you’ll know my brother Cecil brought him -in. Then he comes to me to hoik him out again!” - -As temporary favorite, I was invited down to Sutton Court, a -magnificent old mansion of Elizabethan days, in Surrey. It was in the -early days of motoring, and I was taken down in a great car, and back -in another, and felt like an emperor. Harmsworth was a delightful host, -and kept open house during the week-ends, where one heard the latest -newspaper “shop” under the high timbered roof and between the paneled -walls, where the great ladies and gentlemen of England, in silks and -brocades, had dined and danced by candlelight. - -It was here, in the minstrels’ gallery, one afternoon, that Harmsworth -asked me to tell him all about “syndicating,” according to my -experience with the Tillotsons’ syndicate. I told him, and he became -excited. - -“Excellent! I tell you what to do. Go back to _The Daily Mail_ and say -I’ve sacked you. Then go to the South of France with your wife, for -three months. I’ll pay expenses. After that, return to Fleet Street, -where you’ll find an office waiting for you, called ‘the British Empire -Syndicate, Limited.’ Nobody must know that I’m behind it.... How’s that -for a scheme?” - -It seemed to me a pretty good scheme, although I was doubtful whether -I could work it. I temporized, and suggested drawing out the scheme -on paper, more in detail. That disappointed him. He wanted me to say, -“Rather! The chance of a life time!” My hesitation put me into the -class he called, “Yes, but----” I drew up the scheme, but he went for -a visit to Germany, and on his return did not give another thought to -the “British Empire Syndicate, Limited.” Other ideas had absorbed his -interest. - -At the end of a year I saw I was losing favor. An incident happened -which forewarned me of approaching doom. He had returned from another -visit to Germany, and was in a bad temper, believing, as he always did, -that _The Daily Mail_ had gone to the dogs in his absence. He reproved -me sharply for the miserable stuff I had been publishing in Page Four, -and demanded to see what I had got in hand. - -I took down some “plums”--special articles by brilliant and -distinguished men. He glanced through them, and laid them down angrily. - -“Dull as ditchwater! Send them all back!” - -I protested that it was impossible to send them back, as they were all -commissioned. My own honor and honesty were at stake. - -“Send them all back!” he said, with increasing anger. - -I did not send them back, but gave them “snappier” titles. The next -day he sent for me again, and demanded to see what else I proposed to -publish--“not that trash you showed me yesterday!” - -I took down the same articles, with some others. He had more leisure, -read them while he smoked a cigar, and at intervals said, “Good!” ... -“Excellent!” ... “Why didn’t you show these to me yesterday?” - -Needless to say, I did not enlighten him. I was saved that time, but a -few months later I saw other signs of disfavor. - -I remember that at that time I had to see General Booth, the founder -of the Salvation Army, that grand old man for whose humanity and love -I had a great respect, in spite of his methods of conversion, with -scarlet coats and tambourines. He was angry with something I had -written, and was violent in his wrath. But then he forgave me and -talked very gently and wisely of the responsibilities of journalism, -“the greatest power in the world for good or evil.” - -Presently the old man seized me by the wrist with his skinny old hand, -and thrust me down on to my knees. - -“Now let us pray for Alfred Harmsworth,” he said, and offered up -fervent prayer for his wisdom and light. - -I don’t know what effect that prayer had on Harmsworth, but it seemed -to have an immediate effect upon my own fate. I was “sacked” from _The -Daily Mail_. - - - - -VIII - - -After my time on _The Daily Mail_, I joined _The Daily Express_ for a -few months before becoming one of the literary editors of _The Daily -Chronicle_. - -On _The Express_ I came to know Sir Arthur Pearson before the days of -his blindness, and did not admire him so much then (though I liked -him) as in those later years when, by his magnificent courage, and his -devoted service to all the blinded men of the war, he was one of the -truly heroic figures of the world. - -As a newspaper proprietor he was a man of restless energy, but narrower -in his outlook, at that time, than his great rival, Harmsworth, whose -methods he imitated. He was a strong adherent of tariff reform, when -Joseph Chamberlain stumped the country in favor of that policy, which -divided friend from friend, wrecked the amenities of social life, and -started passionate arguments at every dinner table, somewhat in the -same manner that the personality and policy of President Wilson caused -social uproar in the United States, during the Peace Conference. - -Pearson conferred on me the privilege, as I think he considered it, -of recording the progress of the Chamberlain campaign, and it was the -hardest work, I think, apart from war correspondence, that I have ever -done. I do not regret having done it, for it took me into the midst of -one of the biggest political conflicts in English history, led by one -of the most remarkable men. - -My task was to write each night what is called “a descriptive report,” -which means that I had to give the gist of each of Chamberlain’s long -speeches, with their salient points, and at the same time describe the -scenes in and around the hall, besieged everywhere by vast crowds of -opponents and supporters who often came into conflict, Chamberlain’s -methods with his interrupters, and the incidents of the evening. -Pearson often had a place on the platform, near the man for whom he -had a real hero worship, and sent down little notes to me when various -points of importance occurred to him. Always my article had to be -finished within a few minutes of Chamberlain’s peroration, in order to -get it on to the wire for London. - -It was at Newport, in Wales, I remember, that I nearly blighted my -young life by over-sympathy with the sufferings of a fellow mortal. -This was a correspondent of _The Daily Mail_, who had been a most -convinced and passionate free trader. He had written, only a few weeks -before, a series of powerful and crushing articles against tariff -reform, which had duly appeared in _The Daily Mail_, until Harmsworth -announced one morning that he had been talking to his gardener, and had -decided that tariff reform would be a good thing for England. It would -be, therefore, the policy of _The Daily Mail_. - -By a refinement of cruelty which I am sure he did not realize, his -free trade agent was sent down to reveal the glories of tariffs, as -expounded by Chamberlain. It went sorely to the conscience of this -Scot, who asked me plaintively, “How can I resign--with wife and -bairns?” At Newport his distress was acute, owing to the immense -reception of Chamberlain by crowds so dense that one could have walked -over their mass, which was one solid block along the line of route. - -Before the speech that night he stood me a bottle of wine, which -we shared, and he wept over this red liquid at the abomination of -tariffs, the iniquity of _The Daily Mail_, and the conscience of a -correspondent. What that wine was, I cannot tell. It was certainly some -dreadful kind of poison. I had drunk discreetly, but upon entering -the hall, I felt a weight on my head like the dome of St. Paul’s, and -saw the great audience spinning round like an immense revolving Face. -For two hours’ agony I listened to Chamberlain’s speech on tin plates, -wrote things I could not read, and at the end of the meeting, having -thrust my stuff over the counter of the telegraph office, collapsed, -and was very ill. I heard afterward that the free trade Scot was -equally prostrate, but he survived, and in course of time became more -easy in his conscience, and a Knight of the British Empire. - -Toward the end of the campaign I saw that Joseph Chamberlain was -breaking. I watched him closely, and saw signs of mental and physical -paralysis creeping over him. Other people were watching him, with more -anxiety. Mrs. Chamberlain was always on the platform, by his side, in -every town, and her face revealed her own nervous strain. Chamberlain, -“Our Joe,” as his followers called him, lost the wonderful lucidity -of his speech. At times he hesitated, and fumbled over the thread of -his thought. When he was heckled, instead of turning round in his old -style with a rapid, knock-out retort, he paused, became embarrassed, -or stood silent with a strange and tragic air of bewilderment. It was -pitiful toward the end. The strongest force in England was spent and -done. The knowledge that his campaign had failed, that his political -career was broken, as well as the immense fatigue he had undergone, and -the intense effort of his persuasive eloquence, snapped his nerve and -vitality. He was stricken, like President Wilson, one night, and never -recovered. - -In that campaign Chamberlain converted me against himself on the -subject of tariff reform, but I learned to admire the courage, and hard -sledge-hammer oratory of this great Imperialist leader who represented -the old jingo strain of Victorian England, in its narrow patriotism and -rather brutal intolerance, ennobled, to some extent, by old loyalties -and traditions belonging to the sentiment of the British folk. The -very name of Joseph Chamberlain seems remote now in English history, -and the mentality of the English people has outgrown that time when -he was fired by that wave of Imperialism which overtook the country -and produced the genius of Kipling, the aggressive idealism of Cecil -Rhodes, and the Boer War, with its adventures, its Call of the Wild, -its stupidity, its blatant vulgarity, its jolly good fellows, its -immense revelation of military incompetence, and its waste of blood and -treasure. - -After that campaign, I displeased Arthur Pearson by a trivial -difference of opinion. He believed firmly that Bacon wrote -“Shakespeare.” I believed just as firmly that he didn’t. When he asked -me to write up some new aspect of that argument, I flatly refused, and -Pearson was very much annoyed. A little later I resigned my position, -and for some time he did not forgive me. But years later we met again, -and he was generous and kind in the words he spoke about my work. It -was out in France, when he visited the war correspondents’ mess and -went with us into Peronne after its capture by our troops. He was -blind, but more cheerful than when I had known him in his sighted days. -At least he had gained a miraculous victory over his tragic loss, and -would not let it weaken him. That day in Peronne he walked into the -burning ruins, touched the walls of shattered houses, listened to the -silence there, broken by the sound of a gun or two, and the whirr of -an aëroplane overhead. He saw more than I did, and his description -afterward was full of detail and penetrating in its vision. - -We met again, after the war, at a dinner in New York, when he spoke of -the work of St. Dunstan’s, which he had founded for blinded men. It -was one of the most beautiful speeches I have ever heard--I think the -most beautiful--and there was not one of us there, in a gathering of -American journalists and business men, who did not give all the homage -in his heart to this great leader of the blind. - -As one of the literary editors of _The Daily Chronicle_, I had a -good deal of experience of the inside of newspaper life, and, on the -whole, some merry times. The hours were long, for I used to get to the -office shortly after ten, and, more often than not, did not leave till -midnight. Having charge of the magazine page, which at that time was -illustrated by black and white drawings, I was responsible for the work -of three artists, alleged to be tame, but with a strain of wildness at -times, which was manifested by wrestling bouts, when all of us were -found writhing on the floor in what looked like a death struggle, -when the door was opened by the office boy or some less distinguished -visitor. One of them was Edgar Lander, generally known as “Uncle” in -the Press Club, and in Bohemian haunts down Chelsea way. Endowed with -a cynical sense of humor, a gift for lightning repartee which dealt -knock-out blows with the sure touch of Carpentier, and a prodigious -memory for all the characters of fiction in modern and classical works, -he gave a good lead to conversation in the large room over the clock -in Fleet Street where we had our workshop. Another of the artists was -Alfred Priest, afterward well known as a portrait painter, and three -times infamous in the Royal Academy as the painter of “the picture of -the year.” He was, and is, a philosophical and argumentative soul, -and Lander and he used to trail their coats before each other, in a -metaphorical way, with enormous conversational results, which sometimes -ended in violence on both sides. The third artist, nominally under my -control, but like the others, entirely out of it, was Stephen Reid, -whom I have always regarded as a master craftsman of the black and -white art, which he has now abandoned for historical painting. A -shrewd Scotsman also with a lively sense of humor, he kept the balance -between his two colleagues, and roared with laughter at both of them. - -We were demons for work, although we talked so much, and the page we -produced day by day was, by general consensus of opinion, I think, -the best of its kind in English journalism. We gave all our time and -all our energy to the job, and I suppose there are few editors in the -world, and few artists, who have ever been seen staggering down Fleet -Street, as once Alfred Priest and myself might have been observed, -one midnight, carrying a solid block of metal weighing something like -half a hundredweight, in order that our page might appear next day. -That was a full-page block with text and pictures, representing some -great floods in England in which we had been wading all day. We were -so late in getting back with our work that the only chance of getting -it into the paper was to act as porters from the blockmakers to _The -Daily Chronicle_ press. We nearly broke our backs, but if it had been -too late for the paper we should have broken our hearts. Such is the -enthusiasm of youth--ill rewarded in this case, as in others, because -the three artists were sacked when black and white drawings gave way to -photography. Afterward Edgar Lander of my “three musketeers” lost the -use of his best arm in the Great War, where, by his old name of “Uncle” -and the rank of Captain, he served in France, and gave the gift of -laughter to his crowd. - -In those good old days of _The Daily Chronicle_, long before the -war, there was a considerable sporting spirit, inspired by the news -editor, Ernest Perris, who is now the managing editor, with greater -gravity. Perris, undoubtedly the best news editor in London, was very -human in quiet times, although utterly inhuman, or rather, superhuman, -when there was a “world scoop” in progress. It was he who challenged -Littlewood, the dramatic critic, to a forty-mile walk for a £10 bet, -and afterward, at the same price, anybody who cared to join in. I was -foolishly beguiled into that adventure, when six of us set out one -morning at six o’clock, from the Marble Arch to Aylesbury--a measured -forty miles. We were all utterly untrained, and “Robin” Littlewood, the -dramatic critic, singularly like Will Shakespeare in form and figure, -refused to let his usual hearty appetite interfere with his athletic -contest. It was a stop for five-o’clock tea which proved his undoing, -for although he arrived at Aylesbury, he was third in the race, so -losing his £10, and was violently sick in the George Inn. Perris was an -easy first, and I was a bad second. I remember that at the thirtieth -mile I became dazed and silly, and was seen by people walking like a -ghost and singing the nursery rhymes of childhood. That night when -the six returned by train to London, they were like old, old men, and -so crippled that I, for one, had to be carried up the steps of Baker -Street Station. - -Another hobby of Perris’s was amateur boxing, and I had an office -reputation of knowing something of the science of that art, as I had a -young brother who boxed for Oxford. - -Perris, after various sparring bouts in which he had given bloody noses -to sub-editors and others, challenged in mortal combat my friend Eddy, -whom I have already introduced in this narrative. There had been some -temperamental passages between the news editor and this young writer, -so that, if the conflict took place, it would be lively. I acted as -Eddy’s second in the matter, and assuming immense scientific knowledge, -coached him as to the right methods of attack. At least I urged upon -him the necessity of aggressive action in the first round, because if -he once gave Perris a chance of hitting out, Eddy would certainly be -severely damaged, for Perris is a big man with a clean-shaven face of -a somewhat pugilistic type, and with a large-sized fist. - -This little meeting between the news editor and his chief reporter -aroused considerable interest in the office, and some betting. Quite a -little crowd had collected in the sub-editorial room for the event. It -was not of long duration. At the words, “Time, gentlemen,” Eddy, heroic -as any man inspired by anxiety, made an immediate assault upon Perris, -like a swift over-arm bowler, and by a fluke of chance, landed the news -editor a fearful blow on the head. It dazed him, but Eddy was not to -be denied, and continued his attack with the ferocity of a man-eating -tiger, until Perris collapsed.... After that, with greedy appetite for -blood, he made mincemeat of a young man named “Boy” Jones, who asked -for trouble and got it. - -These little episodes behind the scenes of life in Fleet Street kept up -the spirits and humor of men who, as a rule, worked hard and long each -day, and were always at the mercy of the world’s news, which sent them -off upon strange errands in the Street of Adventure, or tied them to -the desk, like slaves of the galleys. - -My next experience in editorship was when I was appointed literary -editor of a new daily paper called _The Tribune_, the history of which -is one of the romantic tragedies of Fleet Street. - -Its founder and proprietor was a very tall, handsome, and melancholy -young man named Franklin Thomasson, who came from that city of Bolton -in the Black Country where I had been managing editor of the Tillotson -Syndicate. He had the misfortune of being one of the richest young men -in England, as the son of an old cotton spinner who had built up the -largest cotton mills in Lancashire. It was, I believe, a condition -of his will that his son should establish a London journal in the -Liberal interest. Anyhow, Franklin Thomasson, who was an idealist of -that faith, started _The Tribune_ as a kind of sacred duty which he -had inherited with his money. He appointed as his editor-in-chief a -worthy old journalist of an old-fashioned type, named William Hill, -who had previously been a news editor of _The Westminster Gazette_, an -excellent evening paper with only one defect--it did not publish news. -At least, it was not for any kind of news that people bought it, but -entirely for the political philosophy of its editor, J. A. Spender, -who was the High Priest of the Liberal Faith, and for the brilliant -cartoons of “F.C.G.,” who did more to kill Chamberlain and tariffs than -any other power in England. - -There were many people of knowledge and experience who warned Franklin -Thomasson of the costly adventure of a new daily paper in London. -Augustine Birrell, disastrous failure as Chief Secretary for Ireland, -but distinguished for all time as a genial scholar and essayist, was -one of them. I went to see him with William Hill, and toward the end -of the interview, in which he was asked to become a kind of literary -godfather to the new venture, he said to Franklin Thomasson, with a -twinkle in his eyes, - -“My dear Thomasson, I knew your father, and had a high respect for him. -For his sake I advise you that if you pay £100,000 into my bank as a -free gift, and do _not_ start _The Tribune_, you will save a great deal -of money!” - -It was a prophecy that was only too truly fulfilled, for before -Thomasson was through his troubles, he had lost £300,000. - -A very brilliant staff of assistant editors and reporters was engaged -by William Hill--many of the most brilliant journalists in England, and -some of the worst. Among them (I will not say in which category) was -myself, but at the first assembly of editors before the publication of -the paper, I received a moral shock. - -I encountered a next-door-neighbor of mine, named Hawke, who had been -a colleague of mine on _The Daily Chronicle_. - -I greeted him with pleasure, and surprise. - -“Hullo, Hawke, what are you doing here?” - -“I’m literary editor,” he said. “What are you?” - -“That’s funny!” I replied. “I happen to be literary editor of this -paper!” - -William Hill had appointed two literary editors, to be perfectly on -the safe side. He had also appointed two news editors. Whether the two -news editors settled the dispute by assassination, I do not know. Only -one functioned. But Hawke and I agreed to divide the job, which we did -in the friendliest way, Hawke controlling the reviews of books, and I -editing the special articles, stories, and other literary contents of -the paper. - -It was started with a tremendous flourish of trumpets in the way of -advance publicity. On the first day of publication, London was startled -by the appearance of all the omnibus horses and cart horses caparisoned -in white sheets bearing the legend “Read _The Tribune_.” Unfortunately -it was a wet and stormy day, and before an hour or two had passed, the -white mantles were splashed with many gobs of mud, and waved wildly -as dirty rags above the backs of the unfortunate animals, or dangled -dejectedly about their legs. A night or two before publication, a grand -reception was given, regardless of expense, to an immense gathering of -political and literary personalities. The walls of _The Tribune_ office -were entirely covered with hothouse flowers, and baskets of orchids -hung from the ceilings. Wine flowed like water, and historical truth -compels me to confess that some members of the new staff were overcome -by enthusiasm for this rich baptism of the new paper. One young -gentleman, very tall and eloquent, fell as gracefully as a lily at the -feet of Augustine Birrell. Another, when the guests were gone, resented -some fancied impertinence from the commissionaire, and knocked him -through the telephone box. One of the office boys, unaccustomed to -champagne, collapsed in a state of coma and was put in the lift for -metal plates and carried aloft to the machine room. Long after all the -guests had gone, and Franklin Thomasson himself had returned home, -another gentleman in high authority on the organizing side was so -melted with the happy influences of the evening that his heart expanded -with human brotherly love for the night wanderers of London who had -been attracted by the lights and music in _The Tribune_ office, and -he invited them to carry off the baskets of orchids in the hall, as a -slight token of his affection and sympathy. Indeed, his generosity was -so unbounded that he made them a gift of the hall clock--a magnificent -timepiece with chimes like St. Paul’s Cathedral--and they were about -to depart with it, praising God for this benevolence, when Franklin -Thomasson, who had been summoned back by telephone, arrived on the -scene to save his property and restore discipline. - -It was, of course, only a few Bohemian souls who were carried away by -the excitement of that baptismal night. Generally speaking, the staff -of _The Tribune_ was made up of men of high and serious character, -whose chief fault, indeed, was to err rather much on the side of -abstract idealism and the gravity of philosophical faith. - -We produced a paper which was almost too good for a public educated in -the new journalism of the Harmsworth school, with its daily sensations, -its snippety articles, its “stunt” stories. We were long, and serious, -and “high-brow,” and--to tell the truth--dull. The public utterly -refused to buy _The Tribune_. Nothing that we could do would tempt -them to buy it. As literary editor of special articles and stories, I -bought some of the most brilliant work of the best writers in England. -I published one of Rudyard Kipling’s short stories--a gem--but it -did not increase the circulation of _The Tribune_ by a single copy. -I published five chapters of autobiography by Joseph Conrad--a -literary masterpiece--but it did not move the sales. I persuaded G. K. -Chesterton to contribute a regular article; I published the work of -many great novelists, and encouraged the talent of the younger school; -but entirely without success. It was desperately disappointing, and -I am convinced that the main cause of our failure was the surfeit of -reading matter we gave each day to a public which had no leisure for -such a mass of print, however good its quality. The appearance of the -paper, owing to the lack of advertisements, was heavy and dull, and -any bright and light little articles were overshadowed among the long, -bleak columns. - -A new editor, belonging to the Harmsworth school, a charming little man -named S. G. Pryor, succeeded William Hill, but his attempts to convert -_The Tribune_ into a kind of _Daily Mail_ offended our small clientele -of serious readers, without attracting the great public. - -After two years of disastrous failure, Franklin Thomasson, who by that -time had lost something like £300,000, decided to cut his losses, and -the news leaked out among his staff of over eight hundred men that -the ship was sinking. It was a real tragedy for those men who had -left good jobs to join _The Tribune_, and who saw themselves faced -with unemployment, and even ruin and starvation for their wives and -families. Some of us made desperate endeavors to postpone the sentence -of death by introducing new capital. - -One of my colleagues journeyed to Dublin in the hope of persuading -Augustine Birrell to obtain government support for this Liberal organ. - -He sent a somewhat startling telegram to Birrell at Dublin Castle. - -“The lives of eight hundred men with their wives and children depend -on the interview which I beg you to grant me to-day.” - -Birrell was surprised, and granted the interview. - -“Mr. Birrell,” said my grave and melancholy friend, placing a hat of -high and noble architecture on the great man’s desk, “is _The Tribune_ -going to die?” - -“Sir,” said Mr. Birrell, twinkling through his eyeglasses, “may _The -Tribune_ die that death it so richly deserves.” - -I succeeded in holding up the sentence of doom for another fortnight, -by the sportsmanship of a gallant old lady named the Countess of -Carlisle. We had been conducting a temperance crusade which had earned -her warm approval, and for the sake of that cause and her Liberal -idealism, she offered to guarantee the men’s wages until the paper -might be sold. - -But it was never sold. The fatal night came when Franklin Thomasson, -white and distressed, but resolute, faced his staff with the dreadful -announcement that that was the last night. One man fainted. Several -wept. Outside the printers waited in the hope that at this twelfth hour -some stroke of luck would avert this great misfortune. To them it was a -question of bread and butter for wives and babes. - -That luck stroke did not happen. - -With several colleagues I waited, smoking and talking, after the -sentence had been pronounced. It seemed impossible to believe that _The -Tribune_ was dead. It was more than the death of an abstract thing, -more than the collapse of a business enterprise. Something of ourselves -had died with it, our hopes and endeavors, our work of brain and heart. -A newspaper is a living organism, threaded through with the nerves of -men and women, inspired by their spirit, animated by their ideals and -thought, the living vehicle of their own adventure of life. So _The -Tribune_ seemed to us then, in that last hour, when we looked back on -our labor and comradeship, our laughter, our good times together on -“the rag,” as we had called it. - -Long after midnight I left the office for the last time, with -that friend of mine who had gone to Augustine Birrell, a tall, -melancholy-mannered, Georgian-looking man, whose tall hat was a noble -specimen of old-fashioned type. - -The brilliant lights outside the office suddenly went out. It was like -the sinking of the ship. My friend said, “Dead! Dead!” and lifted his -hat as in the presence of death. - - - - -IX - - -After the downfall of _The Tribune_ there was a period of suffering, -anxiety, and in some cases despair, for many of the men who had held -positions on that paper. One good fellow committed suicide. Others fell -into grievous debt while waiting like Mr. Micawber for something to -turn up. Fleet Street is a cruel highway for out-of-work journalists, -and as so many were turned out into the street together it was -impossible for all of them to be absorbed by other newspapers, already -fully staffed. - -There were rendezvous of disconsolate comrades in the Press Club -or Anderton’s Hotel, where they greeted each other with the gloomy -inquiry, “Got anything yet?” and then, smoking innumerable cigarettes, -in lieu, sometimes, of more substantial nourishment, cursed the -cruelty of life, the abominable insecurity of journalism, and their -own particular folly in entering that ridiculous, heartbreaking, -soul-destroying career.... One by one, in course of time, they found -other jobs down the same old street. - -I determined to abandon regular journalism altogether, and to become -a “literary gent” in the noblest meaning of the words, and anyhow a -free lance. I have always regarded journalism as merely a novitiate -for real literature, a training school for life and character, from -which I might gain knowledge and inspiration for great novels, as -Charles Dickens had done. My ambition, at that time, was limitless, -and I expected genius to break out in me at any moment. Oh, Youth! -Here, then, was my chance, now that I was free from the fetters of the -journalistic prison house. - -With a wealth of confidence and hope, but very little capital of a -more material kind, I took a cottage at the seashore for a month and -departed there with my wife and small boy. It was a coast-guard’s -cottage at Littlehampton, looking on to the sea and sand, and -surrounded by a fence one foot high, like the doll’s house it was. -There, in a tiny room, filled with the murmur of the sea, and the -vulgar songs of seaside Pierrots, I wrote my novel, _The Street of -Adventure_, in which I told, in the guise of fiction, the history -of _The Tribune_ newspaper, and gave a picture of the squalor, -disappointment, adventure, insecurity, futility, and good comradeship -of Fleet Street. - -It was much to be desired that this novel of mine should be a success. -Even my wife’s humorous contentment with poverty, which has always been -a saving grace in my life, did not eliminate the need of a certain -amount of ready money. _The Street of Adventure_, my most successful -novel, cost me more than I earned. In the first place, it narrowly -escaped total oblivion, which would have saved me great anxiety and -considerable expense. After leaving the coast-guard’s cottage at -Littlehampton, with my manuscript complete--150,000 words in one -month--I had to change trains at Guildford to get to London from some -other place. My thoughts were so busy with the story I had written, -and with the fortune that awaited me by its success, that I left the -manuscript on the mantelpiece in the waiting room of Guildford Station, -and did not discover my loss until I had been in London some hours. It -seemed--for five minutes of despair--like the loss of my soul. Never -should I have had the courage to rewrite that novel which had cost so -much labor and so much nervous emotion. Despairingly I telegraphed -to the station master, and my joy was great when, two hours later, I -received his answer: “Papers found.” Little did I then know that if he -had used them to brighten his fire I should have been saved sleepless -nights and unpleasant apprehensions. - -It was accepted and published by William Heinemann, on a royalty basis, -and it was gloriously reviewed. But almost immediately I received -a writ of libel from one of my friends and colleagues on the late -_Tribune_, and sinister rumors reached me that Franklin Thomasson, the -proprietor, and six other members of the staff were consulting their -solicitors on the advisability of taking action against me. I saw -ruin staring me in the face. My fanciful narrative had not disguised -carefully enough the actuality of the _Tribune_ and its staff. My fancy -portraits and amiable caricatures had been identified, and could not be -denied. Fortunately only one writ was actually presented and proceeded -with, against myself and Heinemann, but the book was withdrawn from -circulation at a time when the reviews were giving it columns of -publicity, and it was killed stone dead--though later it had a merry -resurrection. - -The man who took a libel action against me was the character who in -my book is called Christopher Codrington, the same young man who had -lifted his hat when the lights went out and said, “Dead! Dead!” He and -I had been good friends, and I believed, and still believe, that my -portrait of him was a very agreeable and fanciful study of his amiable -peculiarities--his Georgian style of dress, his gravity of speech, -his Bohemianism. But he resented that portrait, and was convinced -that I had grossly maligned him. The solicitors employed by myself -and Heinemann to prepare the defense piled up the usual bill of costs -(and I had to pay the publisher’s share as well as my own), so that -by the time the case was ready to come into court I knew that, win or -lose, I should have some pretty fees to pay. It never came into court. -A few days before the case was due, I met “Christopher Codrington” in -Fleet Street! We paused, hesitated, raised our hats solemnly, and then -laughed (we had always been much amused with each other). - -“What about some lunch together?” I suggested. - -“It would never do,” he answered. “In a few days we shall be engaged in -a legal duel.” - -“Meanwhile one must eat,” I remarked casually. - -He agreed. - -We had a good luncheon at The Cock in Fleet Street. I had the honor -of paying for it. We discussed our chances in the libel action. -Christopher Codrington said he had a “clear case.” He emphasized the -damnably incriminating passages. I argued that he would only make -himself ridiculous by identifying himself with my pleasantries and -giving them a sinister twist. We parted in a friendly, courteous way, -as two gentlemen who would cross swords later in the week. - -When my solicitors heard that we two had lunched together, they threw -up their hands in amazement. - -“The two principals in a libel action! And the one who alleges libel -allows the other to pay for his lunch! The case collapses!” - -They were shocked that the law should be treated with such levity. It -almost amounted to contempt. - -That evening I called on “Christopher Codrington” and explained the -grievous lapse of etiquette we had both committed. He was disconcerted. -He was also magnanimous. I obtained his signature to a document -withdrawing the action, and we shook hands in token of mutual affection -and esteem.... But all my royalties on the sales of the novel, -afterward reissued in cheap form, went to pay Heinemann’s bill and -mine, and my most successful novel earned for me the sum of £25 until -it had a second birth in the United States, after the war. - -I knew after that the wear and tear, the mental distress, the financial -uncertainty that befell a free lance in search of fame and fortune, -when those mocking will-o’-the-wisps lead him through the ditches of -disappointment and the thickets of ill luck. How many hundreds of times -did I pace the streets of London in those days, vainly seeking the plot -of a short story, and haunted by elusive characters who would not fit -into my combination of circumstances, ending at four thousand words -with a dramatic climax! How many hours I have spent glued to a seat -in Kensington Gardens, working out literary triangles with a husband -and wife and the third party, two men and a woman, two women and a -man, and finding only a vicious circle of hopeless imbecility! At such -times one’s nerves get “edgy” and one’s imagination becomes feverish -with effort, so that the more desperately one chases an idea, the more -resolutely it eludes one. It is like the disease of sleeplessness. The -more one tries to sleep, the more wakeful one becomes. Then the free -lance, having at last captured a good idea, having lived with it and -shaped it with what sense of truth and beauty is in his heart, carries -it like a precious gem to the market place. Alas, there is no bidder! -Or the price offered insults his sensitive pride, and mocks at his -butcher’s bill. It is “too good,” writes a kindly editor. “It is hardly -in our style,” writes a courteous one. It is “not quite convincing,” -writes a critical one.... It is bad to be a free lance in this period, -when fortune hides. It is worse to be the free lance’s wife. His -absent-mindedness becomes a disease. - -(I remember posting twenty-two letters with twenty-two stamps, but -separately, letters first and stamps next, in the red mouth of the -pillar box!) - -His moods of despair when his pen won’t write a single lucky word give -an atmosphere of neurasthenia to the house. He becomes irritable, -uncourteous, unkind, because, poor devil, he believes that he has lost -his touch and his talent, upon which this woman’s life depends, as well -as his own. - -My life as a free lance was not devoid of those periods of morbid -depression, and yet, on the whole, I was immensely lucky, compared with -many other beggars of my craft. It was seldom that I couldn’t find -some kind of a market for my wares, and I had an industry--I can at -least boast of that, whatever the quality of my pen--which astonishes -myself when I look back upon those days. I was also gifted to this -extent--that I had the journalistic instinct of writing “brightly” on -almost any subject in which I could grab at a few facts, and I could -turn my pen to many different aspects of life and letters, which held -for me always fresh and enthusiastic interest. Not high qualities, but -useful to a young man in the capture of the fleeting guinea. - -I worked hard, and I enjoyed my toil. While earning bread and butter by -special articles and short stories, I devoted much time and infinite -labor to the most unprofitable branch of literature, which is history, -and my first love. Goodness knows how many books I read in order to -produce my _Men and Women of the French Revolution_, published in -magnificent style, with a superb set of plates from contemporary -prints, and almost profitless to me. - -It was by casual acquaintance with one of the queer old characters of -London that I obtained the use of those plates. He was a dear, dirty -old gentleman, who had devoted his whole life to print collecting and -had one of the finest collections in England. He lived in an old house -near Clerkenwell, which was just a storehouse for these engravings, -mezzotints, woodcuts, and colored prints of the eighteenth century. -He kept them in bundles, in boxes, in portfolios, wherever there was -floor space, chair space, and table space. To reach his desk, where -he sat curled up in a swivel chair, one had to step over a barricade -of those bundles. At meal times he threw crumbs to the mice who were -his only companions, except an old housekeeper, and whenever the need -of money became pressing, as it did in his latter years, he used to -take out a print, sigh over it as at the parting of an old friend, and -trot round to one of the London print sellers who would “cash it” like -a cheque.... I think I made £150 out of _Men and Women of the French -Revolution_, and my best reward was to see it, years later, in the -windows of the Paris bookshops. That gave me a real thrill of pride and -pleasure.... - -I made less than £150 by my life of George Villiers, Duke of -Buckingham, one of the most romantic characters in English history, -and strangely unknown, except for Scott’s portrait in _The Fortunes of -Nigel_, and the splendid figure drawn by Alexandre Dumas in _The Three -Musketeers_, until, with prodigious labor, which was truly a labor of -love, I extracted from old papers and old letters the real life story -of this man, and the very secrets of his heart, more romantic, and more -fascinating, in actual fact, than the fiction regarding him by those -two great masters. - -I think it was £80 that I was paid for _King’s Favorite_, in which -again I searched the folios of the past for light on one of the most -astounding mysteries in English history--the murder of Sir Thomas -Overbury by the Earl of Somerset and the Countess of Essex--and -discovered a plot with kings and princes, great lords and ladies, -bishops and judges, poisoners, witch doctors, cutthroats and poets, as -hideously wicked as in one of Shakespeare’s tragedies. I was immensely -interested in this work. I gained gratifying praise from scholars and -critics. But I kept myself poor for knowledge sake. History does not -pay--unless it is a world history by H. G. Wells. Never mind! I had a -good time in writing it, and do not begrudge the labor. - -My book on George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, brought me the -friendship of the very noble and charming family of the Earl and -Countess of Denbigh. Lord Denbigh is the descendant of Susan -Villiers--the sister of George Villiers--who married the first Earl of -Denbigh, and he has in his possession the original letters written by -the Duke of Buckingham to his devoted wife, and her beautiful letters -to him, as well as a mass of other correspondence of great historical -value. Lord Denbigh invited me down to Newnham Paddox, his lovely -Warwickshire home, founded by his ancestors in the reign of James I, -and in the long gallery I saw the famous VanDyck portraits of the -Duke of Buckingham, the “hero” of my book, which have now been sold, -with other priceless treasures, when war and after-war taxation have -impoverished this old family, like so many others in England to-day. -I always look back to those visits I paid to Newnham Paddox as to a -picture of English life, before so much of its sunshine was eclipsed -by the cost and sacrifice of that great tragedy. They were a large -and happy family in that old house, with three sons and a crowd of -beautiful girls, as frank and merry and healthy in body and soul as -Shakespeare’s Beatrice and Katherine, Rosamond and Celia. I remember -them playing tennis below the broad terrace with its climbing flowers, -and the sound of their laughter that came ringing across the court -when Lady Dorothy leapt the net, or Lady Marjorie took a flying jump -at a high ball. On a Sunday afternoon they captured some tremendous -cart horses, grazing on the day of rest, mounted them without reins -or bridle, rode them astride, charged each other like knights at a -tourney, fearless and free, while Lady Denbigh laughed joyously at -the sight of their romps. There was an exciting rat hunt in an old -barn, which was nearly pulled down to get at the rats.... No one saw -a shadow creeping close to those sunlit lawns, to touch the lives of -this English family and all others. They played the good game of life -in pre-war England. They played the game of life and death with equal -courage when war turned Newnham Paddox into a hospital and called upon -those boys and girls for service and sacrifice. The eldest son, Lord -Feilding, was an officer in the Guards, and badly wounded. Two of the -boys were killed, one in the Army, one in the Navy. Lady Dorothy led -an ambulance convoy in Belgium, and I met her there when she was under -fire, constantly, in ruined towns and along sinister, shell-broken -roads, injecting morphia into muddy, bloody men, just picked up from -the fields and ditches, crying aloud in agony. Lady Denbigh herself -wore out her health and spirit, and died soon after the Armistice. It -was the record of many families like that, who gave all they had for -England’s sake. - -During that time of free lancing I enlarged my list of acquaintances -by friendly encounter with some of the great ones of the world, its -passing notorieties, and its pleasant and unpleasant people. - -In the first class was that curious old gentleman, the Duke of Argyll, -husband of Princess Louise. As poor as a church mouse, he was given -house-room in Kensington Palace, where I used to take tea with him now -and then, and discuss literature, politics, and history, of which he -had a roving knowledge. I was a neighbor of his, living at that time -in what I verily believe was the smallest house in London, at Holland -Street, Kensington, and it used to amuse me to step out of my doll’s -house, with or without eighteenpence in my pocket, and walk five -hundred yards to the white portico on the west side of the old red -brick palace, to take tea with a Royal duke. The poor old gentleman -was so bored with himself that I think he would have invited a tramp -to tea, for the sake of a little conversation, but for the austere -supervision of Princess Louise, of whom he stood in awe. As the Marquis -of Lorne, and one of the handsomest young men in England, he had gained -something of a reputation as a poet and essayist. His poetry in later -years was ponderously bad, but he wrote idealistic essays which had -some touch of style and revealed a mind above the average in nobility -of purpose. - -As an editor I had bought some of his literary productions, and had put -a number of useful guineas into the old man’s pockets, so that he had a -high esteem for me, as a man with immense power in the press, though, -as a free lance, I had none. - -This acquaintanceship startled some of my brother journalists on the -day of King Edward’s funeral at Windsor Castle. The Duke of Argyll -was a grand figure that day, in a magnificent uniform, with the Order -of the Garter, decorations thick upon his breast, and a great plumed -hat. After the ceremony, standing among a crowd of princes, he hailed -me, and walked arm in arm with me along the ramparts. I felt somewhat -embarrassed at this distinction, especially as I was in the full gaze -of my comrades of Fleet Street, who stood at a little distance. They -saw the humor of the situation when I gave them a friendly wink, but -afterward accused me of unholy “swank.” - -It was about this time that I came to know Beerbohm Tree, in many ways -the greatest, and in more ways the worst, of our English actors. He was -playing Caliban in “The Tempest” when I sought an interview with him on -the subject of Shakespeare. - -“Shakespeare!... Shakespeare!” he said, leering at me with a beastlike -face, according to the part he was playing, and clawing himself with -apelike hands. “I seem to have heard that name. Is there anything I can -say about him? No, there is nothing. I’ve said all I know a thousand -times, and more than I know more times than that.” - -He could think of nothing to say about Shakespeare, but suggested that -I should run away and write what I liked. I did, and it was at least -a year before the article was published in a series of provincial -papers, a long article in which I wrote all that I thought Tree ought -to say, if he loved Shakespeare with anything like my own passion. - -One evening I received a long telegram from him. - -“Honor me by accepting two stalls any night at His Majesty’s and kindly -call on me between the acts.” - -I accepted the invitation, wondering at its effusiveness. When I called -on him, he was playing Brutus, and clasped my hand as though he loved -me. - -“Little do you know the service you have done me,” he said. “My -secretary told me the other night that I was booked for a lecture on -Shakespeare at the Regent Street Polytechnic. I had forgotten it. I had -nothing prepared. It was a dreadful nuisance. I said ‘I won’t go.’ He -said, ‘I’m afraid you must.’ ... Two minutes later a bundle of press -cuttings was brought to me. It contained your interview with me on the -subject of Shakespeare. I read it with delight. I had no idea I had -said all those things. What a memory you must have! I took the paper to -the Polytechnic, and delivered my lecture, by reading it word for word.” - -After that I met Tree many times and he never forgot that little -service. In return he invited me to the Garrick Club, or to his great -room at the top of His Majesty’s, and told me innumerable anecdotes -which were vastly entertaining. He had a rich store of them, and told -them with a ripe humor and dramatic genius which revealed him at his -best. His acting was marred by affectations that became exasperating, -and sometimes by loss of memory and sheer carelessness. I have seen him -actually asleep on the stage. It was when he played the part of Fagin -in “Oliver Twist,” and in a scene where he had to sit crouched below a -bridge, waiting for Bill Sikes, he dozed off, wakened with a start, and -missed his cue. - -Tree’s egotism was almost a disease, and in his last years his -vanity and pretentiousness obscured his real genius. He was a great -old showman, and at rehearsals it was remarkable how he could pull -a crowd together and build up a big picture or intensify a dramatic -moment by some touch of “business.” But he played to the gallery all -the time, and made a pantomime of Shakespeare--to the horror of the -Germans when he appeared in Berlin! They would not tolerate him, and -were scandalized that such liberties should be taken with Shakespearian -drama, which they have adopted as their own. - -Another great figure of the stage whom I met behind the scenes was -Sarah Bernhardt, when she appeared at the Coliseum in London. She took -the part of Adrienne Lecouvreur, in which she was an unconscionable -time a-dying, after storms of agony and mad passion. I had an -appointment to meet her in her room after the play, and slipped round -behind the scenes before she left the stage. Her exit was astonishing -and touching. The whole company of the Coliseum and its variety -show--acrobats, jugglers, “funny” men, dancing girls, “star turns”--had -lined up in a double row to await this Queen of Tragedy, with homage. -As she came off the stage, George Robey, with his red nose and -ridiculous little hat, gravely offered his arm, with the air of Walter -Raleigh in the presence of Queen Elizabeth. She leaned heavily on his -arm, and almost collapsed in the chair to which he led her. She was -panting after her prolonged display of agony before the footlights, and -for a moment I thought she was really dying. - -I bent over her and said in French that I regretted she was so much -fatigued. My words angered her instantly, as though they reflected upon -her age. - -“Sir,” she said harshly, “I was as much fatigued when I first played -that scene--was it thirty years ago, or forty?--I have forgotten. It is -the exhaustion of art, and not of nature.” - - - - -X - - -As a special correspondent of _The Daily Chronicle_ (after a spell of -free-lance work) I went abroad a good deal on various missions, and -occasionally took charge of the Paris office in the absence of Martin -Donohue who held that post but was frequently away on some adventure in -other countries. - -I came to know and to love Paris, by day and night, on both sides of -the Seine, and in all its quarters, rich and poor. To me it is still -the most attractive city in the world, and I have an abiding passion -for its ghosts, its beauty, and its people. To “feel” Paris one must -be steeped in the history and literature of France, so that one walks, -not lonely, but as a haunted man along the rue St. Honoré, where Danton -lived, and where Robespierre closed his shutters when Marie Antoinette -passed on her tumbril; in the Palais Royal, where Camille Desmoulins -plucked leaves from the trees and stuck them in his hat as a green -cockade; in the great nave of Notre Dame, where a thousand years of -faith, passion, tragedy, glory, touch one’s spirit, closely, as one’s -hand touches its old stones; across the Pont Neuf, where Henry met his -murderer, and where all Paris passed, with its heroes, cutthroats, -and fair women; on the left bank, by the bookstalls, where poets -and scholars roved, with hungry stomachs and eager minds; up in the -Quartier Latin, where centuries of student life have paced by the old -gray walls, and where wild youth has lived its short dream of love, -quaffed its heady wine, laughed at life and death; up the mountain of -Montmartre where _apaches_ used to lurk in the darkness, and Vice wore -the false livery of Joy; in the Luxembourg Gardens, where a world of -lovers have walked, hand in hand, while children played, and birds -twittered, and green buds grew to leaf, which faded and fell as love -grew old and died. - -Paris is nothing but an exhibition of architecture and a good shopping -place, unless one has walked arm in arm with D’Artagnan, seen the great -Cardinal pass in his robes, stood behind the arras when Marguérite -de Valois supped with her lover, wandered the cold streets o’ nights -with François Villon, listened to the songs of Ronsard, passed across -the centuries to the salons of Madame de Deffand and Madame Geoffrin, -supped with the Encyclopædists, and heard the hoarse laughter of the -mobs when the head of the Princesse de Lamballe was paraded on a pike, -and the fairest heads of France fell under the knife into the basket of -the guillotine. It was Dumas, Victor Hugo, Erckmann-Chatrian, Eugène -Sue, Murger, Guy de Maupassant, Michelet’s “France,” and odd bits of -reading in French history, fiction, and poetry, which gave me the -atmosphere of Paris, and revealed in its modernity, even in its most -squalid aspects, a background of romance. - -So it has been with millions of others to whom Paris is an enchanted -city. But, as a journalist, I had the chance to get behind the scenes -of life in Paris, and to put romance to the test of reality. - -One of my earliest recollections of Paris was when I went there for a -fortnight with my wife, in the first year of our marriage, on savings -from my majestic income of £120 a year. We stayed in a little hotel -called the Hôtel du Dauphin, in the rue St. Roch--where Napoleon fired -his “whiff of grapeshot”--and explored the city and all its museums -with untiring delight, although at that time, during the Dreyfus trial -and the Fashoda crisis, England was so unpopular that we--obviously -English--were actually insulted in the streets. (It was before the -Entente Cordiale!) - -One little show was unusual in its character. A fool named Jules -Guérin, wanted by the police for not paying his rates, or something of -the kind, fortified his house in the rue Chabrol, and defied the whole -armed might of Paris to fetch him out. It was a kind of Sidney Street -affair, for he was armed with an automatic pistol and fired at any -policeman who approached. M. Lépine, the prefect, decided to besiege -him and starve him out, and when my wife and I wedged our way through -vast crowds, we found the rue Chabrol surrounded by a veritable army of -gendarmes. No one was allowed down the street, to the great annoyance -of my wife, who desired to see Jules Guérin. - -While we were talking together, a woman plucked my wife’s sleeve and -said in French, “You want to see Guérin?... Come with me.” - -She led us down a number of narrow passages beyond the police cordon -until, suddenly, we came into the very center of the deserted street. - -“Voilà!” said the woman. “Vous voyez l’imbécile!” - -She pointed to an upper window, and there, sure enough, was the -“imbecile,” Guérin, a sinister-looking fellow with a black beard, with -a large revolver very much in evidence. My wife laughed at him, and he -looked very much annoyed.... It was a full week before he surrendered -to the law. - -One of the most interesting times I had in Paris was when the -Confédération Générale de Travail, under the leadership of Jean Jaurès, -declared a general strike against the government of Aristide Briand. -It was a trial of strength between those two men, who had once been -comrades in the extreme Left of revolutionary labor. Both of them were -men of outstanding character. Jaurès was much more than a hot-headed -demagogue, of the new Bolshevik type, eager to destroy civilization -in revenge against “Capital.” He was a lover of France in every -fiber of his body and brain, and a man of many Christian qualities, -including kindness and charity and personal morality, in spite of -religious scepticism. He saw with clear vision the approaching danger -of war with Germany, and he devoted his life, and lost it, on behalf -of antimilitarism, believing that German democracy could be won over -to international peace, if French democracy would link up with them. -It was for that reason that he attacked the three years’ system of -military service, and denounced the increasing expenditure of France on -military preparations. But to attain his ideal of international peace, -he played into the hands of revolutionary labor, and defended many of -its violent methods, including “direct action.” It was with Aristide -Briand that he had drawn up the plans of a general strike in which -every trade union or syndicate in France would join at the appointed -hour, in order to demonstrate the power of “Labor” and to overthrow the -autocracy of “Capital.” - -When Briand deserted the Left Wing, modified his views for the sake of -office, and finally became Premier of France, Jaurès, who had taunted -him as a renegade, put into operation against him the weapon he had -helped to forge. A general strike was declared. - -There were astonishing scenes in Paris. The machinery of social life -came to a dead stop. No railway trains arrived or departed, and I had -a sensational journey from Calais to Paris in the last train through, -driven by an amateur who had not mastered the mystery of the brakes, so -that the few passengers, with the last supply of milk for Paris, were -bumped and jolted with terrifying shocks. - -Food from the rural districts was held up on wayside stations, and -Paris was like a besieged city, living on rapidly diminishing stocks. -The “Metro” ceased work, and armies of clerks, shopgirls, and business -men had to walk to their work from suburbs or distant quarters. They -made a joke of it, and laughed and sang on their way, as though it was -the greatest jest in the world. But it became beyond a jest after the -first day or two, especially at night, when Paris was plunged into -abysmal darkness because the electricians had joined the railway men -and all other branches of labor. - -The restaurants and cafés along the great boulevards were dimly lighted -by candles stuck into wine and beer bottles, and bands of students from -the Latin Quarter paraded with paper lanterns, singing the Funeral -March and other doleful ditties, not without a sense of romance and -adventure in that city of darkness. The _apaches_, who love not the -light, came out of their lairs, beyond Clichy, and fell upon wanderers -in the gloom, robbing them of their watches and ready money, and -clubbing them if they put up any resistance. No milk could be had for -love or money, no butter, eggs, fish, or fresh meat, except by the rich -hotels which cornered the markets with their small supplies brought in -by farm carts, hand carts, or babies’ perambulators. - -On the whole there was very little violence, for, in spite of their -excitability, Parisian crowds are good-natured and law-abiding. -But there was one section which gave trouble. It was the union of -_terrassiers_ or day laborers. They knocked off work and strolled down -toward the center of Paris in strong bodies, looking dangerous and -picturesque in their great loose breeches tucked into their boots, -short jackets, and flat bonnets pulled over the right eye. Most of them -carried knives or cheap pistols, and they had ancient, traditional -grudges against the _agents de police_. - -Those simple and admirable men were remarkably polite to them, and -generally contrived to keep at a safe distance when they appeared in -force. But the mounted police of the Garde Républicaine tried to herd -them back from the shopping centers of the city which they threatened -to loot, and came into immediate conflict with them. As an observer -interested in the drama of life, I several times became unpleasantly -mixed up with _terrassiers_ and other rash onlookers when the Garde -Républicaine rode among them, and I had some narrow escapes from being -trampled down. - -A hot affair took place round a scaffolding which had been put up for -some new building up by Montmartre. The _terrassiers_, driven back by -the mounted men who used the flat of their swords, made a stronghold -of this place, and loosed off their pistols or flung brickbats at the -“enemy,” inflicting several casualties. Orders were given to clear out -this hornets’ nest, and the Garde Républicaine charged right up to the -scaffolding and hauled out the ruffians, who were escorted as prisoners -through hooting mobs. It was all very exciting, and Paris was beginning -to lose its temper. - -Jaurès had called a great meeting of _cheminots_--the railway -workers--in the _Salle de Manège_, or riding school, down the rue St. -Denis. In the interests of _The Daily Chronicle_ I decided to attend -it. It was in a low quarter of the city, and vast crowds of factory -workers and young hooligans surged up and down the street, jeering at -the police, and asking for trouble. Far away, above their heads, I -could see the steel helmets with their long black plumes of the Garde -Républicaine. - -A narrow passage led to the _Salle de Manège_, where Jaurès had -begun his meeting with an assembly of two thousand railway workers, -packed tight, as I could see when the door was opened an inch to -give them air. It was guarded by a group of strikers who told me in -rough language to clear off, when I asked for admission. One of them, -however, caught my remark that I belonged to _The Daily Chronicle_. It -impressed him favorably. “I used to read it when I was a hairdresser in -Soho,” he told me. He opened the door enough for me to step inside. - -Presently I was sorry he did. The atmosphere was hellish in its heat -and stench, arising from the wet sawdust of the riding school and the -greasy clothes of this great crowd of men, densely massed. Jaurès was -on the tribune, speaking with a powerful, sonorous voice, I forget his -words, but remember his appeal to the men to reveal the nobility of -labor by their loyalty and their discipline. He was scornful of the -renegade Briand who had sold his soul for office and was ready to use -bayonets against the liberties of men whose cause he had once defended -with passionate hypocrisy.... After an hour of this, I thought I should -die of suffocation, and managed to escape. - -It was out of the frying pan into the fire, for the crowds in the rue -St. Denis were being forced back by the Republican Guard, and I was -carried off my feet in the stampede, until I became wedged against -the wall of a corner café, with a surging crowd in front. Some one -flung a wine bottle at one of the Republican Guards, and unseated him. -Immediately the mounted troops rode their horses at the throng outside -the café. Tables fell over, chairs were smashed, and a score of men -and women fell in a heap through the plate glass windows. There were -shrieks of terror, mingled with yells of mirth. I decided to watch -the drama, if possible, from a more comfortable observation post, and -knocked at the door of one of the tall tenement houses near by. It was -opened by a villainous-looking man, shielding the flame of a candle -with a filthy hand. - -“What do you want?” he asked in French. - -“A view from your top window,” I said. - -He bargained with me sullenly, and I agreed to five francs for a place -on his roof. It was worth that money, to me, to see how the poor of -Paris sleep in their cheap lodging houses. I went through the rooms -on each floor, by way of rickety old stairs, and in each room were -fifteen to twenty people, sitting or lying on iron bedsteads, men in -some rooms, women in others. Some of them were sleeping and snoring, -others lay half-dressed, reading scraps of newspaper by flickering -gas light. Others were undressing, careless of the publicity given -to their rags. It was astonishing to me that hardly any of them paid -the slightest attention to the scenes in the street below, which were -becoming riotous, as I could hear by gusts of noise, in which the -shrieks of women mingled with hoarse groans and yells and a kind of -sullen chant with the words, “_Hue! Hue! Hue! A bas la police. A bas la -police! Hue! Hue! Hue!_” - -This house was older than the French Revolution, and I couldn’t help -thinking that perhaps when the tumbrils were passing on their way to -the guillotine, men and women like this were lying abed, or yawning -and combing their matted hair, or playing cards by candlelight, as two -fellows here, not bothering to glance beyond the windows at such a -common sight as another batch of aristocrats going to their death. - -From the roof I looked down on the turbulent crowd, charged again and -again by the Republican Guards until the street was clear. Presently -the _cheminots_ came surging out of the _Salle de Manège_, with Jaurès -at their head, walking very slowly. The police let Jaurès get past, and -then broke up the procession behind him, with needless brutality, as it -seemed to me. Many men were knocked down, and fell under the horses’ -hoofs. Others were beaten by blunt swords. - -Not only Paris was in the throes of the general strike, but all -France. It was a serious threat to the French government and to the -social life of the people. Briand, who had played with revolutionary -ideas as a younger man, showed now that he had the wisdom that comes -from responsibility, and the courage to apply it. He called certain -classes to the colors. If they disobeyed, it would be treason to the -Flag, punishable by death. If they obeyed, it would break the general -strike, as they would be ordered, as soldiers, to run the trains, and -distribute supplies. It was a great risk to take, threatening civil -war, but he took it, believing that few men would refuse obedience to -military discipline. He was right, and by this means he crushed the -general strike and broke the power of the trade unions. - -I interviewed him at that time, and remember my first meeting with -that man who afterward, when the World War had ended in the defeat of -Germany, held the office of Premier again and endeavored vainly to save -France from the ruin which followed victory. - -I waited for him, by appointment, in a great salon furnished in the -style of Louis XV, with gilded chairs and a marble-topped table at -which Napoleon had once sat as Emperor. I was chatting with one of -his secretaries, when the door opened, and a tall, heavily built man -with large, dark, melancholy eyes, came into the room. He looked at -me somberly, and I stared back, not realizing that it was the Prime -Minister of France. Then the secretary whispered “Monsieur Briand,” and -he held out his hand to me. We had a long talk, or, rather, he talked -and I listened, impressed by the apparent frankness and simplicity and -courage of the man. - -He told me how great had been the danger to France from the forces of -anarchy let loose by the Confédération Générale de Travail by their -action of the general strike, and he defended the policy by which he -had broken that threat against the authority of government. He did not -disguise from me that he had risked not only his political life and -reputation, but even the very peace and stability of France. But that -risk had been necessary, because the alternative would have been a weak -and shameful surrender to anarchy and revolution. - -Jaurès was beaten, as he deserved to be, on that issue. His worst -defeat was not then, but in August of 1914, when those German -Socialists, in whose pacifism and brotherhood of man he had believed, -supported the challenge of their war lords against France and Russia, -and marched with all the rest toward the French frontier. The whole -of Jaurès’s life struggle for international peace was made vain by -the beating of drums for the greatest war in history. Among his own -people there were many, once spellbound by his oratory and loyal to his -leadership, who now abused him as the man who had weakened the defenses -of France by his antimilitarist influence. There were some, even, who -said “Jaurès betrayed us to the Enemy!” - -On that night when many nations of Europe answered the call to arms, -stupefied, conscious of enormous terrors approaching all human life, -hearing already, in imagination, the thunder of a world of guns that -had not yet opened fire, I paced the streets of Paris with a friend, -wondering how soon he and I would be caught up in that death struggle. - -“Let us turn in at the _Croissant_,” he said. “We must eat, though the -world goes mad.” - -It was late, and when we arrived at the restaurant in the rue -Montmartre, it was closed and guarded by police. - -“What has happened?” I asked, and some one in the crowd answered with -intense emotion: - -“Jaurès is assassinated! He was shot there, as he sat at dinner.” - -He was shot from behind a curtain, in a plush-covered seat where often -I had sat, by some young man who believed that, in killing Jaurès, he -was helping to secure the victory of France. - -I saw his funeral _cortège_. They gave him a great funeral. Ministers -of France, men of all parties, dignitaries of the Church, marched -behind his coffin, and behind the red flags which were blown by a -strong wind. It was not love for him, but fear of the people which -caused that demonstration at his burial. It was an appeal for that -_Union Sacrée_ of all classes by which alone the menace to the life -of France might be resisted. There need have been no fear. There -was hardly a man in France who did not offer his life as a willing -sacrifice, in that war which seemed not only against France and her -friends, but against civilization itself and all humanity. So the -_poilus_ believed, with simple faith, unshaken by any doubt--in the -peaceful policy of France and the unprovoked aggression of Germany. - -The restaurant in which Jaurès was killed--the _Croissant_, with the -sign of the Turkish Crescent--was one of the few in Paris open all -night for the use of journalists who slept by day. Needless to say, -other night birds, even more disreputable, found this place a pleasant -sanctuary in the wee sma’ hours. I went there often for some meal which -might have been dinner, lunch, or breakfast, any time between 2 and 5 -A.M. I was with my colleague, Henri Bourdin, during the Italian war in -Tripoli. - -Our job was to receive long dispatches over the telephone, from -Italian correspondents, and transmit them by telephone to London. It -was a maddening task, because after very few minutes of conversation, -the telephone cut us off from one of the Italian cities, or from -London, and only by curses and prayers and passionate pleading to lady -operators could we establish contact again. - -Though the war in Tripoli was a trivial episode, wiped out in our -memory by another kind of war, the Italian correspondents wrote -millions of words about every affair of outposts--all of which streamed -over the telephone in florid Italian. I had a Sicilian who translated -that Italian into frightful French, which I, in turn, translated into -somewhat less frightful English, and conveyed by telephone to London. - -It went on hour after hour, day after day, and night after night, -especially from a man named Bevione. I hated his eloquence so much that -I made a solemn vow to kill him, if ever I met him in the flesh.... I -met him in Bulgaria, during another war, but he was so charming that -I forgave him straightway for all the agony he had inflicted on me. -Besides, undoubtedly, he would have killed me first. - -The Sicilian was a marvel. Between the telephone calls he narrated -all his love affairs since the age of fourteen, and they were -innumerable. During the telephone calls, it was he who pleaded with -the lady operators not to cut him off, or to get his call again. He -punctuated every sentence with a kiss. “Madonna!... Bacio!... Bacio!” -He gave these unknown beauties (perhaps they were as ugly as sin!) a -million kisses over the telephone wires, and by this frenzy of amorous -demonstration seriously disturbed the Paris exchange, and held up all -our rivals. - -Henri Bourdin, in intervals of waiting, used to make the time pass by -acting all the most famous dramas of the modern French stage, and I vow -that this single man used to give me the illusion of having seen the -entire company of the Comédie Française, so vivid were his character -studies and descriptions. - -Abandoning the Sicilian to any opportunities of love he might find -beyond the telephone receiver, Bourdin and I used to leave the office -on the Boulevard des Capucines just as the light of dawn was creeping -into the streets of Paris, when the _chiffonniers_ picked at the rags -in the dustbins, and pale ladies of the night passed like ghosts to -their lodgings in mean streets. - -We made our way sometimes to the markets--_Les Halles_--where the women -of the Revolution used to gather with their knitting and their gossip -of the latest heads to fall in the basket of the guillotine. Many of -the houses round about belong to that period, and Bourdin and I used -to take coffee in old eating and drinking houses like the “_Chien qui -Fume_” (The Dog Who Smokes), which still have on their walls the iron -brackets for the lanterns on which French aristocrats were hanged by -infuriated mobs, in 1793. - -They were still frequented by strange and sinister-looking characters. -I remember one group, certainly as queer as any I have seen. Bourdin -and I were seated at table when they came in excitedly--about thirty -men and women, all laughing and jabbering. The men wore long hair, -very wild and unkempt, with flowing black ties of “La Vallière” style. -The women had short hair, cut with straight fringes. Presently another -man appeared, astoundingly like Ary Scheffer’s study of Our Lord, with -long pale hair, and straw-colored beard, and watery blue eyes. At his -coming, the company became delirious with enthusiasm, while he went -gravely round the circle and kissed each man and woman on the lips. - -It was Bourdin who explained to me the mystery of these fantastic -creatures. They belonged to the most advanced Anarchist society in -Paris. The man who appeared last had just been acquitted by the French -courts on a charge of kidnapping and locking up one of his fellow -anarchists, who had betrayed the society to the police. - -The only time in which I myself have been in the hands of the French -police was in the early days of the war, while I was waiting in Paris -for my papers as accredited war correspondent with the British Armies -in the field. This unpleasant experience was due to my ceaseless -curiosity in life and the rash acceptance of a casual invitation. - -A friend of mine had become acquainted with two ladies who sang at -“Olympia,” and I happened to be in a taxicab with him when they -approached the door of his vehicle as we alighted. - -It was eleven o’clock at night, and it was murmured by the two ladies -that they were going to a “reception” at some apartment near the -Étoile--a most aristocratic neighborhood. They would be delighted if we -accompanied them. I was tired, and did not wish to go, but my friend -Brown, always fresh at midnight, saw amusement ahead, and begged me to -come. - -“For an hour, then,” I said. - -In the cab on the way to the Étoile, Brown sang mock Italian opera with -one of the ladies, who had an excellent voice and a sense of humor. I -exchanged a few remarks with the other lady, and was slightly disturbed -by the somewhat German accent with which she spoke French. - -Certainly, the apartment in which presently we found ourselves, in an -avenue by the Étoile, was extremely elegant, and crowded with men and -women in evening dress, who looked highly respectable. Among them were -a few French officers in uniform and one English officer. The hostess -was a charming-looking lady, with snow-white hair. There was a little -music, a little dancing, and polite conversation. It was decorous and -dull. - -At the end of an hour I spoke to Brown. - -“I’ve had enough of this. I’m off.” - -He informed me in a whisper that if I went I should be losing something -very good in the way of an adventure. - -“This is, undoubtedly, one of the most criminal haunts in Paris,” he -said. “I can smell abomination! Something melodramatic will happen -before long, or I’ll eat my hat.” - -I was surprised, and alarmed. I had no desire to be at home in a -criminal haunt in time of war. I decided even more firmly to go, and -went to take leave of the charming lady with the snow-white hair. - -She seemed vexed that I should desire to go so soon, but seeing that I -was decided, made a somewhat curious request. - -“Do you mind going out by the garden entrance--through the French -windows? We do not care to show lights through the front door. _C’est -la guerre!_” - -I went out through the garden entrance, followed by Brown, who said I -was missing the fun. - -It was dark in the garden, and I stumbled on the way to a little garden -gate, twenty yards away from the house. - -As I put my hand on the latch of the gate, I was aware of a large -number of black shadows coming toward me out of the bushes beyond. -Instinctively I beat a hasty retreat back to the house. Something had -happened to it. Where the French windows had been was now a steel door. -Brown was doing something mysterious, bending low and making pencil -marks on a white slab of the wall. - -“What’s up?” I asked. - -“I’m identifying the house, in case of future need,” he answered. - -I made a tattoo with my stick against the steel door. My one foolish -desire was to get back into the house, away from those black figures -outside the garden gate. It was too late. Directly I knocked on the -door, a score of them rushed into the garden, and I was seized and -carried in strong arms until, at a considerable distance, I was dumped -down under the Eiffel Tower, in charge of a dozen _agents de police_. -Groups of men and women in evening dress, some of whom I recognized -as visitors at the reception of the charming lady with the snow-white -hair, were also in charge of strong bodies of police. My friend Brown -was a prisoner some twenty yards away. It was a cold night, but, -philosophically, to the amazement of the French police, he lay down on -the grass and went to sleep. - -We were kept under the Eiffel Tower for two hours, at the end of which -time a motor car drew up, with a gentleman wearing the tricolor sash -of a French prefect. It was for him that we had been waiting. Strangely -enough, we were all taken back to the apartment from which we had come, -and there each person was subjected to an examination by the prefect -and his assistants. There was evident terror among the men and women -who had passed the evening in the house of mystery. - -Brown and I were liberated after an inspection of our passports. On the -way home I asked Brown for a little explanation, for I could understand -nothing of the business. - -He understood perfectly. - -“That place was a gambling den. The police were looking for German -spies, as well as French officers absent without leave. I told you we -should see something worth while!” - -I confess I did not think it worth while. I had had a nasty fright, -caught a bad cold, and missed a good night’s sleep. - -But it was certainly a little bit of melodrama, which one may find in -Paris more easily than in any city in the world. - - - - -XI - - -After the revolution in Portugal, which led to the exile of King Manuel -and the overthrow of the Royalist _régime_ in favor of a republic under -the presidency of Affonso Costa, I was asked by Lord Lytton to go out -and report upon the condition of the prisons in that country. - -They were packed with Royalists and with all people, of whatever -political opinion, who disapproved of the principles and methods of -the new government, including large numbers of the poorest classes. -Sinister stories had leaked through about the frightful conditions -of these political prisoners, and public opinion in England was -stirred when the Dowager Duchess of Bedford, who had visited Portugal, -published some sensational statements. I suspected that the dear old -Duchess of Bedford was influenced a good deal by sentiment for the -Royalist cause, although when I saw her she was emphatic in saying that -she had never met King Manuel and was moved to take action for purely -humanitarian reasons. Lord Lytton, a man of liberal and idealistic -mind, was certainly not actuated by the desire for Royalist or -anti-republican propaganda, and in asking me to make an investigation -on behalf of a committee, he made it clear that he wished to have the -true facts, uncolored by prejudice. On that condition I agreed to go. - -I found, before going, that the moving spirit behind the accusations -of cruelty appearing in the British press against the new rulers of -Portugal, and behind the Duchess of Bedford, was a little lady named -Miss Tenison. - -“She has all the facts in her hands,” said Lord Lytton, “and you ought -to have a talk with her. You will have to make a long journey.” - -I made the journey to a remote part of England, where I found a very -ancient little house, unchanged by any passing of time through many -centuries. I was shown into a low, long room, haunted, I am certain, -by the ghosts of Tudor and Stuart England. Two elderly ladies, who -introduced themselves as Miss Tenison’s aunts, sat on each side of -a mediæval fireplace. Presently Miss Tenison appeared and for more -than a moment--for all the time of my visit--I imagined myself in -the presence of one of those ghosts which should properly inhabit a -house like this--a young lady in an old-fashioned dress, so delicate, -so transparent, so spiritual, that I had the greatest difficulty in -accepting her as an inhabitant of this coarse and material world. - -She was entirely absorbed in the Portuguese affairs, and her aunts -told me that she dreamed at night about the agony of the Royalist -prisoners in their dungeons. She was in correspondence with many -Royalist refugees, and with those still hiding in Portugal, from whom -she obtained the latest news. She had a romantic admiration--though -not knowing him personally--for a certain count, who had led a -counter-revolution and had been captured sword in hand, before being -flung into prison and treated as a common convict. She hated Affonso -Costa, the President, as Russian _émigrés_ afterward hated Lenin. - -It was from this little lady, ethereal in appearance but as passionate -in purpose as Lytton Strachey’s Florence Nightingale, that I gained -my first insight into the Portuguese situation and my letters of -introduction to some great people still hiding in Lisbon. I left her -house with the sense of having begun a romantic adventure, with this -remarkable little lady in the first chapter. - -The second chapter of my adventure was fantastic, for I found myself -in the wilds of Spain, suddenly responsible for a German wife and six -bandboxes filled with the lingerie of six Brazilian beauties.... It -sounds incredible, but it is true. - -It happened that a tunnel fell down on the engine of a train -immediately ahead of the one in which I was traveling through northern -Spain on the way to Lisbon. This brought our train to a standstill in -a rather desolate spot. There was vast excitement, and a babble of -tongues. Most of the travelers were on their way to Lisbon, to catch -a boat to Brazil which was leaving the following day. Among them was -a stout little German, with a large, plump, and sad-looking wife. -Neither of them could speak anything but German, but the husband, -who was almost apoplectic with rage and anxiety, seemed to divine by -intuition that a local train which halted at the wayside station might -go somewhere in the direction of Lisbon. Entirely forgetting his wife, -or thinking, perhaps that she would follow him whithersoever he went, -he sprang on to the footboard of the local train, and scrambled in -just as it steamed away. So there I was with the German wife, to whom -I had previously addressed a few words, and who now appealed to me for -advice, protection, and something to eat. The poor lady was hungry, and -her husband had the money. Highly embarrassed, because I knew not how -long I should be in the company of this German _Hausfrau_, I provided -her with some food at the buffet, and endeavored to get some news of -the best manner to reach Lisbon. - -Then the second blow befell me. Six extraordinarily beautiful Brazilian -girls, with large black eyes and flashing teeth, did exactly the same -thing as the German gentleman. That is to say, they hurled themselves -into a local train just as it was starting away. Six heads screamed -out of the carriage window. They were screaming at me. It was a wild -appeal that I should rescue the six enormous bandboxes which they had -left on the platform, and bring them to a certain hotel in Lisbon. So -there I was, with the bandboxes and the German wife. - -I duly arrived in Lisbon, after a nightmare journey, with all my -responsibilities, and handed over the bandboxes to the Brazilian -beauties, and the German wife to the German husband. I obtained no -gratitude whatever in either case. - -In Lisbon I plunged straightway into a life of romance and tragedy, -which was strangely reminiscent of all I had read about the French -Revolution. - -With my letters of introduction I called at several great houses of -the old nobility, which seemed to be utterly abandoned. At least, no -lights showed through the shutters, and they were all bolted and barred -within their courtyards. At one house, in answer to my knocking, and -the ringing of a bell which jangled loudly, there came at last an -answer. A little door in the wall was cautiously opened on a chain by -an old man servant with a lantern. Upon mentioning my name, and the -word “Inglese,” which I hoped was good Portuguese for “English,” the -door was opened wider, and the man made a sign for me to follow him. I -was led into a great mansion, perfectly dark, except for the lantern -ahead, and I went up a marble staircase, and then into a large salon, -furnished in the style of the French Empire, with portraits on the -walls of eighteenth century ladies and gentlemen in silks and brocades. -In such a room as this Marie Antoinette might have sat with her ladies -before the women of the markets marched to Versailles. - -The old man servant touched a button, and flooded the room with the -light of the electric candelabra, making sure first that no gleam of it -would get through the heavy curtains over the shutters. Then he left -the room, and soon afterward appeared an old lady in a black dress -with a white shawl over her shoulders. - -She was the aunt of one of the great families of Portugal, some of -whom had escaped to England, and others of whom were in the prisons of -Lisbon. She spoke harshly, in French, of the base and corrupt character -of the new Portuguese Republic, and of the cruelties and indignities -suffered by the political prisoners. She lived quite alone in the old -mansion, not caring to go out because of the insults she would receive -in the streets, but otherwise safe. So far, at least, Affonso Costa and -his police had not threatened her liberty or her possessions. - -In another house in the outskirts of Lisbon, with a beautiful garden, -where the warm air was filled with the scent of flowers in masses of -rich color, I met another lady of the old _régime_, a beautiful girl, -living solitary, also, and agonized because of the imprisonment and ill -treatment of her relatives. She implored me to use what influence I -had, as an English journalist, to rescue those unhappy men. - -It was my mission to get into the prisons, and see what were the real -conditions of captivity there. After frequent visits to the Foreign -Office, I received permits to visit the Penetenciaria and the Limoero, -in which most of the political prisoners were confined. The guide who -went with me told me that the Republic had nothing to hide, and that -I could see everything and talk as much as I liked with the captives. -He was certain that I should find the Penetenciaria, at least, a model -prison. The other was “rather old-fashioned.” - -On the whole, I preferred the old-fashioned prison. The “model prison” -seemed to me specially and beautifully designed to drive men mad -and kill their humanity. It was spotlessly clean and provided with -excellent sanitary arrangements, washhouses, bakehouses, kitchens, and -workshops, but the whole system of the prison was ingeniously and, to -my mind, devilishly constructed to keep each prisoner, except a favored -few, in perpetual solitude. Once put into one of those little white -cells, down one of the long white corridors, and a man would never see -or talk with a fellow mortal again until his term of penal servitude -expired, never again, if he had a life sentence. There were men in -that place who had already served ten, or fifteen, or twenty years. -Through a hole in the door they received their food or their day’s -ration of work. To exercise them, a trap was opened at the end of their -cell, so that they could walk out, like a captive beast, into a little -strip of courtyard, divided by high walls from the strip on either -side. Up above was the open sky, and the sunlight fell aslant upon the -white-coated walls, but it was a cramped and barren space for a man’s -body and soul. Perhaps it was no worse than other European prisons, -possibly much better. But it struck me with a cold horror, because of -all those living beings isolated, in lifelong silence, entombed. - -One corridor was set apart for the political prisoners, and when I -saw them they were allowed to have their cell doors open, and to -converse with each other, for a short time. Otherwise they, too, -were locked in their separate cells. I spoke with a number of them, -all men of high-sounding names and titles, but a melancholy, pale, -miserable-looking crowd, whose spirits seemed quite broken by their -long captivity. They were mostly young men, and among them was the -Portuguese count who had led the counter-revolutionary rising and -had been captured by the Republican troops. They had one grievance, -of which they all spoke passionately. The Republic might have shot -them as Royalists. At least that would have enabled them to die like -gentlemen. But it had treated them like common criminals and convicts, -and had even forced them to wear convict garb, to have their heads -shaved, and to wear the hood with only eyeholes which was part of -the dress--horrible in its cruelty--of all long-sentence men. My -conversation with most of them was in French, but two young brothers -of very noble family spoke excellent English. They seemed to regard my -visit as a kind of miracle, and it revived hopes in them which made me -pitiful, because I had no great expectation of gaining their release. -When I went away from them, they returned to their cells, and the steel -doors clanked upon them. - -In the prison called the Limoero there were different conditions of -life, enormously preferable, I thought, to the Penetenciaria, in spite -of its filth and dirt and disease. There was no solitary confinement -here, but crowds of men and women living in a hugger-mugger way, with -free intercourse between their rooms. They were allowed to receive -visitors at stated times, and when I was there the wives of many of the -prisoners had come, with their babies and parcels of food. The babies -were crawling on the floor, the food was being cooked on oil stoves, -and there was a fearful stench of unwashed bodies, fried onions, -tobacco smoke, and other strong odors. - -The Fleet Prison, as described by Charles Dickens, must have closely -resembled this place, in its general system of accommodation and social -life, and I saw in many faces there the misery, the haggard lines, -the despair, which he depicts among those who had been long suffering -inmates of that debtors’ jail. - -Many of the men here were of the aristocratic and intellectual classes, -among them editors and correspondents of Royalist papers, poets, -novelists, and university professors. They had not been charged with -any crime, they had not been brought up for trial, they had no idea -how long their captivity would last--a few months, a few years, or -until death released them. But at least in equal proportion to the -Royalists--I think in a majority--were men of poorer class--mechanics, -printers, tailors, shoemakers, artisans of all kinds. They, too, were -political prisoners, having been Socialists, Syndicalists, and other -types of advanced democrats. - -Some of the men told me that they had no idea whatever why they were -lodged in Limoero. They had been arrested without charge, flung into -prison without trial, and kept there without hope of release. Quite a -number of them had been imprisoned by the Royalist _régime_ in the time -of the monarchy, and the Republic had not troubled about them. They -were just left to rot, year after year. - -The political prisoners were allowed to receive food from their -relatives, but many had no relatives able to provide them, and they had -nothing but prison fare, which was hardly enough for life. They begged -through the bars of the windows to passers-by, as I saw them, with -their hands thrust through the iron gratings. Owing to the overcrowding -and insanitary conditions, disease was rife, and prison fever ravaged -them. - -I had been told of one prison called Forte Mon Santo, on a hill some -distance away from Lisbon, and as I could get no official pass to visit -it, I decided to try and gain admission by other means. In the Black -Horse Square at Lisbon, I hired a motor car from one of the street -drivers, and understood from him that he was the champion automobilist -of Lisbon. Certainly he drove like a madman and a brute. He killed -three dogs on the way, not by accident, but by deliberately steering -into them, and laughed uproariously at each kill. He drove through -crowded streets with a screeching horn, and in the open countryside -went like a fiend, up hill and down dale. I was surprised to find -myself alive on the top of the hill which, as I knew by private -directions, was the prison of Mon Santo. - -But I could see no prison. No building of any kind stood on the lonely -hilltop or on its slopes, which were bare of all but grass. All I could -see was a circle of queer-looking objects like large metal mushrooms. -Upon close inspection I saw that these things were ventilators for a -subterranean building, and walking further, I came to a steep, circular -ditch, into which some steps were cut. At the top of the steps stood a -sentry with a rifle slung over his arm. - -I approached this man, who regarded me suspiciously and unslung his -rifle, but the glint of a gold sovereign--we used to have such things -before the era of paper money--persuaded him that I was an agreeable -fellow. My brutal motor driver, who spoke a bit of French, so that he -understood my purpose, explained to the sentry that I was an English -tourist who would like to see his excellent prison. After some debate, -and a roving eye over the surrounding landscape, the sentry nodded, -and made a sign for me to go down the steps, with the motor driver. I -noticed that during all the time of my visit he walked behind us, with -his rifle handy, lest there should be any trick on our part. - -It was the most awful dungeon I have ever seen, apart from ancient dens -disused since mediæval times. Completely underground, its dungeons -struck me with a chill even in the short time I was there. Its walls -oozed with water. No light came direct through the narrow bars of the -cells in which poor wretches lay like beasts, but only indirectly -from the surrounding ditch, so that they were almost in darkness. In -the center of this underground fort was a cavern in complete darkness -except, perhaps, for some faint gleam through a grating about two feet -square, high up in the outer wall. It was just a hole in the rock, -and inside were five men with heavy chains about them. Once a day the -jailers pushed some loaves of bread through the grating. What went on -in that dark dungeon, and in the darkness of those men’s souls, it is -better, perhaps, not to imagine. The cruelty of men is not yet killed, -and there are still, in the hearts of men and of nations, lurking -devils worse than the wildness and ferocity of beasts.... - -I went to other prisons in Lisbon and Oporto. They were not like that, -but, generally, like the Limoero, unclean, squalid, horrible, but with -human companionship, which alleviates all suffering, if there is any -kind of comradeship. In these cases one could not charge the Portuguese -Republic with inflicting bodily suffering upon their prisoners in any -deliberate way. The indictment against them was that, under the fair -name of liberty, they had overthrown the monarchical _régime_ and -substituted a new tyranny. For, among all the people I met, there were -few who had been charged with any offense against the law, or given the -right of defense in any trial. - -A queer fellow came into my life during this time in Portugal, whose -behavior still baffles me by its mystery. The episode is like the -beginning of a sensational detective story, without any clue to its -solution. - -The first night of my arrival in Lisbon I dined alone in the hotel, -and soon remarked a handsome, well-dressed, English-looking man who -kept glancing in my direction. After dinner he came up to me and said: -“Excuse me, but isn’t your name Jones? I think I had the pleasure of -meeting you in London, some months ago?” - -“A mistake,” I said, civilly; “my name is not Jones.” - -He looked disappointed when I showed no signs of desiring further -conversation, and went away. But presently, after studying the hotel -list (as I have no doubt), he returned, and with a very genial smile, -said: “Oh, forgive me! I made a mistake in the name. You are Philip -Gibbs, I believe. I met you at the Savage Club.” - -I knew he was lying, for I seldom forget a face, and not such a face -as his, very powerful and arresting, but as I was bored with my own -company, I gave him a little rope. We took coffee together, and talked -about the affairs of the world and the countries in which we had -wandered. He had been to South America and other countries, and told -me some very amusing yarns. I was much taken with this man, who was -certainly well-educated and a brilliant talker. - -The mystery appeared when he tapped at my door next morning, and said -he desired to ask a favor. - -I expected him to borrow money, but what he wanted was less expensive, -and more extraordinary. He wanted me to go to the seashore near Cascaes -and bring back to him a handful of pebbles. As he could not pay for -such a service from a man in my position, he would gladly make me a -friendly gift of anything that might strike my fancy in the shops of -Lisbon. - -No questioning of mine as to the meaning of this extraordinary -request brought any explanation. He regretted that he could not -enlighten me as to his reason, but for him the matter was of vital -importance. I utterly refused to fetch the pebbles or to go anywhere -near the seashore. It flashed across my mind that this very handsome, -English-looking gentleman might be a police spy set to dog my -footsteps. He certainly dogged me all right. I could hardly get away -from him, wherever I went, and he pressed me to take wine with him -at the open-air cafés. One night when we sat together in Black Horse -Square, he became uneasy, and kept glancing over his shoulder at the -crowded tables. Presently he rose, and said, “Let us take a stroll.” I -agreed, and was quickly aware that we were being followed by three men. - -I spoke to him. - -“One of us is being shadowed. Is it you or me?” - -“Me,” he said. “As long as you stay with me, I am safe. Let us slip -into this place....” - -He pushed open the swing door of a wine shop, and we went inside. He -ordered a bottle of cheap wine, and before it had been brought, three -men entered and sat near the door. - -My strange acquaintance sipped a little wine, spoke to me loudly in -English about the weather, and whispered the words, “Follow me quickly!” - -He rose from the table, and went rapidly out of the back door of the -restaurant into the courtyard, and out through a side door into the -street by which we had entered. It was dark, but as we walked we -saw, at the end of the street, under a lantern, three men standing -motionless. - -“Hell!” said my acquaintance. - -He plunged into a narrow alley, and then through a labyrinth of little -streets until suddenly we emerged on the square opposite our hotel. - -“How’s that for geographical knowledge?” he asked. - -“Good!” I said. “But after this I do not desire your company. I don’t -understand why these men followed you, and I don’t like the game, -anyhow.” - -He regretted my annoyance, and was so polite and amusing that I -relented toward him, especially as he told me he was going to Vigo next -day. - -He wished me good-by that night when he went to bed. But next morning -when I left Lisbon for Oporto, he was on the platform, and said that he -had changed his plans and was going to the same place as myself. - -I was now convinced that he was really shadowing me, and told him so. -But he shook his head and laughed. - -“Nothing of the kind. I like your company, because you’re the only -Englishman in this land of dagoes. Also I want you to get me that -handful of pebbles.” - -He returned again to the subject of those ridiculous pebbles. I could -get them easily for him on the seashore by Oporto. It would give me -very little trouble. It would be an enormous favor to him.... I refused -to consider the idea. - -In Oporto he took me into a jeweler’s shop and bought a little -cedarwood box about five inches square. - -“I want enough pebbles to fill this box,” he said. “Surely you can get -them for me?” - -“Surely you can get them yourself,” I answered. - -But he shook his head, and said that was impossible. - -We were again followed down the streets of Oporto. My companion drew -my attention to the fact, and then sidestepped into an umbrella shop. -But he did not buy an umbrella. He bought a very neat, and rather -expensive, sword stick, and offered to give me another like it. - -“It may be useful,” he remarked. - -I declined the sword stick, but accepted the thick cudgel which he had -been carrying since I knew him. - -That is practically the end of the story. He left Oporto two days -later, and before going made one last request. It was that I should -send a telegram which he had written out, to an address in South -Kensington. It was to the following effect: - -“_Arriving in London Saturday. Cannot get the pebbles._” - -What is the meaning of that mystery? I cannot give a guess, and have -sometimes thought of offering the problem to Conan Doyle. - -Sometimes, also, I have wondered whether it is in any way connected -with an incident that took place in the abandoned palace of King -Manuel, or rather, in his garden. From the newspaper reports it -appeared that some of the royal jewels had been buried before the -flight of King Manuel. Perhaps it was for the purpose of digging for -them that three men, of whom one was believed to be an Englishman, -had entered the palace garden on the night of my arrival in Lisbon. -A sentry had discovered them and fired. The men fired back, and the -sentry was wounded, before they escaped over the wall. - -Was that man “believed to be an Englishman” my mysterious acquaintance? -I am tempted to think so, yet I cannot provide a theory for the -pebbles from the seashore, the jewel box, the shadowing in the streets -of Lisbon, the purchase of the sword stick, and the eagerness for my -company. - -All that has nothing to do with the political prisoners and my mission -of inquiry. The end of that story is that after the publication of my -articles in _The Daily Chronicle_, and many papers on the Continent, -Affonso Costa declared a general amnesty and the prison doors were -unlocked for a great “jail-delivery” of Royalists. - -How far my articles had any influence toward that action, I do not -know. Certainly I received some share in the credit, and for months -afterward there were Portuguese visitors at my little house in Holland -Street, to kiss my hand--as the deliverer of their relatives and -friends--much to the amusement of my wife. - -But the real deliverer of the prisoners was little Miss Tenison, who -had pulled all the wires from her haunted house. - - - - -XII - - -Ever since I can remember I have lived in the company of men and women -of a “literary” turn of mind, who either gained a livelihood by writing -or used their pens as a means of augmenting other forms of income. My -memory, therefore, is a long portrait gallery of authors, novelists, -and journalists, many of whom, however, as I must immediately confess, -were utterly unknown to fame, and entirely without fortune. - -My own father was an essayist and novelist in his spare time as a -Civil Servant in the Board of Education, where, in those good old days -of leisured life, he worked from eleven till four--not, I suspect, -in a very exacting way. Anyhow, it was noticed by his sons that -whenever they called upon him in his office, he was either washing -his hands, or discussing life and literature with his colleagues. A -man of overflowing imagination, enormous range of reading, passionate -interest in all aspects of humanity, and most vivacious wit and -eloquence, it was a brutal tragedy that he should have been fettered to -the soul-destroying drudgery of a government office. But he gathered -round him many worshipful friends, and was a popular figure in one -of the oldest literary haunts of London, still “going strong” as The -Whitefriars Club. - -As a young boy in an Eton collar, I used to dine with him there, filled -with reverence and delight because I sat at table with the literary -giants of the day. To my father, whose genial imagination exaggerated -the genius of his friends, they were all “giants,” but I expect the -world, and even Fleet Street, has forgotten most of them by now. To -me, the greatest of them were G. A. Henty, a grand old man with a -beard like Father Christmas, who rewrote French and English history -in delectable romance--does anyone read him now?--George Manville -Fenn, the author of innumerable books of which I cannot remember -a single title--O, fleeting time!--and Ascot Hope Moncrieff, who, -under his first two names, was the very first editor of _The Boy’s -Own Paper_--surely a thousand years ago!--and the author of the most -entrancing boys’ books, and many serious and scholarly volumes. - -This fine old man, who is still producing books, was our intimate -friend at home, in early days, when a great family of brothers and -sisters, of whom I came fifth, welcomed him with real honor and -affection. - -Another of my father’s friends, whom I used to think the wisest man -in the whole world, was a little old gentleman of the distinguished -name of Smith, who died the other day (getting a paragraph in _The -Times_), having devoted his whole life to a work on The Co-ordination -of Knowledge. It was his simple and benign ambition to classify every -scrap of knowledge since the beginning of the world’s history to the -present time, by a card index system. He died, after fifty years of -labor, with that task uncompleted! - -I had the opportunity of meeting one character at The Whitefriars’ -Club, who is still famous in Fleet Street, though he is like an ancient -ghost. This was an old Shakespearian actor named O’Dell, who used to -play the part of the gravedigger in “Hamlet,” and the clown in “As You -Like It,” sixty years and more ago. Under the title of “The Last of the -Bohemians,” he had a privileged place at the Whitefriars, which he was -always the last man to leave for some unknown destination, popularly -supposed to be a seat on the Thames Embankment because of his extreme -penury. He wore a sombrero hat and a big black cloak in the old style -of tragic actors. It was this costume and his ascetic face which led -to a bet between the conductor and driver of an old horse bus passing -down Fleet Street, before the time of motor cars. - -“I say, Bill,” said the conductor, “who d’yer think we ’ave aboard?” - -“Dunno,” said the driver. - -“Cardinal Manning! S’welp me Bob!” - -“No blooming fear! That ain’t the Cardinal.” - -“Well, I’ll bet a tanner on it.” - -At the Adelphi the conductor leaned over O’Dell as he descended with -grave dignity, and said: - -“Beg yer pardon, sir, but do you ’appen to be Cardinal Manning?” - -“Go to hell and burn there!” said O’Dell in his sepulchral voice. - -Joyously the conductor mounted the steps and called to the driver. - -“I’ve won that bet, Bill. It is ’is ’Oliness!” - -There are many such stories about O’Dell, who had a biting wit and a -reckless tongue. He is now, like Colonel Newcome in his last years, -a Brother of the Charterhouse, in a confraternity of old indigent -gentlemen who say their prayers at night and dine together in hall. -Among the historic characters of Fleet Street he will always have a -place and I am glad to have met that link between the present and the -past. - -Among my literary friends as a young man was, first and foremost--after -my father, who was always inspiring and encouraging--my own brother, -who reached the heights of success (dazzling and marvelous to my -youthful eyes) under the name of Cosmo Hamilton. - -After various flights and adventures, including a brief career on the -stage, he wrote a book called _Which is Absurd_, and after it had been -rejected by many publishers, placed it on the worst possible terms with -Fisher Unwin. It made an immediate hit, and refused to stop selling. -After that success he went straight on without a check, writing -novels, short stories, and dramatic sketches which established him as -a new humorist, and then, achieving fortune as well as fame, entered -the musical comedy world with “The Catch of the Season,” “The Beauty -of Bath,” and other great successes, which he is still maintaining -with unabated industry and invention. He and I were close “pals,” -as we still remain, and, bad form as it may seem to write about my -brother, I honestly think there are few men who have his prodigality of -imagination, his overflowing storehouse of plots, ideas, and dramatic -situations, his eternal boyishness of heart--which has led him into -many scrapes, given him hard knocks, but never taught him the caution -of age, or moderated his sense of humor--his wildness of exaggeration, -his generous good nature, or the sentiment and romance which he hides -under the laughing mask of a cynic. In character he and I are the poles -apart, but I owe him much in the way of encouragement, and his praise -has always been first and overwhelming when I have made any small -success. As a young man I used to think him the handsomest fellow in -England, and I fancy I was not far wrong. - -As a journalist, it was natural that my most familiar friends should -be of that profession, and therefore not necessarily famous as men of -letters, unless they broke away from the limitations of newspaper work. -They are still those for whom I have most affection--H. W. Nevinson, -Beach Thomas, Percival Phillips, H. M. Tomlinson, Robin Littlewood -the dramatic critic; Ernest Perris, editor of _The Daily Chronicle_; -Bulloch, editor of _The Graphic_; all good men and true, and others -less renowned. - -One comrade who has “gone west,” as they used to say in time of war, -was a brilliant young Jew named Alphonse Courlander. I used to meet -him, at home and abroad, on all sorts of missions, and wherever we -were, we used to get away from the crowd to talk of the books we were -going to write (and for the most part never wrote!) and the latest -masterpieces we had discovered. Alphonse had more of a Latin than a -Jewish temperament, with irresistible gayety and wit, which concealed -a profound melancholy. It was when he had drunk one glass too much, or -perhaps two, that his melancholy surged up, and he used to shed tears -over his poor little naked soul. Otherwise, he had gifts of comic -speech and mimicry, which used to make me laugh outrageously, sometimes -in the most solemn places. One trick of his was to make the face of a -codfish, which was beyond all words funny, and in order to upset my -gravity, he used to do this in the presence of royalty, or at some -heavy political function, or even during a walk down Pall Mall. - -I remember one night in Ireland, when we supped with a party of Irish -journalists in a little eating house called Mooney’s Oyster Bar. A -young Irish girl was playing the fiddle in the courtyard outside, and -we called her in, and bribed her to play old Irish ballads, which are -so pitiful with the old tragedy of the race that Alphonse the Jew was -touched to his heartstrings and vowed that he was descended from the -kings of Ireland. - -He was with me during the episode in Copenhagen with Doctor Cook, in -whom he had a passionate and chivalrous belief, until I shook his faith -so much that he sent messages to his paper saying that Cook was a liar, -and then later messages to say that he wasn’t. Courlander could write -in any kind of style which impressed his imagination for a time, and -his novels ranged from imitations of Thomas Hardy and R. L. Stevenson, -to W. W. Jacobs. But his best book--really fine--was a novel on Fleet -Street called _Mightier Than the Sword_, when he wrote about the -things he knew and felt. In giving me a copy, he was generous enough -to write that I was its godfather, through my own novel _The Street -of Adventure_. Poor Alphonse Courlander was a victim of war’s enormous -agony, and his end was tragic, but in Fleet Street he left no single -enemy, and many friends. - -For several years while I was in Fleet Street, I lived opposite -Battersea Park, in a row of high dwellings stretching for about a mile, -and called Overstrand Mansions, Prince of Wales Mansions, and York -Mansions. Nearly all the people in the road were of literary, artistic, -or theatrical avocations, either hoping to arrive at fame and fortune, -or reduced in circumstances after brief glory. The former class were in -the great majority, and were youngish people, with youngish wives, and -occasionally, but not often, a baby on the balcony. G. K. Chesterton, -who lived in the Overstrand Mansions, immediately over my head--I used -to pray to God that he would not fall through--once remarked that if -he ever had the good fortune to be shipwrecked on a desert island, he -would like it to be with the entire population of the Prince of Wales -Road, whom he thought the most interesting collection of people in the -world. I thought so, too, and wrote a very bad novel about them, called -_Intellectual Mansions, S. W._ That book appeared in the time of the -militant suffragettes who were playing hell in London, and as my chief -lady character happened to be a suffragette, they claimed it as their -own, bought up the whole edition, bound it in their colors of purple, -green, and white, and killed it stone dead. - -I came to know G. K. Chesterton at that time, and every time I saw him -admired more profoundly his great range of knowledge, his immense wit -and fancy, his genial, jolly, and passionately sincere idealism. From -my ground-floor flat, every morning at ten I used to observe a certain -ritual in his life. There appeared an old hansom cab, with an old horse -and an old driver. This would be kept waiting for half an hour. Then G. -K. C. would descend, a spacious and splendid figure in a big cloak and -a slouch hat, like a brigand about to set forth on a great adventure, -and though he was bound no further than Fleet Street, it was adventure -enough, leading to great flights of fancy and derring do. After him -came Mrs. Chesterton, a little figure almost hidden by her husband’s -greatness. When Chesterton got into the cab, the old horse used to -stagger in its shafts, and the old cab used to rock like a boat in a -rough sea. - -At luncheon time I often used to see G. K. C. in an Italian restaurant -in Fleet Street where, with a bottle of port wine at his elbow, and a -scribbling pad at his side, he used to write one of his articles for -_The Daily News_, chuckling mightily over some happy paradox, which had -just taken shape in his brain, and totally unconscious of any public -observation of his private mirth. - -As literary editor of _The Tribune_, I tried to buy Chesterton away -from _The Daily News_, at double the price they paid him, but he was -proof against this temptation. “_The Daily News_ has been very good -to me,” he said, “and though I loathe their point of view on many -subjects, I’m not going to desert them now.” He agreed, however, -to contribute to _The Tribune_ from time to time, and as I had -arranged the matter, he had a kindly feeling toward me which led to -an embarrassing but splendid moment in my life. At a preliminary -banquet given by the proprietor of that unfortunate paper to a crowd -of distinguished people who utterly neglected to buy it, G. K. -Chesterton sat, as one of the chief guests, at the high table. I had -been obscurely placed at the back of the room, and this distressed the -noble and generous soul of my good friend. When he was asked to speak, -he made some general and excellent observations, and then uttered such -a panegyric of me that I was dissolved in blushes, especially when he -raised his glass and asked the company to drink to me. Some of them, -including the proprietor, were not altogether pleased with this -demonstration in my favor, but, needless to say, I cherish it. - -Among my happy recollections of G. K. C. is one day at luncheon hour -when he was “guyed” by a group of factory girls in Fleet Street, and -took their playfulness with jovial humor, careless of his dignity; and -an evening at the Guildhall when King Albert of Belgium was the guest, -and I encountered Chesterton afterward wandering in the courtyard like -the restless ghost of a roistering cavalier, afraid to demand his hat -from the flunkeys, because he had not the necessary shilling with which -to tip them. - -Chesterton is one of the great figures of literary England, and will -live in the history of our own time as one of the wittiest and wisest -men, worthy of a place in the portrait gallery of the immortals. His -great figure, his overflowing humor, his splendid simplicity of faith -in the ancient code of liberty and truth, put him head and shoulders -above the standardized type of little “intellectuals” with whom the -world is crowded. - -I have the pleasantest recollections of “Intellectual Mansions,” -Battersea Park, but, after living there for four years or so, I -moved over the bridge to the little house I have already mentioned, -in Holland Street, Kensington, a few yards away from the old world -Paradise, Kensington Gardens. It was a little house in a little street, -which I still think the most charming in London, with fine old Georgian -mansions mixed up with little old shops, so that an admiral lived -next to a chimney sweep, and that great artist, Walter Crane, was two -doors or so removed from an oil and colorman, who sold everything from -treacle to paraffin. We had everything in Holland Street that adds to -the charm of life--a public house at the corner, a German band which -played all the wrong notes once a week, just as it ought to do, and a -Punch and Judy show. - -A near neighbor and close friend of mine at that time was E. W. -Hornung, the author of _Raffles_ and many better books not so famous. -He was the brother-in-law of Conan Doyle, whose enormous success with -Sherlock Holmes probably set his mind working on the character of that -gentlemanly thief, Raffles, with whom, personally, I had no sympathy at -all. - -Hornung and I used to “jaw” about books and writing, and, as an obscure -journalist and unsuccessful author, I used to stand in awe of his fine -house, his powerful motor car, his son at Eton. He was a heavily built -man, with a lazy manner and a certain intolerance of view which made -him despise Socialists, radicals, or any critics of the British Empire -and the old traditions, but I came to know the underlying sweetness -and sentiment of his character, and his passion of patriotism. He used -to drive me sometimes to places like Richmond Park and Windsor Forest, -and there we used to walk about under the trees, discussing the eternal -subject of books. Deep peace was about us in those old woods. Neither -he nor I imagined in our wildest flights of fancy that one day he would -be living in a hole in the ground under the ruins of Arras, and that -life and death would knock all thought of books out of our minds. - -His boy was his greatest pride, a fine lad, fresh from Eton, and -steeped in the old traditions which Hornung thought gave the only grace -to the code of an English gentleman. (He had no patience with any -other school of thought.) The boy stood one day on the curbstone in -High Street Kensington, on a day after war had been declared and the -streets were placarded with posters, “Your King and Country Need You.” -He raised his hat to my wife, and said, “Do you think I ought to join -up?” He joined up, like all boys of his age, and, like most of them in -the list of second lieutenants, at that time, was killed very soon. His -letters from the front were full of faith and pride. He loved his men, -the splendor of being an officer, the thought of the great adventure -ahead for England’s sake. He did not live into the times of disillusion -and the dull routine of mud and misery.... - -His father was broken-hearted. His only idea now was how to get out to -the front, in spite of being too old for soldiering, and too heavy, and -too asthmatical. It was my idea that he should join the Y.M.C.A., and -he seized it gladly as a chance of service and heart healing. I met him -in his hut at Arras, serving out tea to muddy Tommies, finding a man, -now and then, to his enormous joy, who knew his son. Always he was in -the spiritual presence of that boy of his. For the sake of that, and -for the men’s sake, he endured real agonies of physical discomfort in -a drafty hut, with a stove which would not burn, and cocoa as his only -drink. The fastidious author of _Raffles_, who had been particular -about his creature comforts, and careful of the slightest draft! - -He started a lending library for soldiers in the trenches, and I lent -him a hand with it now and then. It was in a hut on the ruins of the -Town Hall of Arras and because of the daily bombardment, he slept at -night in a dugout below an avalanche of stones. I promised to give a -lecture to his men on the history of Arras, and “mugged it up” from -old books in an old château. The date was announced, and posted up on -a placard. It was the 21st of March, 1918! No British soldier needs -reminding of the meaning of that date. It was when 114 German divisions -attacked the British line and all hell was let loose, and, for a time, -the bottom seemed to fall out of the world. - -I did not deliver that lecture. I was away at the south of the line, -recording frightful happenings. But I heard afterward, from Hornung, -that through the smoke and dust of heavy shelling which churned up old -rubbish heaps of ruins in Arras, two Scottish soldiers in tin hats -loomed up to hear the lecture.... Poor Hornung survived the war, but -not long. His soul was eager for that meeting with his son. - -One visitor of mine in the little house in Holland Street, which was -often overcrowded with a mixed company of writers, artists, and odd -folk, was a distinguished little man who came only when there was no -one else about. At least, he preferred it that way, using my house -as a little retreat from the madding world. This was Monsignor Hugh -Benson, the famous preacher and novelist. The son of an Archbishop of -Canterbury, he had shocked his family by joining the Catholic Church, -in which he found perpetual adventure and delight. He loved its ritual, -its color, its legends, its romance, its history, its music, and its -faith, like a small child in a big old house constantly discovering new -wonders, mysteries, and enchanting treasures. He had the heart of a -boy, and an enthusiasm for life and work which would not let him take -any rest. As a preacher, he was constantly flying about the country -for special sermons and missions, and he preached, or, as he used to -say, “praught,” with a passion that almost choked him and tore him to -pieces. In spite of a painful little stutter, and intense shyness, he -was extraordinarily eloquent, and every sermon was crammed with hard -thinking, for he did not rely on sentiment for his effect, but on sheer -intellectual reasoning. - -That was only one part of his day’s work. He had an enormous -correspondence with people of all denominations or none, who used to -write to him for advice and help, and every letter he received he -answered as though his own life depended on it. - -At my house he used to go to his bedroom at ten o’clock to deal with -the day’s budget. But when that was done with, he used to get out -a manuscript book and begin to enjoy himself. That was when he was -writing one of his novels--and as soon as one was finished, he began -another. - -“My dearest dream of Heaven,” he told me once, “is to be writing a -novel which goes well and is never finished. What more perfect bliss -than that?” - -Among his other passions--and all he liked he loved--was music, and -he used to strike wonderful chords on my piano, and one particular -combination of notes which he called the “deep sea chord,” because, if -you shut your eyes and listened, you could hear deep waters rushing -overhead! - -He killed himself by overwork, and I heard of his death when I was -crossing a field outside Dixmude, which was a blazing ruin, in the -autumn of the first year of war. - -He used to envy my place in Fleet Street, and say that if he were not a -priest, he would like to be a journalist. - - - - -XIII - - -It is most astonishing as a reminder of the rapid progress of -mechanical science during the past twenty-one years that a journalist -like myself, still young, and almost a babe compared with veterans -of Fleet Street still on active service, should have seen the first -achievements in aviation, the first motor cars plying for hire in the -streets, and the first moving pictures--three inventions that have -changed our human destiny and mentality in an incalculable way, and the -last not least. - -It was, I think, in 1900 that I encountered the first motor “taxi” -in Paris, one of those rattle-bone machines which, as far as Paris -is concerned, have not improved enormously since that time. But it -seemed nothing short of a miracle then, and it was not until several -years later than they ousted the dear old hansom of London, which now -survives only as a historical relic. - -It is difficult to think back to the time when the klip-klop of horses’ -hoofs was the most characteristic noise of London by night, when one -sat in quiet rooms above the street. It had a sound of its own, and a -touch of romance which is missed by the older generation, accustomed -now to the honking of motor horns. The younger generation cannot -imagine life without that trumpeting. - -I remember being sent by my paper to describe a night journey in a -motor car as a new and exciting adventure, as it certainly was to me -at that time when I traveled down to the Lands End, and saw, for the -first time, the white glare of headlights on passing milestones and -bewildered cattle, and passed through little sleeping villages where -the noise of our coming was heard as a portent, by people who jumped -out of bed and stared through the window blinds. In those days a man -who owned a car was regarded as a very rich and adventurous fellow, -as well as something of a freak, and he was ridiculed with immense -enjoyment by pedestrians when he was discovered, frequently, lying in -the mud beneath his machine which had hopelessly broken down. Indeed, -many people had a passionate hostility to motorists and motoring, and -a great friend of mine so hated the sight of an automobile that he -used to throw stones after them. He was a rich man, with carriages and -horses, which he vowed he would never abandon for “a filthy, stinking -motor car.” Now he never moves a yard without one. I am the only -consistent enemy of motor cars left in the world. I hate them like -poison. - -For professional purposes, however, I have been a great motorist, and -I suppose that during the four and a half years of war I must have -covered sixty thousand miles. I have hired motors in England, France, -Italy, Portugal, Spain, Germany, Austria, Poland, Russia, Turkey, Asia -Minor, and the United States. I have had every sort of accident that -may happen to a motorist this side of death. Wheels have come off and -gone rolling ahead of me down steep hills. Axles have broken beneath -me. I have been dashed into level crossing gates, I have escaped an -express train by something like three inches, and I have had my car -smashed to bits by a collision with a lorry which laid my right arm out -of action for three months. - -Yet I was not such a “hoodoo” as a motorist as a delightful friend of -mine named Coldstream. Whenever he sat in a motor car he used to expect -something to happen to it, and it always did. The door handle would -drop off, just as a preliminary warning. Then one of the cylinders -would miss fire, as another sign of impending disaster. Then the back -axle would break, or something would happen to prevent any further -journey. Once, going with him from Arras to Amiens, we put two motor -cars out of action, and then borrowed an ambulance, about ten miles -from Amiens. After the first four miles it broke down hopelessly, and, -finally, we had to walk the rest of the way. - -Moving pictures have caused something like a revolution in social life, -and on balance I believe they have been and are an immense boon to -mankind--and womankind, especially in small country towns and villages -which, until that invention, had no form of entertainment beyond an -occasional magic-lantern show, or “penny reading.” They bring romance -and adventure to the farm laborer, the errand boy, the village girl, -and the doctor’s daughter, and despite a lot of foolish stuff shown -on the screen, give a larger outlook on life, and some sense of the -beauty and grace of life, to the great masses. They give them also -a comparison of the present with the past, and of one country with -another. Perhaps in showing the contrast between one class and another, -in extremes of luxury and penury, they are creating a spirit of social -discontent which may have serious consequence--but that remains to be -seen. - -I was an actor, for journalistic purposes, in one of the first film -dramas ever produced in England. The first scene was an elopement by -motor car, and the little company of actors and actresses assembled in -the front garden of a large empty mansion in a suburb in the southeast -of London, namely Herne Hill. The heroine and the gentleman who played -the part of her irate father entered the house, and disappeared. - -Meanwhile a number of business men of Herne Hill, on their way to -work in the city, as well as various tradesmen and errands boys, were -astonished by the sight of two motor cars, half concealed behind the -bushes in the drive, and by the group of peculiar-looking people, -apparently engaged in some criminal enterprise. They were still more -astonished and alarmed at the following events: - -(1) A good-looking youth advanced toward the house from a hiding place -in the bushes, and threw pebbles at a window of the house. - -(2) The window opened, and a beautiful girl appeared and wafted kisses -to the boy below. Then disappeared. - -(3) The front door opened, and the beautiful girl rushed into the arms -of the boy. After ardent embraces, he came with her to one of the motor -cars, placed her inside, and drove off at a furious pace. - -(4) Another window in the house opened, and an elderly gentleman looked -out, waving his arms in obvious indignation, bordering on apoplexy. - -(5) Shortly afterward, he rushed out of the front door after the -departing motor car (which had made several false starts), with -clenched fists, and the words, “My God! My God!... My daughter! My -daughter!” - -By this time the Herne Hill inhabitants gathered at the gate were -excited and distressed. One gentleman shouted loudly for the police. -Another chivalrously remarked that he was no spoil-sport, and if the -girl wanted to elope, it was none of their business. A fox terrier -belonging to the butcher boy, ran, barking furiously, at the despairing -father, who was still panting down the drive. Then the usual policeman -strolled up and said, “What’s all this ’ere?” Explanation and laughter -followed. Nothing like it had ever been seen before in respectable -Herne Hill, but they had heard of the cinema and its amazing drama. So -this was how it was done! Well, well! - -Astonishing things happened in that early film drama, as old as the -hills now, but novel and sensational then. The irate father giving -chase in another powerful motor, (which moved at about ten miles an -hour) was arrested by bogus policemen with red noses, thrown off the -scent by comic tramps, and finally blown up in an explosion of the car, -creating terror in a Surrey village, which thought that anarchists were -loose. After many further incidents the runaway couple were married -in a little old church--I walked in front of the camera as one of the -guests--while two of the actors were posted as spies to give warning -of any approach of the country clergyman. He, dear man, appeared in -the opposite direction, and was horrified to find a wedding going on -without his knowledge, and an unknown parson (who had dressed behind -a hedge) officiating in the most unctuous way. For me it was a day of -unceasing laughter, for there was something enormously ludicrous about -the surprise of the passers-by, who could not guess at what was the -real meaning of the mock drama. Now it is a commonplace, and no one is -surprised when a company of film actors takes possession of the road. - -Looking back upon the almost miraculous progress of aviation, it seems -to me, and to many others, that humanity rose very high and fell very -low when it discovered at last the secret of flight. For thousands -of years, perhaps from the days when primitive man stood in a lonely -world and watched the easy grace, the swift and joyous liberty of the -birds above his head, there has been in the soul of man the dream of -that power to fly. Men lost their lives in vain attempts, as far back -as the myth of Icarus, whose waxed wings melted in the sun. Scientists -studied the mechanism of birds, tethered their imagination to rising -kites, sought vainly for the power to lift a heavy body from the earth. -At last it was found in the petrol-driven engine, and men were seen to -rise higher than the clouds, and to travel through the great spaces -of the sky like gods. A pity that this achievement came just in time -for world war, and that the power and beauty of flight was used for -dropping death upon crowded cities and the armies of youth, crouching -in ditches beneath those destroying dragons! - -I had no clear vision of that, in spite of the wonderful prophecy of -H. G. Wells, when I watched the first feeble attempts of the early -aviators in England and France. Those first aviation meetings did not -promise mastery of the air except by the eye of faith. For hours, and -sometimes for days, we waited on the edge of flat fields while men like -Graham White, Latham, Blériot, Hamel, and other pioneers whose names, -alas! I have forgotten--there is something terrible and tragic in that -quick forgetfulness of heroic adventure--tinkered with their machines, -stared at the wind gauge, would not risk the light breeze that blew, -or rose a little, after running like lame ducks around the field, and -crashed again like wounded birds. Death took a heavy toll of them. -There was hardly one of those early meetings in which I did not see one -or more fatal accidents. - -I was close to the Hon. Charles Rolls, a very gallant and splendid -fellow, when he fell. That was at the meeting in Bournemouth which I -have mentioned before, when the Mayor challenged noonday itself in -an artificial nose, and everybody seemed bewitched by some spell of -midsummer madness. There was a flower carnival in progress and pretty -girls all in white and sprigged muslin, mounted on floral cars, flung -confetti and bouquets at the crowd, who pelted them back. From the -flying field, while this was going on, Charles Rolls rose in his -machine to perform an evolution which had been set as a competition. It -was a death trap at that period of flying, for he had to fly four sides -of a small square, and then alight in the center of it. No breeze was -stirring, or very little, and the sky was cloudless. But rising sharply -to form one side of the square, Rolls’s machine side slipped and fell -like a stone. His body lay there for a moment before the spectators -were conscious of tragedy. Then they rushed toward him.... A few yards -away, the floral cars continued their procession, and the pretty girls -pelted the laughing crowds with blossoms. - -That was later than the beginning of flight. The first time I realized -the almost limitless possibilities of heavier-than-air machines was at -Doncaster, when Colonel Cody was among the competitors. The Doncaster -meeting had been a great failure from the public point of view. There -was very little flying, owing to bad weather and elementary aëroplanes. -The aviators sulked in their tents, and the gloomy atmosphere was -deepened by some financial troubles of the organizers, so that the -gate money was seized to liquidate their debts. At least, that was the -rumor, as I remember it. But there was one cheerful man, ever ready -with a friendly word and jest. That was Colonel Cody who, after many -kite-flying experiments, on behalf of the British government, which -had failed to give him any financial aid, was putting the finishing -touches to a homemade biplane, with the help of his son. It was a -monstrous and clumsy affair. It had great struts of bamboo, an enormous -spread of wing space, and a petrol tank weighing half a ton. This -structure, which was tied up with string, and old wire, and bits of -iron, was nicknamed St. Paul’s Cathedral, and Noah’s Ark, and all -kinds of ridiculous names, by correspondents who did not believe in -its powers of flight. But they loved to talk to old Cody, dressed like -“Buffalo Bill” (though he was no relation of the original Colonel Cody -of showman fame), with long hair which he used to wind up under his -hat and fasten with an enormous bodkin with which he also used to pick -his teeth. I laughed loud and long at the first sight of his immense -aëroplane, and refused to credit his childlike assertion that it would -fly like a bird. But one morning early, he enlisted volunteers to haul -it out of its hangar and set its engine going with the noise of seven -devils. “Poor old Cody!” said a friend of mine. “One might as well try -to fly with a railway engine!” - -Hardly were the words out of his mouth, than the great thing rose, -and not like a bird, but gracefully and gently as a butterfly, was -wafted above our heads, and flew steadily across the field. We chased -it, shouting and cheering. It seemed to us like a miracle. It was a -miracle--man’s conquest of flight. - -Presently, after three minutes, I think, “something happened.” The -great aëroplane staggered back, flagged, and took a nose-dive to earth, -where it lay with its engine dug deep into the soil and a confusion -of twisted wires and broken canvas about it. With two or three other -men--among them a brilliant and well-remembered journalist, Harold -Ashton--I ran forward, breathlessly, and helped to drag Cody from -beneath the wreckage, dazed and bloody, but not badly hurt. His first -words were triumphant: “What did I tell you, boys? It flew like a bird!” - -It was patched up again, and flew again, until Cody was killed. He was -truly one of the heroic pioneers, obstinate in faith, heavily in debt, -unhelped by any soul, except that son of his who believed in “the old -dad.” It was he who cured me of scepticism. After seeing his heavy -machine fly around the course, I knew that the game had been won, and -that one day, not one man, but many, might be carried in an aëroplane -on great strong wings. - -Edgar Wallace, war correspondent, novelist, poet, and great-hearted -fellow, was at Doncaster with Harold Ashton and others, and I remember -we played poker, which was new to me, after the day’s work. The -landlord of the inn in which we stayed watched the game for a few -minutes, and saw Wallace scoop the pool with a royal flush. The old -man’s eyes fairly bulged in his head. “It’s a great game, that!” he -remarked, and insisted on taking a hand. Wallace had phenomenal luck -with his hands and so raked the landlord’s money out of his pockets -that he fled in dismay. “It’s a devil’s game!” was his final verdict. -However, that has nothing to do with the triumph of flight, except on -the part of the landlord. - -Another revelation of progress rapidly achieved happened at Blackpool, -which coincided with the Doncaster meeting. I went on from one to the -other and found the weather at Blackpool frightful, from the point of -view of flying. Rain poured down heavily, and the wind was violent--so -savage, indeed, across the flat fields of the flying ground that it -uprooted the poles of the press tent and made the canvas flap like -clothes hung out to dry on a gusty day. Before this pavilion finally -collapsed in the gale, I used it as a writing place, and remember -sitting there with Bart Kennedy, with our collars tucked up, trying to -keep our paper dry and our tempers cool. Bart Kennedy who, as a young -man, had tramped about the world, not as a literary adventurer but as -a real vagabond of the old style, earning his bread by casual labor, -discovered in later life the gift of words, which he used in a crude, -forceful, ungrammatical, but somewhat biblical, style to describe his -experiences of life in the wild places of the world, and the philosophy -which he had extracted therefrom. He posed as a rebel and a man of -primitive soul in the artificial environment of civilization, and was -adopted by the Harmsworth Press as an amusing freak. Although he was -conscious of his own pose, and played it for all it was worth, it was -based on sincerity. He was truly a rebel and a natural man, with the -honesty, brutality, simplicity, and courage of the backwoodsman. In -that tent at Blackpool, I remember his talking to a carpenter who was -trying to fix the tent poles. - -“Say, old friend, have you ever heard of Jack Cade?” - -The carpenter scratched his head, thoughtfully. - -“Can’t say I remember any lad of that name. He isn’t one of my pals.” - -“He was a carpenter like you,” said Bart Kennedy. “Lived five hundred -years ago, and tried to gain liberty for the workingmen of England. An -honest rebel, was Jack Cade. Why don’t you fellows learn the spirit of -revolt? You’re all as tame as sheep, without the pluck of a louse.” - -The collapse of the tent interrupted this dialogue, in which “Bart,” -as we called him, endeavored to raise rebellion against the British -Constitution. - -There was “half a gale,” as seamen would have called it, with the wind -at sixty miles an hour, and to the amazement of the spectators, who had -given up all hopes of watching a flight that day, an aviator mounted -into the fury of the storm. It was Latham, the most dare-devil of the -early adventurers of flight, the most passionate and ill-tempered -of them. I think it was a kind of rage which made him go up that -afternoon. He was “fed up” with waiting for moderate weather, and with -the little ladies who surrounded him with adulation and rivalry, as -many of those aviators were surrounded by girls who were their hero -worshipers and their harpies. It was the most astounding flight that -had been seen up to that time. Latham’s machine was like a frail craft -in a rough sea. The wind furies shrieked, and tried to tear this thing -to pieces. It staggered and strained, and seemed to be tossed like a -bit of paper in that wild wind. At times the power of the engine seemed -to be exactly equaled by the force of the wind, and it remained aloft, -making no progress but shuddering, as it were, until Latham wrenched it -round and evaded the direct blast. He flew at a terrific speed, with -the wind behind him, rising and dipping with tilted wings, like a sea -gull in a storm. The correspondents on the press stand went a little -mad at the sight and rose and cheered hoarsely, with a sense of fear, -because this man seemed to be courting death. We expected him to crash -at any moment. One voice rose above all the others, and roared out -words which I have never forgotten. “You splendid fool! Come down! Come -down!” - -It was Barzini, the Italian correspondent, the most brilliant -descriptive writer in the world. Like an Italian of the Medici family, -with long nose and olive skin and dark liquid eyes, Latham’s heroic -exploit stirred him to a passion of emotion, and tears poured down his -face. His description of that flight was one of the finest things I -have ever read. - -One of the most exciting episodes of those early days of record -making was when Graham White competed with Paulhan in a race from -London to Manchester. With Ernest Perris, the news editor of _The -Daily Chronicle_, and Rowan, one of the correspondents, I set out in -a powerful motor car to follow the flight, which began shortly before -dark. Graham White’s plan was to fly by night--the first time such an -exploit had been attempted--and he thought that our headlights might -help as some guide outside London. We lost him almost at once, and -after a wild motor ride at a breakneck pace in the darkness, decided -that we should never see him again. He had probably hit a tree, and was -lying dead in some field. Many other correspondents had motored out, -but we lost them all, and halted at the side of a lonely road where we -heard voices shouting to each other in French. - -“Perhaps they are Graham White’s mechanics,” I said to Perris. - -This guess proved to be right, and upon inquiry from the men, we found -that Graham White had had engine trouble, and had alighted in some -garden not far from where we stood. - -It was a little country village, though I cannot recollect its name -or whereabouts, and after tramping across fields, we saw a house with -lights shining from all its windows. It was the village rectory, remote -from the world and all the excitements of life, until, out of the -darkness, a great bird had dropped into the garden, with the noise of -a dragon. From the wings of the bird a young man, dirty, half-dazed, -freezing cold, and drunk with fatigue, staggered out, banged at the -door, and asked for food and a place to sleep. The clergyman’s wife -and the clergyman’s daughter rose to the occasion, as Englishwomen do -in times of crisis. They dressed themselves, made some coffee, cooked -some boiled eggs, lighted big fires, and unfroze the bird man. He was -already abed, after a plea to be called at the first gleam of dawn, -when we arrived. Presently other motorists arrived, all cold and hungry -and muddy. The country rectory was invaded by these wild-looking people -and the clergyman’s pretty daughter, with shining eyes, served us -all with coffee and eggs, and seemed to enjoy the excitement as the -greatest thing that had happened in her life. I have no recollection -of the clergyman. I dare say the poor man was bewildered by the sudden -tumult in his house of peace, and left everything to his capable wife -and the swift grace of his little daughter. - -Before the dawn Graham White was down from his bed, thoroughly -bad-tempered and abominably rude, for which there was ample excuse, as -word was brought that Paulhan was well ahead, although he, too, had -dropped into a field. Perris and I urged him not to fly again before -daybreak, but he told us to go to the devil, and insisted on getting -away in the darkness. We took to the car again, waited until we heard -the roar of Graham White’s engines, and saw him pass overhead like a -great black bat. Then we chased him again, and lost him again. He came -to earth with more engine trouble in a ploughed field not long after -dawn. A little crowd of people gathered round him, and I saw some of -the correspondents who had started from London at the same time as -ourselves--now disheveled, pale, and dirty in the bleak dawn. One young -man, belonging to the old _Morning Leader_, I think, carried a red silk -cushion. His car lay overturned in a ditch, but he still clung to the -cushion, he told me, as his one hold on the actuality of life, which -seemed nothing but a mad dream. - -Another historic event was the All-round-England race, which became a -duel between two famous Frenchmen, Vedrennes and Beaumont. The first -named was a rough, brutal, foul-mouthed mechanic, with immense courage -and skill. The second was a naval officer of most charming and gallant -personality. Beaumont came back to Brooklands after his successful and -wonderful flight, only a few minutes ahead of Vedrennes. A great crowd -of men and women, in which there were a number of pretty ladies who had -motored out early from London, had assembled at Brooklands to cheer -the winner, but, as always among English crowds, their sympathy was -excited by the man who had just missed the first prize. When Vedrennes -appeared in sight, there was a rush to meet him. He stepped out of -his machine, and looked fiercely around. When some one told him that -Beaumont had arrived first, he raised both his clenched fists and cried -out a foul and frightful oath--fortunately in French. Then he burst -into tears, and, looking round in a dazed way, asked if there was any -woman who would kiss him. A little Frenchwoman in the crowd stepped -shyly out, and Vedrennes flung his greasy arms about her and kissed -her emotionally. It was characteristic of the French soul that in the -moment of his tragic disappointment he should have sought a woman’s -arms, like a boy who goes to his mother in distress. I have never -forgotten that little episode, and I have seen similar things in time -of war. - -It was Alfred Harmsworth and _The Daily Mail_ which put up all the -prizes for these record-making flights, and the man who was afterward -Lord Northcliffe deserved all the honor he gained for his generous and -farseeing encouragement of aviation. It was he who offered a big prize -for a cross-Channel flight, which then sounded almost beyond the bounds -of possibility. Latham was the first favorite for that prize, and was -determined to gain it. His first attempt was a failure, and he fell -into the sea, and was picked up smoking a cigarette as he clung to the -wreckage of his plane. After that, he established himself at the other -side of the Channel, at a little place called Sangatte, near Calais, -and waited for some improvements to his engine, and favorable weather. - -Another competitor and pioneer, named Blériot, was tinkering about with -a monoplane on the same strip of coast, but nobody seemed to think much -of his chances. - -_The Daily Mail_ had an immense staff of correspondents on both sides -of the Channel, and a wireless installation by which they could signal -to each other. Without any assistance of that kind, I had to keep my -eye on both sides of the Channel, which I crossed almost every day -for about a fortnight. Latham was vague about the possibilities of -his start. He might go any morning at dawn. But morning after morning -passed, and the French destroyers which had been lent by the French -government to patrol the Channel, in case he fell in again, prepared -to steam away. Several correspondents--English and French--used to -spend the night on a Calais tugboat lying off Sangatte, and I joined -them there the night before Latham assured us all that he would go next -day. Something happened at that time to Latham--I think his nerve gave -way temporarily, owing to the strain of waiting and continued engine -trouble. He went about looking depressed and wretched, and he was as -white as a sheet after an interview with the commander of a French -destroyer, who informed him that he could wait no longer. - -I crossed over to Dover, deciding that the English side might be the -best place to wait, after all, especially as nobody seemed likely to -cross. That very morning Blériot came over in his aëroplane like a -bird, and there was not a soul to see him come. _The Daily Mail_ staff -were in bed and asleep, and I and other men of other papers were, by -a lucky fluke, first on the scene to greet the man who had done the -worst thing that has ever been done to England--though we did not guess -it at the time. For, by flying across the Channel, he robbed us for -all time of our island security and made that “silver streak,” which -has been our safeguard from foreign foes, no more than a puddle which -might be crossed in a few minutes along the highway of the air. After -Blériot came the bombing Gothas of the German army, and now, without -air defense, we lie open to any enemy as an easy target for his bombs -and poison gas. - -It was in the war that I completed my studies of aviation and its -conquest. On mornings of great slaughter, scores of times, hundreds of -times, I saw our boys fly out as heralds of a battle. Day after day, -year after year, I saw that war in the air which became more intense, -which crowded the sky with single combats and great tourneys, as the -numbers of squadrons were increased by the Germans and ourselves. I saw -the enemy’s planes and our own shot down, so that the battlefields were -littered with their wreckage. - -In fair weather and foul they went out on reconnaissance, signaled to -the guns, fought each other to the death. The mere mechanical side -of flight had no more secrets, it seemed. The little “stunts” of the -pioneer days, the records of speed and height, were made ridiculous -by the audacities and exploits of aviation in war. Our young men were -masters of the machine, and flight seemed as natural and easy to them -as to the birds who were scared at their swift rush of wings. They flew -through storms of shrapnel, skimmed low above enemy trenches, dropped -flaming death into cities and camps. The enemy was not behindhand in -courage and skill, not less lucky in human target practice, rather -more ruthless in bomb dropping over civilian populations whose women -and babes were killed in their beds. After tax collecting by bombing -aëroplanes in Mesopotamia, we cannot be self-righteous now. The beauty -and the power of flight came very quickly to mankind after Cody went up -in that old homemade ’bus, and crashed after a few moments of ecstasy. -And mankind has used it as a devil’s gift. - - - - -XIV - - -During one of those periods when I deliberately broke the chains of -regular journalism in order to enjoy the dangerous liberty of a free -lance, I made a bid for fortune by writing some one-act plays, and one -three-act play. - -I had gained some knowledge of stage technique and of that high mystery -known as “construction,” as a dramatic critic, when, for six months, -I acted for William Archer, the master critic, during his absence -in the United States. This knowledge, I may say at once, was not of -the slightest use to me, because technique cannot take the place of -inspiration--Barrie and others have exploded its traditions--and I -suffered the usual disappointments of the novice in that most difficult -art. - -To some extent I had the wires greased for me by my brother, Cosmo -Hamilton, and it was his influence, and his expert touches to my little -drama “Menders of Nets,” which caused it to be produced at the Royalty -Theater, with a distinguished cast, including the beautiful Beryl Faber -and that great actor Arthur Holmes-Gore. It was well received, and I -had visions of motor cars and other fruits of success, which suddenly -withered when the announcement was made that the play was to be -withdrawn after a few performances. What had happened was an ultimatum -presented to Otho Stuart, the manager of the Royalty Theater, by Albert -Chevalier who, in the same bill, was playing another one-act drama, -called “The House.” My “Menders of Nets” played for something over an -hour, and ended in a tragic scene in a fisherman’s cottage. When the -curtain rang up again for Albert Chevalier, the second play began with -gloom and tragedy in the same key as mine, and the audience had had -enough of this kind of atmosphere. “Either ‘Menders of Nets’ must be -changed,” said Chevalier, “or I withdraw ‘The House.’” That, anyhow, -was the explanation given to me, and off came my piece. - -This blow was followed by another, more amazing. Three other one-act -plays of mine were accepted by a gentleman reputed to be enormously -rich, who took one of the London theaters for a “triple bill” season. -Unfortunately, before the production of my little plays, he was -overwhelmed in debt, abandoned his theatrical schemes, and departed for -the Continent with the only copies of my three efforts, which I have -not seen or heard of from that day to this. - -Drama seemed to me too hazardous an adventure for a man who has to pay -the current expenses of life, and I turned to other forms of writing to -keep the little old pot boiling on the domestic hearth. I became for a -time a literary “ghost.” - -It is ironical and amusing that three books of mine which achieved -considerable financial success and obtained great and favorable -publicity were published under another man’s name. He wanted _kudos_, -and I wanted a certain amount of ready cash, in order to pay the rent -and other necessities of life. I agreed readily to write a book for -him--and afterward two more--for a certain fixed sum. As it happened, I -think he not only obtained the _kudos_, but a fair profit as well. As I -had been well paid, I was perfectly content. - -Some friends of mine, to whom I have mentioned this secret, without -giving away the name of the man who assumed the title of author, charge -me with having been guilty of an immoral and scandalous transaction. My -conscience does not prick me very sharply. As far as I was concerned, -I was guilty of no deceit, and no dishonesty. I provided a certain -amount of work, for which I was adequately paid, on condition that my -name was not attached to it. Journalists do the same thing day by day, -and the editor of the journal gets the credit. It is the other man who -must have felt uneasy and conscience-stricken, sometimes, because he -was a masquerader. But his sense of humor, his charm of personality, -and his generosity, made me take a lenient view of his literary -camouflage. - -I wrote another book, for another man, but in that case he was far more -entitled to the credit, because it was actually his narrative, and the -record of his own amazing adventures told to me, partly in French and -partly in broken English. This was a story of the sea, called _Fifteen -Thousand Miles in a Ketch_, by Captain Raymond Rallier du Baty, -published in England by Nelson’s. - -This young Frenchman is one of the most charming and courageous souls -I have ever met, and I look back with pleasure to the days when we -used to motor out to Windsor Forest and there, under the old oaks, -he used to spread out his charts and describe his amazing voyage in -a little fishing ketch, with his brother and a crew of six, from -Boulogne-sur-mer to Sidney, in Australia, stopping six months on the -way at the desert island of Kerguelen in the South Pacific, where they -lived like primitive men of the Paleolithic age, fighting sea lions -with clubs, to obtain their blubbers, and having strange and desperate -adventures in their exploration of this mountainous island. The -narrative I wrote from his spoken story was widely and enthusiastically -reviewed, and I remember _The Spectator_ went so far as to say that “it -was worthy to have a place on the bookshelf by the side of Robinson -Crusoe.” - -Raymond du Baty, that handsome, brown-eyed, quiet, and noble young -seaman of France, felt the call of the wild again after my acquaintance -with him, and returned to the desert island for further exploration. -After six months of solitude cut off from all the world and its news, -a steamer came to the island and brought with it tidings of a world -gone mad. It was Armageddon. Germany and Austria, Turkey and Bulgaria -were at war with France, Great Britain, and Russia. Other nations were -getting dragged in. The fields of Europe were drenched in the blood of -the world’s youth. France was sorely stricken, but holding out with -heroic endurance.... - -Imagine the effect of that news on a young Frenchman who had heard -no whisper of it, until its horror burst with full force upon him in -his island of eternal peace! He abandoned Kerguelen and went back to -France. Within a fortnight he had gained his pilot’s certificate as an -aviator, and was flying over the German lines with shrapnel bursting -about his wings. - -That, however, is later history, and takes me away from that second -period of free lancing in London when I did many different kinds of -work, and, on the whole, enjoyed the game. - -One little enterprise at this time which interested me a good deal -and enabled me to earn a considerable sum of money with hardly any -labor--a rare achievement!--was an idea which I proposed to _The Daily -Graphic_--for their correspondence column. My suggestion was to obtain -from well-known people their views and ideals on the subject of “The -Simple Life.” A further part of my amiable suggestion was that I should -be paid a certain fee for every column of the kind which I obtained -for the paper. The proposal was accepted, and my wife and I made a -careful selection of names, including princes and princesses, dukes and -duchesses, famous actors and actresses, society beauties, and, indeed, -celebrities of all kinds. I then drafted a letter in which I suggested, -in all sincerity, that our modern civilization had become too complex -and too materialistic, and expressed the hope that I might be favored -with an opinion on the possibility and advantages of a return to “The -Simple Life.” - -The response to these letters was amazing. Instinctively I had struck -a little note which caused a lively vibration of emotion and sympathy -in many minds. It was before the war or the shadow of war had fallen -over Europe, and when great numbers of people were alarmed by the lack -of idealism, the gross materialism, the frivolity, the decadence of -our social state. There was also a revolt of the spirit against the -artificiality of city life, a yearning for that “return to nature” -which was so strong a sentiment in France before the Revolution, -especially among the aristocratic and intellectual classes. - -Something of the sort was acting like yeast in the imagination -of similar classes in England and other countries. I received an -immense number of answers to my inquiry, and many of them were -extremely interesting and valuable as the revelation of that craving -for simplicity in ideals and conduct of life, and for a closer -touch with primitive nature and the beauty of eternal things. It -was characteristic, I think, that people of high rank and easy -circumstances were the warmest advocates of “The Simple Life.” The -correspondence continued for weeks and months, and my title became a -catchword on the stage, in _Punch_, and in private society. One of -the most beautiful letters I received--it contained more than three -thousand words--was from “Carmen Sylva,” describing a day in her -life as Queen of Roumania. Afterward a selection of the letters was -published in book form, and had a great success. - -Another task I undertook more for love than lucre (I received only -a nominal fee) was to help in the organization of the Shakespeare -Memorial Committee. A considerable sum of money had been bequeathed -by certain philanthropists for the purpose of honoring the memory of -Shakespeare and encouraging the study of his works, by some national -memorial worthy of his genius, as the world’s tribute to his immortal -spirit. The honorary secretary and most ardent promoter of this scheme -was Israel Gollancz--since knighted--a little professor at Oxford -and London, with an immense range of scholarship in Anglo-Saxon -and mediæval literature, and an insatiable capacity for organizing -committees, societies, academies, and other groups devoted to the -advancement of learning, and, anyhow, to agreeable social intercourse -and intellectual rendezvous. Meeting the professor in a bun shop, I -became enthusiastic with the idea of the Shakespeare Memorial, and -willingly offered to help him get his first General Committee and -organize a great public meeting at the Mansion House, to place the idea -of the Memorial before the nation with an appeal for funds. - -This work brought me into touch with many interesting people, apart -from Sir Israel himself, for whom I have always had an affectionate -regard, and among them I remember one of the grand old men of -England--Doctor Furnivall, editor of the Leopold Shakespeare. He was -over eighty years of age when I first met him, but he had the heart of -a boy, the gayety of D’Artagnan, the Musketeer, and the debonnair look -of an ancient cavalier. Every Sunday he used, even at that age, to take -out an eight of shopgirls on old Father Thames, and once every week -he held a reception at the top of a tea shop in Oxford Street, when -scholars old and young, journalists, and pretty ladies used to crowd -round him, enamored by his silvery grace, his exquisite courtesy, the -wit that played about his words like the mellow sunshine of an autumn -day. He was always very kind to me, and I loved the sight of him. - -I came to know another grand old man--of another type--in connection -with that work for the Shakespeare Committee. The first time I met -Lord Roberts, that little white falcon of England, whom often I had -seen riding in royal processions through the streets of London, with a -roar of cheers following him, was in his house in Portland Place when -I “touched” him for a donation to the Shakespeare Fund and persuaded -him to join the General Committee. He was going to a reception that -evening, and I remember him now, as he stood before me, a little old -soldier, in full uniform, with rows and rows of medals and stars, all -a-glitter, but not brighter than his keen eyes beneath their shaggy -brows. After listening to my explanation, he spoke of his love of -Shakespeare as a man might speak of his best comrade, and declared his -willingness to do any service for his sake. - -The next time I saw Lord Roberts was at one of those early aviation -meetings which I have described. I stood by his side, and he chatted to -me about the marvel of this coming conquest of the air. As he spoke an -aëroplane danced over the turf and rose and soared away, and the little -old man, cheering like a schoolboy, ran after it a little way with the -rest of the crowd, as young in spirit as any man there, sixty years his -junior. - -Toward the end of his life a shadow darkened his spirit, though it -did not dim his eyes or the fire that still burnt in him, as when, -half a century before, he blew up the gates of Delhi and brought -relief to the beleaguered survivors. He saw very clearly the approach -of the German menace to Europe and that war in which we should be -involved, unprepared, without a national army, with untrained men. -Again and again he tried to warn the nation of its impending peril, of -the tremendous forces preparing the destruction of its youth, and he -devoted the last years of his life in another attempt to induce Great -Britain to adopt some form of compulsory military service, without -avail. - -I remember traveling down to his house at Ascot on the morning -following one of those speeches in the House of Lords. I went to -ask him to write some reminiscences for a weekly paper. He would not -listen to that, and when we sat together in a first-class carriage on -the way to town (I had a third-class ticket!) he buried himself behind -_The Times_, and was disinclined to talk. But I was inclined to talk, -because it is not often that I should sit alone with “Our Bobs,” and -when I caught his eye over the top of _The Times_, I ventured a remark -which I thought might please him. - -“Powerful speech of yours, sir, last night!” - -He put down _The Times_, and stared at me, moodily. - -“Do you think so? Shall I tell you what the British people think of me?” - -“What is that, sir?” - -“They think I’m a damned old fool, scare mongering and raising silly -bogies. That’s what they think of my speech.” - -And it was true, and to some extent I agreed with them, as I must -confess, not believing much in the German menace, and believing anyhow -that by wise diplomacy, a little tact, friendly demonstrations to a -friendly folk, we might disarm the power of the military caste and -insure peace. - -“All the same,” said Lord Roberts, “I talk of what I know. Germany is -preparing for war--and we have no army such as we shall need when it -happens.” - -It was to my brother, Cosmo Hamilton, then editor of _The World_ in -London, that Lord Roberts detailed his scheme of military service. A -series of articles, published anonymously in that paper, attracted -considerable interest among the small crowd who believed in a big army -of defense, but no one knew that every word of them was dictated by -Lord Roberts to my brother, as his last message to the nation--before -the storm broke. - -It was fitting that the little old soldier whose life covered a great -span of our imperial history in so many wars, which now some of us -look back to without much pride except in the ceaseless courage and -the gay adventurous spirit of our officers and men, should die, if not -on the field of battle, then at least at General Headquarters within -sound of the guns. He had been a prophet of this war. Perhaps if we had -believed him more, and if our statesmen and people had realized the -frightful menace ahead, it might never have happened. But those “ifs” -belong to the irrevocable tragedy of history. - -I was a war correspondent in France when he died, but I came back to -England to attend his funeral and write my tribute to this great and -gallant old man who, in spite of a life of war, or because of it, had -a great tenderness in his heart for humanity, a love of peace, and -the chivalry which belonged, at least in ideal, to the old code of -knighthood. - -Going back to the subject of the Shakespeare Memorial Theater, it is -amusing to me to remember an interview I had which, at the time, was -rather painful. We were anxious to obtain the support of Alverstone, -the Lord Chief Justice, on the General Committee, and I drove up in a -hansom to his house in Kensington, to put the request before him. - -I wore that day a “topper” and a tail coat, and looked so extremely -respectable that I impressed the critical eyes of his lordship’s -footman. He explained that Lord Alverstone had been away on circuit but -was due back very shortly that afternoon. Perhaps I might like to wait -for him. I agreed, and was shown into the Lord Chief’s study, where I -waited for something like an hour. - -During that time I became aware that if I were of a curious and -dishonorable mind, I might learn many strange secrets in this room. -Bundles of letters and documents were lying on the Lord Chief’s desk. -The drawers were unlocked, as I could see by papers revealed in -them. A “crook” in this room might get hold of the seals, the writing -paper, the signature, and the private correspondence of the Lord Chief -Justice of England, and play a great game with them. It seemed to me -extraordinary that a footman should put an unknown visitor, on unknown -business, into this private room, and leave him there for nearly an -hour. - -The Lord Chief thought so, too. Just as I was becoming uneasy at my -position to the point of ringing the bell and going away, there was a -bang at the front door, followed by heavy footsteps in the hall. Then -I heard a deep and angry voice say, “Who is he?” A moment later the -door of the study was flung open and the great and rather terrifying -figure of Lord Alverstone strode in. He stared at me as though about to -sentence me to death, and I blenched under his gaze. - -“Who the devil are you?” he asked, with a growl of rage and suspicion. -“What the devil do you mean by taking possession of my study?” - -“Why did your footman show me in, and what do you mean by speaking -to me like that?” I answered, suddenly angered by his extraordinary -discourtesy. - -It was not a good introduction to the subject of Shakespeare. Nor was -it a respectful way of address to the Lord Chief Justice of England. -But my reply seemed to reassure him as to my respectability. He -breathed heavily for a moment, and then, in a mild voice, requested to -know my business. When I told him I wished to enlist his aid on the -Committee of the Shakespeare Memorial, a twinkle of humor came into his -eyes, and he asked me to sit down and have a cigar while we chatted -over the subject. He agreed to give his name and a subscription. Before -I left, he made a half apology for his burst of anger at the sight of -me. - -“There are lots of papers about this room.... I have to be careful.” - -Then he put his heavy hand in a friendly way on my shoulder and said, -“Glad you came.” - -I was jolly glad to go, but I thought in case of any accident that -might happen to me later it would be useful to have the favor of the -Lord Chief. I thought so when I saw him sitting below the sword of -justice, in all his terrible power. - -From the little flat in Overstrand Mansions my wife and I and a small -boy aged four sent out thousands of invitations on behalf of the -committee which included his name, to a general public meeting at the -Mansion House. The small boy trundled those bundles of letters in his -wheelbarrow to the pillar box and insisted upon being lifted up to -thrust them into the red mouth of that receptacle. We stuffed it full, -to the great annoyance, I imagine, of the postman. - -The public meeting was a splendid success. Israel Gollancz was happy, -Beerbohm Tree was brilliant. Anthony Hope made one of his charming -speeches. Bernard Shaw was surprisingly kind to Shakespeare. There were -columns about it in the newspapers. But though many years have passed, -the Shakespeare Memorial is still in the air, the Committee is still -quarreling with one another as to the best way of using their funds, -and Sir Israel Gollancz is still honorary secretary, trying in his -genial way to compromise between a hundred conflicting plans. - - - - -XV - - -In September of 1912 war broke out in the Balkans and, though we knew -it not at the time, it was the overture to another war in which the -whole world would be involved. - -This seemed to be no more than a gathering of semi-civilized -peoples--Serbia, Bulgaria, Greece, Montenegro--joined together in -military alliance and by an old heritage of hatred against the Turk -in Europe. Behind that combination, however, there were Great Powers, -watching this affair with jealous hostility, with brooding anxiety, and -with racial, dynastic, and financial interests closely touched. Russia -was behind Serbia, whose hatred of Austria was equaled only by its fear -that Austria might attack it in the rear when it marched against the -Turks. Germany was behind the Turks, afraid of a Russian intervention. -Serbia’s claim for “an open window,” on the Adriatic would not be -tolerated by the Austrian Empire. The Greek claim to Crete and the -dream of getting back to Asia Minor would arouse the jealousy of France -and Italy. There was in this Balkan business a devil’s brew to poison -the system of international relations, and behind the scenes corrupt -interests of armament firms, Jewish money lenders, international -financiers, were working in secret, sinister ways for great stakes. - -Before war was actually declared, I set out for Serbia, on the way -to Bulgaria, as “artist correspondent” of _The Graphic_ and _Daily -Graphic_, a title that amused me a good deal, as my artistic talent was -of a most elementary kind. All I was required to do, however, was to -provide the roughest sketches to be worked up by artists at home. - -I was excited by this chance of becoming a war correspondent, which -seemed to me the crown of journalistic ambition, and the heart of its -adventure and romance. I little knew then that my squalid experience -in this Balkan campaign would be but the first faint whiff of war with -which, two years later, like most other men of my age, I was to become -familiar in its daily routine, in the midst of its monstrous melodrama. - -Provided with enough notebooks and sketchbooks to write and illustrate -a history of the world, and enriched with a belt of gold which weighed -heavy and chafed my waistline, I had an uneventful journey as far -as the Danube below Belgrade. Then it brightened up a little. After -my passports had been examined by a fat Serbian officer in a highly -decorated uniform, my baggage was pounced on by a band of hairy -brigands who, without paying the slightest attention to me, proceeded -to fight among themselves for my bags. They shouted and cursed each -other, exchanging lusty blows, and it was full twenty minutes before -the victors piled my baggage into a miserable cab drawn by two starved -horses, and allowed me to go, after heavy payment. My driver whipped up -his bags of bones and started off on a wild career over the roads of -Belgrade, that is to say, over rock-strewn quagmires and gaping pits. -The carriage lurched from one side to another, with its wheels deep in -the ruts, or high on piles of stones, and at times it seemed to me that -only a miracle could save me from instant death. - -The city of Belgrade, perched high above the Danube, with old, narrow, -filthy streets within its walls, was filled with crowds of peasants -mobilized for the war which had not yet been declared. Many of them -had come from remote villages, and looked as if they had come from the -Middle Ages. Some wore sheepskin coats with the shaggy wool inside and -the skin decorated with crude paintings or garish embroideries. Others -had woolen vests and a loose undergarment reaching like a kilt to -their knees. Nearly all of them wore loose gaiters, worked with red -stitches, or white woolen buskins. Others wore flat, oval sandals, -almost as big as a tennis racquet, or shoes turned up at the toes with -sharp peaks. - -A wild cavalcade came riding down from the hills, like the hordes of -Ghengis Khan. Their black hair was long and matted, beneath sheepskin -caps or broad-brimmed hats. Pistols bristled in their red sashes, and -they stood up, yelling, above saddles made of fagots tied to a piece of -skin, cracking long whips, and urging on hairy little horses with rope -reins and stirrups. - -I had not been in Belgrade more than a few hours when I was arrested as -an Austrian spy. Anxious to begin work as an “artist correspondent,” -I made a rough sketch of a crowd of reservists waiting to entrain. -Suddenly two soldiers fell upon me, took me prisoner, and hauled -me through the streets, followed by a yelling crowd. Speaking only -Serbian, they paid no heed to my protests in English, French, and -German. In the police headquarters, I had the same difficulty with the -commandant, who had one language and perfect conviction that I was an -Austrian and a spy. After a weary time, when I thought of a white wall -and a firing party, an interpreter appeared and listened to my efforts -at explanation in bad German. The sketch was what alarmed them, as well -it might have done, if they had any artistic sense. Finally, I was -allowed to go, after a close investigation of my papers. - -That night news came that the Montenegrins had fired the first shots in -a war that was now certain, though still undeclared, and the streets -were thronged with crowds drunk with emotion. I went to a café filled -with Serbian officers, most of whom were amateur soldiers who had been -professors, lawyers, doctors, and business men in civil life. They -drank innumerable toasts, shouted and cheered, even wept a little. - -At my table one, who spoke English, raised his glass and said, “Here’s -to our first meal in Constantinople!” Later, having drunk much wine, he -confided to me in a whisper, that he was deeply anxious. No one knew -the power of the Turk, and he added gloomily, “War is an uncertain -thing.” - -There was an immense rally of correspondents, photographers, and cinema -men in Belgrade, all desperate to get to the front with the Serbians, -or the Bulgarians, or the Greeks. Some of the “old guard” were there, -like Frederic Villiers, Henry Nevinson, and Bennett Burleigh, who -had been in many campaigns before I was born. Frederic Villiers had -a wonderful kit, with a glorious leather coat, and looked a romantic -old figure. His pencil, his pocket knife, his compass, were fastened -to his waist belt by steel chains. He still played the part of the war -correspondent familiar in romantic melodrama. Among the younger crowd -was Percival Phillips, afterward my comrade from first to last in a -greater and longer war. It was then that I first become acquainted -with his rapid way on a typewriter, on which he rattled out words like -bursts of machine-gun fire. - -After waiting about Belgrade for some days, I left Serbia and traveled -to Sofia, the capital of Bulgaria, where I hoped to be attached to the -Bulgarian army. It was a horrible experience. Before the train started -there was a wild stampede by a battalion of reservists and Bulgarian -peasants. I narrowly escaped getting jabbed by long bayonets, as the -men scrambled on to the train, storming the doorways and clambering on -to the roof. When at last I got on board, I found myself wedged in the -corridor between piles of baggage, peasants, and soldiers. I had only -a piece of cheese and a little drop of brandy, and I cursed myself for -my folly when I found that the journey was likely to take two days. We -stopped at every wayside station, and were then turned out at night on -the platform at Sarabrot, hungry, chilled to the bone, with a biting -wind and hard frost, and without a place in which to lay our heads. - -Here we waited all night till dawn, and the one room in which there -was shelter from the wind was crowded to suffocation by peasants lying -asleep on their bundles, and was filled with a foul, sickening heat. -One fantastic figure stood among the Serbians with their peaked caps, -leather coats, and baggy white breeches. He wore a frock coat and tall -hat, and looked as though he had just stepped out of the Rue de Rivoli. -He was a French journalist on his way to the front! - -Outside the station door there was, all night long, the tramp of -soldiers, as battalion after battalion of Serbian troops marched up -to entrain for the front. Officers moved up and down the ranks with -lanterns which threw pallid rays of light upon these gray-clad men. -Presently a long troop train came into Sarabrot, and the soldiers were -packed into open trucks, so tightly that they could not move. Their -bayonets made a quickset hedge above each truck. They were utterly -silent. There was no laughing or singing now. These young peasants were -like cattle being carried to the slaughterhouses. - -It was a night of queer conversations for me. One man slouched up in -the dim light, and said, “I guess you’re an Englishman, anyhow?” I -returned the compliment, saying, “You’re an American, of course?” But I -was wrong. He was a Bulgarian who had been in America for a few years -and had now come back, in a thin flannel suit, and a straw hat, from a -township in the Western states. - -“I heard the call,” he told me, “and I’m ready to take my place in the -firing line. I’ll be glad to give hell to the Turks.” - -I was as dirty as a Bulgarian peasant, and exhausted with hunger, when -at last I reached Sofia. - -Still war had not been declared, but its spirit reigned in Sofia. -Outside the old white mosque, with its tall and slender minaret--the -one thing of beauty which had been inherited from the Turks--there -passed all day long companies of soldiers, heavily laden in their field -kit, and bands of Macedonian volunteers. Through the streets there was -the rumble of bullock wagons and forage carts, drawn by buffaloes. On -the plain of Slivnitza, the old battle ground between the Bulgars and -Serbians, there were great camps of the Macedonians who drilled all day -long, and at intervals shouted strange war cries, and flung up their -fur caps, while, from primitive bagpipes, there came a squealing as -though a herd of pigs were being killed. In the ranks stood many young -girls, dressed in the rough sheepskin jackets and white woolen trousers -of their men folk, and serving as soldiers. Bullocks and buffaloes -roamed in the outskirts of their camps, and when darkness crept down -the distant mountains the light of camp fires turned a lurid glare upon -the scene. - -One night in Sofia a few of us heard that the Turkish Ambassador had -handed in his papers, and driven to the station, where a train was -waiting for him. That meant war. A few hours later King Ferdinand -signed a manifesto, proclaiming it to his people, and then delayed its -publication for twenty-four hours while he stole away from his capital, -leaving his flag flying above the palace, to his headquarters at Stara -Zagora. It was as though he was frightened of his people. - -He need not have been. Those Bulgarian folk, whose sons and brothers -were already on their way to the front, behaved as all people do when -the spell of war first comes to them, before its disillusion and its -horror. They greeted it as joyful tidings. The great bell of the -cathedral boomed out above the peals of innumerable bells with vaguely -clashing notes. That morning in the cathedral, a Te Deum was sung -before Queen Eleanor and all the Ministers of State. It was market day, -and thousands of women had come in from the country districts, with -market produce and great milk cans slung across their shoulders on big -poles, glistening like quicksilver in the brilliant sunlight. In their -white headdresses, short embroidered kirtles, and lace petticoats, -they made a pretty picture as they pressed toward the great cathedral. -The square was filled with Macedonian peasants, in their sheepskins -and white woolen trousers, standing bareheaded and reverent before the -cathedral doors. There were remarkable faces among them, belonging to -young men with long flaxen hair, parted in the middle and waving on -each side, like pictures of John the Baptist. Others were old, old -fellows, with brown, rugged faces, white beards, and bent backs, who, -in their ragged skins and fur caps, looked like a gathering of Rip van -Winkles down from the mountains.... - -After exasperating delays, the correspondents of all countries--a -wild horde--who had come to describe this war, as though its bloody -melodrama had been staged as a spectacle for a dull world, were allowed -to proceed to Stara Zagora, where King Ferdinand had established his -headquarters. A special train was provided for this amazing crowd, -accompanied by the military _attachés_, and a large number of Bulgarian -staff officers. The journey was uneventful, except for a strange sign -in the heavens, which seemed a portent of ill omen for the Bulgarians. -As night came over the Rhodope Mountains, there rose a crescent moon -with one bright star in the curve of its scimitar. It was the Turkish -emblem, and the Bulgarian officers, who had been chatting gayly in the -corridor, became silent and moody. - -In the town of Stara Zagora, which my humorous friend Ludovic Nodeau -called invariably Cascara Sagrada, I came in touch for the first time -with the spirit of the Near East. It was Oriental in its architecture, -in its dirt, in its smell, and in its human types. Turkish minarets -rose above the huddle of houses. Turkish houses, with their lattice -casements and ironwork grilles, high up in whitewashed walls, were -among the Bulgarian hovels, shops, and churches. Mohammedan women, -closely veiled, came into the market place, and young Turks and old -squatted round the fountains, sat cross-legged inside their wooden -booths, and smoked their _narghile_ in dirty little cafés. - -A strange people from the farther East dwelt in a village of their -own outside the town--a village of houses so low that I was a head -taller than their roofs when I walked down its streets, like Gulliver -in Lilliput. Their doorways were like the holes of dog kennels and the -inhabitants crawled in and out on their hands and knees. It was a gypsy -village, swarming with wild-looking men--black-haired, sunburned to the -color of terra cotta, wonderfully handsome--and with women and young -girls clad in tattered gowns of gaudy color, with bare arms and legs, -and the breast revealed. Children, stark naked, played among heaps of -filth, and savage dogs leaped at every stranger, as they did when I -went with two friends inside the village. A tall girl, beautiful as -an Eastern houri, beat back the dogs and led us to the king of this -Romany tribe, an old, old villain who made signs for money and was not -satisfied with what I gave him. Presently he called to some women, -and they brought out a girl of some fifteen years, like a little wild -animal, with the grace and beauty of a woodland thing. She was for -sale; and I could have bought her and taken her as my slave, for five -French francs. I was tempted to do so, but did not quite know how I -should get her back to my little house in Holland Street, Kensington, -as a Christmas present to my wife. Also, I was not certain whether my -wife would like to adopt her. I declined the offer, therefore, but gave -the old man the five francs as a sign of friendship--and as a bribe of -safety. - -We were surrounded, now, by a crowd of tall young Gypsies with long -sticks, and I did not like the way they eyed us. Luckily, a Bulgarian -police officer rode through the village, and at the sight of him, -the Gypsies scuttled like rabbits in their holes. We kept close -to his saddle until we were beyond the village, and by expressive -gesticulation the man made us understand that, in his judgment, the -place behind us was not a safe spot for Christian gentlemen. - -One little trouble of mine, and of friends of mine, in Stara Zagora, -was the question of food. There was one pretty good restaurant, set -apart for the military _attachés_ and high staff officers, but after -they had dined well, while we hung around, sniffing their fat meats, -there was nothing left for us. We were reduced to eating in a filthy -little place, where the food was vile, and the chief method of washing -plates was by the tongues of the hungry serving wenches, as I saw, -through the kitchen door. Our billeting arrangements, also, left much -to be desired, and with two inseparable companions, Horace Grant, of -the _Daily Mirror_, and a young Italian photographer named Console, I -slept in a pestilential house, so utterly foul that I dare not describe -it. One little additional discomfort, to me, was the merry gamboling of -a tribe of mice, who played hide and seek over my body as I lay in a -coffinlike bed, and cleaned their whiskers on the window sill. - -We were heartily glad to move forward from General Headquarters to the -Turkish village of Mustapha Pasha, on the river Maritza, which had just -been captured by the Bulgarians on their way to the siege of Adrianople. - -My most dominant memory of this village, which was the headquarters of -the Bulgarian Second Army, may be summed up in the two words, mud and -oxen. The “roads” were just quagmires, in which endless teams of oxen, -with some buffaloes, dragging interminable batteries of heavy guns, -ammunition wagons, and forage, wallowed deep. Stones, piled loosely, -about a foot broad, at the edge of the track, made the only dry -foothold for those who walked. But the Bulgarian army trudged through -the slime, battalion after battalion, with flowers on their rifles, led -forward by priests, dancing and waving their arms in an ecstasy of war -fever, inspired by hatred of the Turk. The oxen snarled and snuffled, -and constantly I had to avoid being tramped down by holding on to -their curly horns or thrusting myself away from their wet nozzles. -Strange groups of volunteers followed the army--family groups, with -old grandfathers and grandmothers and grandma-aunties, with uncles and -cousins and brothers, laden with tin pots and bundles, and armed with -old sporting guns and country knives, and any kind of weapon useful for -carving up a Turk. - -One night, when the guns were furious round Adrianople, and the sky was -lurid with bursting shells, I saw a division of Serbian cavalry pass -through Mustapha Pasha. They had traveled far, and every man was asleep -on his horse, which plodded on in the track of an old peasant with a -lantern. I shall never forget the sight of those sleeping riders in the -night. - -Horace Grant, Console, and I were billeted in a farmhouse a mile or -so outside Mustapha Pasha, kept by a tall, bearded Bulgarian peasant -with his wife and mother, and three dirty little children. We slept -on divans, as hard as boards, and fed on gristly old chickens killed -beyond the doorposts. The family regarded us as though we had come from -a far planet--mysterious beings, of incomprehensible ways--and our -ablutions in the mornings, when we stripped to the waist and washed in -a pail, filled them with deep wonderment. It was our local reputation -as “The men who wash their bodies” which liberated us from military -arrest. - -On the way to Mustapha Pasha and back again to our farmhouse, we had -to pass a cemetery which was used as a camp. It was never a pleasant -journey at night, because we stumbled over loose boulders, fell into -three feet of mud, and were attacked by packs of wolflike dogs whose -fierce eyes shone through the darkness. One night I felt a prick in -the shoulder, and found I had run up against the sword of a Bulgarian -officer who was feeling his way along the wall in pitch darkness. But -it was when the Bulgarians were suddenly replaced by Serbians that we -were challenged by a sentry and arrested by the guard, which rushed -out at the sound of his shots. They could make nothing of us, and -suspected the worst, until some peasants in the neighborhood came up -and identified us as three men strangely addicted to cold water, but -under the protection of Bulgarian headquarters. - -Along the valley of the Maritza, on the way to Adrianople, which was -closely invested, the Turkish villages had been fired, and we saw -the smoke rising above the flames, and then tramped through their -ruins. Looting was strictly forbidden, under pain of death, but in one -village old men and women were prowling about in a ghoullike way, and -filling sacks with bits of half-burnt rubbish. Suddenly an old woman -began to scream, and we saw her struggling with a Bulgarian soldier -who threatened to run his bayonet through her body. The others fled, -leaving their sacks behind. - -That night, in a dirty little eating house, a Hungarian correspondent -protested to his friends against the ruthless way in which the Bulgars -had burned those Turkish homesteads. Upon leaving the restaurant he -was arrested by military police and flung into a filthy jail, with the -warning that he would rot to death there unless he changed his opinion -about the burning of the villages, and agreed that the Turks had -fired them on their retreat. He decided to change his opinion. Later, -however, he was riding alone when he was set upon by Bulgarian police, -who seized his horse, flung him into a ditch, and kicked him senseless. -It was a warning against careless table conversation. - -We soon discovered that, instead of being treated as war -correspondents, we were in a position more like that of prisoners of -war. Strict orders were issued that we were not to go beyond a certain -limit outside Mustapha Pasha, and the severity of the censorship was -so great that my harmless descriptive articles about the scenes behind -the lines, as well as my feeble sketches, were mostly canceled. I have -to confess that I became a rebel against these orders, and, with my two -companions, not only broke bounds, day after day, but smuggled through -my articles at a risk which I now know was extremely rash. I hired a -carriage with three scraggy horses, a chime of bells, and a Bulgarian -giant, at enormous expense. It had once belonged to a Bulgarian priest, -and was so imposing that when we drove out to the open country, toward -Adrianople, we used to be saluted by the Bulgarian army. - -I remember driving one day to a spur of hills overlooking the city -of Adrianople, from which we could see the six minarets of the Great -Mosque, and the high explosives bursting above its domes and rooms. A -German--Doctor Bauer--and an Austrian--von Zifferer--accompanied us, -and we picnicked on the hill with an agreeable excitement at getting -even this glimpse of the “real business.” I played a game of chess with -von Zifferer, who carried a pocket set, and this very charming young -Austrian accepted my lucky victory with good nature, and then asked a -question which I always remembered: - -“How long will it be before you and I are on opposite sides of a -fighting line?” - -It was not very long. - -My experiences as a war correspondent in Bulgaria were farcical. I saw -only the back wash of the bloody business--and I have a secret and -rather wicked suspicion that the war correspondent of the old type did -not see so much as his imaginative dispatches and thrilling sketches -suggested to the public, nor one-thousandth part as much as that little -body of men in the World War, who had absolute liberty of movement, and -the acknowledged right of going to any part of the front, at any time. -In Bulgaria, all we saw of the war was its slow-moving tide of peasant -soldiers, trudging forward dejectedly, the tangled traffic of guns and -transport, the misery--unimaginable and indescribable--of the wounded -and the prisoners, stricken with cholera, packed, like slaughtered -cattle, into railway trucks, tossed in heaps on straw-filled ox wagons, -jolted to death over the ruts and boulders of unmade roads: Horrible -pictures which gave me a little apprenticeship, but not much, for the -sights of the war that was to come. - -One little scene comes to my mind vividly. It was at dawn, in a way -side station. King Ferdinand had arrived with his staff. The fat old -man with piggy eyes was serving out medals to heroes of the siege -of Adrianople. They were all wounded heroes, some of them horribly -mutilated, so that, without arms or legs, they were carried by soldiers -into the presence of the King. Others hobbled up on crutches, white -and haggard. Others were blind. I could not see any pleasure in their -faces, any sense of high reward, when they listened to Ferdinand’s -gruff speech while he fastened a bit of metal to their breasts. In the -white mist of dawn they looked a ghastly little crowd of broken men. - -I have already told, in a previous chapter, how old Fox Ferdinand -conversed with me on the bridge over the Maritza at Mustapha Pasha. -His friendliness then did not allow me to escape his wrath a few -days later, when he saw me considerably outside the area to which -correspondents were restricted, and he sent over a staff officer -to tell me that I should be placed under arrest unless I withdrew -immediately. - -I was arrested, and locked up for a time, with Horace Grant and -Console, for the crime of accompanying a colleague to the railway -station at Mustapha Pasha! That was when S. J. Pryor, of _The Times_, -was leaving G.H.Q. to go back to Sofia. Being, as I thought, the proud -owner of a carriage and three horses, to say nothing of my Bulgarian -giant, I offered to give him with his luggage a lift to the station. He -accepted gladly, but at the hour appointed I discovered that carriage, -horses, giant, and all had disappeared from their stables. As I found -out later, they had been “pinched” by G.H.Q. Pryor had not too much -time to get his train, and Grant and Console and I volunteered to carry -some of his bags. We arrived in time, but were immediately confronted -by a savage Bulgarian general, who spluttered with fury, called up -some hairy savages with big guns, and ordered them to lock us up in -a baggage shed. Little S. J. Pryor was extremely distressed at this -result of our service to him, but he could not delay his journey. - -My friends and I were liberated from the shed after some hours of -imprisonment, and conducted, under mounted escort, to Mustapha Pasha. -A few nights later we were informed that we had been expelled from -General Headquarters and must proceed back to filthy old “Cascara -Sagrada.” I had a violent scene with the Bulgarian staff officer and -censor who conveyed this order, and told him that I intended to stay -where I was, unless I was forcibly removed by the Bulgarian army! - -He took me at my word, and that night, when Grant and I were finishing -a filthy but comforting meal in our old farmhouse, far outside the -village, there was a heavy clump at the door, followed by the entry of -six hairy-looking ruffians with fixed bayonets. One of them removed his -sheepskin hat and plucked from his matted hair a small piece of paper, -which was a written order for our expulsion signed by the General in -Command of the Second Army. - -I shall never forget Console at the moment of their arrival. Having -finished his supper, he was lying asleep on the divan, but, suddenly -awakened, sat up with all his hair on end, and grabbed a large loaded -revolver from beneath his pillow. We did not allow him to indulge in a -private massacre, but adopted a friendly demeanor to our guards--for we -were their prisoners, all right--and gave them mugs of peasant wine as -a token of good will. After a frightful scramble for our belongings, -which were littered all over the room, we accompanied the hairy men to -an ox wagon, where we sat in the straw, jolted in every limb and in -every tooth, for the three miles back to the old station. - -On the way we passed a battalion of Serbian infantry, and one of the -officers carried on a cheery conversation with me in German. When he -heard that I was a correspondent of _The Graphic_, he was delighted and -impressed. - -“Come with us!” he shouted. “We will show you some good fighting!” - -“I would like to,” I answered, “but I am a prisoner of these -Bulgarians.” - -He thought I was joking, and laughed loudly. - -Guarded by our soldiers--they were really a simple and sturdy little -crowd of good-natured peasants--we were taken across a railway line to -a dark train. Our guards laughed, shook hands, pushed us gently into -the train, and said, “_Dobra den, Gospodin!_” - -Then we had a surprise. The train was pitch dark, but not empty. It was -filled with correspondents of all nationalities, who, like ourselves, -had been expelled! They were without food or drink or light; they had -been there for half a day and part of a night; and they were furious. - -That journey was a comedy and a tragedy. The train moved away some time -in the night, and crawled forward that day and night toward “Cascara -Sagrada,” as Nodeau called that town of filth. We starved, parched -with thirst, cramped together. But we laughed until we cried over the -absurdity of our situation and a thousand jests. - -Marinetti, the arch Futurist, was there, and after making impassioned -love to a Bulgarian lady who could not understand his Italian or -French, he recited his great Futurist poem, “L’Automobile,” very softly -at first, then with his voice rising higher, as the “automobile” -gained speed, until it was like the bellow of a bull. In a wayside -station, soldiers came running toward our carriage, with their bayonets -handy, thinking some horrible atrocity was in progress. Marinetti was -delighted with the success of Futurist poetry in Bulgaria! - -At Stara Zagora I found wires were being pulled in London and Sofia, on -my behalf, through the means of S. J. Pryor, who was a loyal friend, -and one of the dearest men in the world. (He is my “Bellamy” in _The -Street of Adventure_.) In a few days, Grant, Console, and I, alone -among the expelled crowd, received permits to return to the Bulgarian -headquarters, where our reappearance created consternation among the -staff officers and censors, who thought they were well rid of us. - - - - -XVI - - -In 1912, to which year I have now come in these anecdotes of -journalistic life, England was not without troubles at home and abroad, -but nothing had happened, or seemed likely to happen (except in the -imagination of a few anxious and farseeing people), to touch more than -the surface of her tranquillity, to undermine the foundations of her -wealth, or to menace her security as a great imperial Power. - -It was a very pleasant place for pleasant people, if they had a social -status above that of casual, or sweated, labor. The aristocracy of -wealth still went through the social ritual of the year, in country -houses and town houses, from the London season to Cowes, from the -grouse moors to the Riviera, agreeably bored, and finding life, on the -whole, a good game, unless private passion wrecked it. - -The great middle class, with its indeterminate boundaries, was happy, -well-to-do, with a comfortable sense of ease and security, apart from -the ordinary anxieties, tragedies, failures, of private and domestic -life. People with “advanced” and extraordinary views made a lot of -noise, but it hardly broke into the hushed gardens of the country -houses of England. Labor was getting clamorous, with mock heroic -threats of revolution, but was no real menace to the forces of law and -order. Women were beginning to put forward claims to political equality -with men, but their extravagance of talk had not yet been translated -into wild action. The spirit of England was, in the mass, rooted to -its old traditions, and its social habits were not overshadowed by any -dread. - -As a descriptive writer and professional onlooker of life (writing -history and fiction in my spare time), I had, perhaps, some deeper -consciousness than most people outside my trade, of dangers brewing in -the cauldron of fate. I touched English life in most of its phases, -high and low, and was aware, vaguely, perhaps a little morbidly, of -undercurrents beating up strongly below all this fair surface of -tranquility. As I shall tell later, I came face to face with three -bogies of threatening aspect. One was Ireland in insurrection. Another -was industrial conflict in England, linked up with that Irish menace. -A third was war with Germany. Meanwhile, I chronicled the small beer -of English life, and described its social pageantry--royal visits, -the Derby, Henley, Fourth of June at Eton, the Eton and Harrow match, -Ascot, Cowes, the Temple Flower Show, garden fêtes, Maud Allen’s -dancing, the opera, the theater, fancy dress balls. - -There was a new passion for “dressing-up,” in that England before the -war. It seemed as though youth, and perhaps old age, desired more color -than was allowed by modern sumptuary laws. - -I attended a great fancy dress ball at the Albert Hall--one of many, -but the most magnificent. All “the quality” was there, the most -beautiful women in England, and the most notorious. I went, superbly, -as Dick Sheridan, in pale blue silk, with lace ruffles, a white wig, -white silk stockings, buckled shoes, a jeweled sword. It was strange -how different a man I felt in those clothes. The vulgarity of modern -life seemed to fall from me. I was an eighteenth-century gentleman, not -only in appearance, but in spirit. I was my own great grandfather! - -London that night was a queer sight anywhere within a mile of -Kensington. Sedan chairs, carried by sturdy porters in old liveries, -conveyed little ladies in hooped dresses and high wigs. Columbines -flitted by with Pierrots. Out of taxicabs and hansoms and old -growlers came parties of troubadours, English princesses with horned -headdresses, Spanish toreadors, Elizabethan buccaneers, Stuart -cavaliers. - -At the ball I saw the faces of my friends strangely transfigured. -They, too, were their own ancestors. One of those I encountered -that night was a fellow journalist named “Rosy” Leach. He swaggered -in the form of a Stuart gentleman, and said, “What a game is this -life!” The next time I met him was when he wore another kind of fancy -dress--khaki-colored--with high boots caked up to the tabs in the mud -of the Somme fields. “Death is nothing,” he said, after we had talked -a while. “It’s what goes before--the mud and the beastliness.” He was -killed in one of those battles, like many others of those who danced -with Columbine and the ladies of the gracious past. - -This dressing-up phase was not restricted to London, or rich folks. -There was a joyous epidemic of pageants, in which many old towns and -villages of England dramatized their own history and acted the parts -of their own ancestors. I was an enthusiast of this idea, and still -think that for the first time since the Middle Ages it gave the people -of England a chance of revealing their innate sense of drama and color -and local patriotism. In most of these pageants the actors made their -own costumes, and went to old books to learn something of ancient -fashions, heraldry, arms and armor, and the history of things that -had happened on their own soil and in their own cathedrals, churches, -guild houses, and ruined castles, whose stones are haunted with old -ghosts. The children in these pageants made fields of living flowers. -Youth was lovely in its masquerade. Some of the pictures made by the -massed crowds were unforgetable, as in the Oxford pageant, when Charles -held his court again, and in the St. Albans pageant, when the English -archers advanced behind flights of whistling arrows. If one had any -sense of the past, one could not help being stirred by the continuity -of English life, its unbroken links with ancient customs, its deep -roots in English soil. At Bury St. Edmunds there was a scene depicting -the homage of twenty-two gentlemen to Mary Tudor. Each actor there bore -the same name and held the same soil as those who had actually bowed -before the Tudor lady. It is why tradition is strong in the character -of our race, and steadies it. - -There was a comic and pitiful side to these shows, mainly caused by -the weather, which was pitiless, so that often the pageant grounds -were quagmires, and ancient Britons, Roman soldiers, Saxon princesses, -Stuart beauties, had to rush for shelter from rain storms which -bedraggled them. But that was part of the game. - -London dreamed not at that time of darkened lights, prohibited hours -for drink, the heavy hand of war upon the pleasures and follies -of youth. Was there more folly than now? Perhaps vice flaunted -more openly. Perhaps temptation spread its net with less need of -caution--though I doubt whether there has been much change in morals, -despite the park pouncing of policemen. There was more gayety in -London, more lights in London nights, more sociability, good and bad, a -great freedom of spirit, in those days before the war. So it seems to -us now. - -I was never one of the gilded youth, but sometimes I studied them in -their haunts, not with gloomy or reproving eyes, being tolerant of -human nature, and glad of laughter. - -One wild night began when the policeman on point duty in Piccadilly -Circus thought that the last revelers had gone home in the last taxis, -but he was a surprised man when life seemed to waken up again and there -was the swish of motor cars through the circus and bands of young men -walking in evening dress, not, apparently, on their way to bed, but -just beginning some new adventure. They advanced upon the Grafton -Galleries singing a little ballad that marks the date: - - - “Hullo, hullo, hullo! - It’s a different girl again! - Different hair, different clothes, - Different eyes, different nose....” - - -This affair had been kept a dead secret from press and public. It was a -“glorious stunt” which had for its amiable object the introduction of -all the prettiest girls of the theater world to all the smartest bloods -of the universities and clubs. It was entitled the Butterfly Ball. - -Certainly there were some astoundingly beautiful girls at this -assembly, and not a few of them. The university boys were, for a time -abashed by so much loveliness. But they brightened up, especially when -the most famous sporting peer of England--Lord Lonsdale--led off the -dance with a little girl dressed, rather naughtily, as a teetotum. -By the time I left--a kind of Pierrot looking on at the gayety of -life--there was a terrific battle in progress between groups of boys -and girls, with little white rolls of bread as their ammunition. Not -commendable. Not strictly virtuous, nor highly proper, but in its -wildness there was the spirit of a youth which, afterward, was heroic -in self-sacrifice.... So things happened in London before the war. - -A series of articles appearing in _The Daily Mail_, by Robert -Blatchford, once a Socialist and still on the democratic side of -political life, disturbed the sense of security in the average mind -by a slight uneasiness. Not more than that, because the average mind -had its inherited faith in our island inviolability and the power of -the British Navy. There were articles entitled “Am Tag,” which is bad -German, and they professed to reveal a determination in the military -and naval castes of Germany to destroy the British fleet, invade -England, and smash the British Empire. - -Some of the evidence brought forward seemed childish in its absurdity. -There were not many facts to a wealth of rhetoric. But they created a -newspaper sensation, and were pooh-poohed by the government, as we now -know, with utter insincerity--for there were members of that government -who knew far more than Blatchford how deep and widespread was German -hostility to Great Britain, and how close Europe stood to a world war. - -One fantastic little incident connected with those articles of -Blatchford’s amused me considerably at the time, though afterward I -thought of it as a strange prophecy. - -I called on W. T. Stead one day in his office of _The Review of -Reviews_, which afterward I was to edit for a year. It was just -before lunch time, and Stead had an engagement with Spender of _The -Westminster Gazette_. But he grabbed me by the arm, in his genial way, -and said, “Listen to this for a minute, and tell me what you think of -it.” - -It appeared that he had been rather upset by Blatchford’s articles. -He could not make up his mind whether they were all nonsense or had -some truth at the back of them. He decided to consult the spirit world -through “Julia,” his medium. - -“We rang up old Bismarck, Von Moltke, and William II of Prussia. ‘Look -here,’ I said, ‘Is there going to be war between Germany and England?’” - -The spirits of these distinguished Germans seemed uncertain. Bismarck -saw a red mist approaching the coast of England. Von Moltke said the -British fleet had better keep within certain degrees of latitude -and longitude--which was kind of him! One of the trio--I forget -which--said there would be war between Germany and England. It would -break out suddenly, without warning. - -“When?” asked W. T. Stead. - -A date was given. _It was the month of August._ The year was not named. - -I laughed heartily at Stead’s anecdote, especially when he told me the -effect this announcement had upon him. He was so disturbed that he went -round to the Admiralty, interviewed Lord Fisher, who was a friend of -his, and revealed the dread message that the German fleet was going to -attack in August. (It was then May, 1912). - -Fisher leaned back in his chair, smiled grimly, and said, “_No such -luck, my boy!_” - -In August of that year I was engaged in trouble which did not seem -connected with Germany, though I am inclined to think now that German -agents were watching it very closely--especially one German baron who -posed as a journalist and was always reporting on industrial unrest -in Great Britain, wherever it happened to break out. I had met him at -Tonypandy, in Wales, during the miners’ riots down there, and I met him -again in Liverpool, which was now in the throes of a serious strike. - -It was the nearest thing to civil war I have seen in any English city. -I have forgotten the origin of the strike--I think it began with the -dockers--but it spread until the whole of the transport service was at -a standstill, and the very scavengers left their work. The Mersey was -crowded for weeks with shipping from all the ports of the world, laden -with merchandise, some of it perishable, which no hands would touch. No -porters worked in the railway goods yards, so that trains could not be -unloaded. There was no fresh meat, and no milk for babes. Not a wheel -turned in Liverpool. It was like a besieged city, and presently, in hot -weather, began to stink in a pestilential way, because of the refuse -and muck left rotting in the streets and squares. - -This refuse, among which dead rats lay, was so filthy in one of the -best squares of Liverpool outside the hotel where I was staying, that a -number of journalists, and myself, borrowed brooms, sallied out, swept -up the rubbish heaps, and made bonfires of them, surrounded by a crowd -of angry men who called us “scabs” and “blacklegs,” and threatened -to “bash” us, if we did not stop work. We stuck to our job, and were -rewarded by a clapping of hands from ladies and maidservants in the -neighboring windows, so that our broomsticks seemed as heroic as the -lances of chivalry. - -Some bad things happened in Liverpool. The troops were stoned by mobs -of men who were becoming sullen and savage. Shops were looted. I saw no -less than forty tramcars overturned and smashed one afternoon in that -sunny August, because they were being driven by men who had refused to -strike. - -On that afternoon I saw something of mob violence, which I should -have thought incredible in England. A tramcar was going at a rapid -pace, driven by a man who was in terror of his life because of a mob -on each side of the road, threatening to stone him to death. Inside -the car were three women and a baby. A fusillade of stones suddenly -broke every window. Two of the women crouched below the window frames, -and the third woman, with the baby, utterly terrified, came on to the -platform outside, and prepared to jump. A stone struck her on the head, -and she dropped the baby into the roadway, where it lay quite still. -A gust of hoarse laughter rose from the mob, and not one man stirred -to pick up the baby. Terrible, but true. It was left there until a -woman ran out of a shop.... Wedged behind the men, but a witness of -all that happened, I was conscious then of a cruelty lurking in the -vicious elements of our great cities which, before, I had not believed -to exist in England of the twentieth century. If ever there were -revolution in England, it would not be made with rose water. - -The troops and police were patient and splendid in their discipline, -despite great provocation at times. Now and again, when the mob -started looting or stone throwing, the police made baton charges, -which scattered crowds of young hooligans like chaff before them, and -they thrashed those they caught without mercy. At such times I had to -run like a hare, for there is no discrimination in treatment of the -innocent. - -One afternoon the troops were ordered to fire on a crowd which made an -attempt to attack an escort of prisoners, and there was a small number -of casualties. That night I had an exciting narrative to dictate over -the telephone to the office of _The Daily Chronicle_. But, in the -middle of it, the sub-editor, MacKenna, who was taking down my message, -said, “Cut it short, old man! Something is happening to-night more -important than a strike in Liverpool. _The German fleet is out in the -North Sea, and the British fleet is cleared for action!_” - -When I put down the telephone receiver, I felt a shiver go down my -spine; and I thought of Stead’s preposterous story of war in August. -Had it happened? - -There was nothing in next day’s papers. Some iron censorship closed -down on that story of the German fleet, true or false.... As we now -know, it was true. The German fleet did go out on that night in August, -but finding the British fleet prepared, they went back again. It was in -August of another year that Germany put all to the great hazard. - -The thoughts of the English people were not obsessed with the German -menace. For the most part they knew nothing about it, apart from -newspaper “scares,” which they pooh-poohed, and no member of the -government, getting anxious now in secret conversations, took upon -himself the duty of preparing the nation for a dreadful ordeal. - -England was excited by two subjects of sensational interest and -increasing passion--the mania of the militant suffragettes, and the -raising of armed forces in Ireland, under the leadership of Sir Edward -Carson, to resist Home Rule. - -I saw a good deal of both those phases of political strife in England -and Ireland. The suffragette movement kept me in a continual state of -mental exasperation, owing to the excesses of the militant women on -one side, and the stupidity and brutality of the opponents of women’s -suffrage on the other. I became a convinced supporter of “Votes for -Women,” partly because of theoretical justice which denied votes to -women of intellect, education, and noble work, while giving it to -the lowest, most ignorant, and most brutal ruffians in the country, -partly because of a sporting admiration--in spite of intellectual -disapproval--of cultured women who went willingly to prison for their -faith, defied the police with all their muscular strength, risked the -brutality of angry mobs (which was a great risk), and all with a gay, -laughing courage which mocked at the arguments, anger, and ridicule of -the average man. - -Many of the methods of the “militants” were outrageous, and loosened, I -think, some of the decent restraints of the social code, for which we -had to pay later in a kind of sexual wildness of modern young women. -But they were taunted into “direct action” by Cabinet Ministers, and -exasperated by the deliberate falsity and betrayal of members of -Parliament, who had pledged themselves at election time to support the -demand of women for the suffrage, by constitutional methods. - -A number of times I watched the endeavors of the “militants” to -present a petition to the Prime Minister or invade the Houses of -Parliament. Always it was the same scene. The deputation would march -from the Caxton Hall through a narrow lane in the midst of a vast -crowd, and then be scattered in a rough and tumble scrimmage when -mounted police rode among them. - -Often I saw a friend of mine walking by the side of these deputations, -as a solitary bodyguard. It was H. W. Nevinson, the war correspondent, -with his fine ruddy face and silvered hair, a paladin of woman suffrage -as of all causes which took “liberty” for their watchword. The crowd -was less patient of men sympathizers of militant women than with -the women themselves, and Nevinson was roughly handled. At a great -demonstration at the Albert Hall, he fought single-handed against a -dozen men stewards who fell upon him, when he knocked down a man who -had struck a woman a heavy blow. Nevinson, though over fifty at the -time, could give a good account of himself, and some of those stewards -had a tough time before they overpowered him and flung him out. - -Round the Houses of Parliament, on those nights of attack, there were -strong bodies of police who played games of catch-as-catch-can with -little old ladies, frail young women, strong-armed and lithe-limbed -girls who tried to break through their cordon. One little old cripple -lady used to charge the police in a wheel chair. Others caught hold -of the policemen’s whistle chains, and would not let go until they -were escorted to the nearest police station. One night dozens of women -chained and padlocked themselves to the railings of the House of -Commons, and the police had to use axes to break their chains. - -There was a truly frightful scene, which made me shiver, one night, -when those “militants” refused to budge before the mounted police and -seized hold of their bridles and stirrup-leathers. The horses, scared -out of their wits by these clinging creatures, reared, and fell, but -nothing would release the grip of those determined and reckless ladies, -though some of them were bruised and bleeding. - -The patience and good humor of the police were marvelous, but I was -sorry to see that they made class distinctions in their behavior. They -were certainly very brutal to a party of factory girls brought down -from the North of England. I saw them driven into a narrow alley behind -Westminster Hospital, and the police pulled their hair down, wound it -round their throats, and flung them about unmercifully. It was not good -to see. - -I had several talks at the time with the two dominant leaders of the -militant section, Mrs. Pankhurst and her daughter Christabel, and I -was present at their trial, when they were indicted for conspiracy to -incite a riot. Mrs. Pankhurst’s defense was one of the most remarkable -speeches I have ever heard in a court of law, most eloquent, most -moving, most emotional. Even the magistrate was moved to tears, but -that did not prevent him from setting aside an unrepealed statute -of Charles II (which allowed a deputation of not more than thirteen -to present a petition, without let or hindrance, to the King’s -ministers) and sentencing Mrs. Pankhurst and her daughter to two years’ -imprisonment. - -I saw Christabel Pankhurst during the course of the trial, and she -asked me whether I thought she would be condemned. I told her “Yes,” -believing that she had the strength to hear the truth, and afterward, -when she asked me how much I thought she would get, I said “Two years.” -I had an idea from her previous record that she was ready for martyrdom -at any cost, but to my surprise and dismay, she burst into tears. -Her defense and cross-examination of witnesses were also marred by -continual tears, so that it was painful to listen to her. Her spirit -seemed quite broken, and she never took part again in any militant -demonstrations, although she was liberated a short time after the -beginning of her imprisonment. She worked quietly at propaganda in -Paris. - -One nation watched the mania of the “wild, wild women” with a growing -belief in England’s decadence, as it was watching the Irish affairs, -and industrial unrest. German agents found plenty to write home about. - - - - -XVII - - -One day in 1913, I was asked by Robert Donald to call on a Canadian -professor who had been engaged in “a statistical survey of Europe,” -whatever that may mean, and might have some interesting information to -give. - -When he received me, I found him a little, mild-eyed man, with -gold-rimmed spectacles, behind which I presently discovered the look -of one obsessed by a knowledge of some terrific secret. That was after -he had surprised me by declining to talk about statistics, and asking -abruptly whether I was an honest young man and a good patriot. Upon my -assuring him that I was regarded as respectable by my friends and was -no traitor, he bade me shut the door and listen to something which he -believed it to be his duty to tell, for England’s sake. - -What he told me was decidedly alarming. In pursuit of his “statistical -survey of Europe” on behalf of the Canadian and American governments, -he had spent two years or so in Germany. He had been received in a -courteous way by German professors, civil servants, and government -officials, at whose dinner tables he had met German celebrities, and -high officers of the German army. They had talked freely before him -after some time, and there was revealed to him, among all these people, -a bitter, instinctive, relentless, and jealous hatred of England. -They made no secret that the dominant thought in their souls was the -necessity and inevitability of a conflict with Great Britain, in -order to destroy the nation which stood athwart their own destiny as -their greatest commercial competitor, and as the one rival of their -own sea power, upon which the future of Germany was based. For that -conflict they were preparing the mind of their own people by intensive -propaganda and “speeding up” the output of their naval and military -armament. “England,” said my little informant, “is menaced by the most -fearful struggle in history, but seems utterly ignorant of this peril, -which is coming close. Is there no one to warn her people, no one to -open their eyes to this ghastly hatred across the North Sea, preparing -stealthily for their destruction? Will you not tell the truth in your -paper, as I now tell it to you?” - -I told him it would be difficult to get such things published, and -still more difficult to get them believed. I had considerable doubt -myself whether he had not exaggerated the intensity of hatred in -Germany, and, in any case, the possibility of their daring to challenge -Great Britain, as long as our fleet maintained its strength and -traditions. But I was disturbed. The little man’s words coincided -with other warnings I had heard, from Lord Roberts, from visitors to -Germany, from Robert Blatchford--to say nothing of W. T. Stead and his -German “spooks.” ... Robert Donald, of _The Daily Chronicle_, laughed -at my report of the conversation. “Utter rubbish!” was his opinion, and -he refused to print a word. - -“Go to Germany yourself,” he said, “and write a series of articles -likely to promote friendship between our two peoples and undo the harm -created by newspaper hate-doctors and jingoes. Find out what the mass -of the German people think about this liar talk.” - -So I went to Germany, with a number of introductions to prominent -people and friends of England. - -It was not the first time I had visited Germany, because the previous -year, I think, I had been to Hamburg with a party of journalists, and -we were received like princes, fêted sumptuously, and treated with an -amazing display of public cordiality. There was private courtesy, too, -most kind and amiable, and I always remember a young poet who took me -to his house and introduced me to his beautiful young wife who, when -I said good-by, gathered some roses from her garden, put them to her -lips, and said, “Take these with my love to England.” - -But something had happened in the spirit of Germany since that -time. The first “friend of England” to whom I presented a letter of -introduction was a newspaper editor in Düsseldorf, a man of liberal -principles who had taken a great part in arranging an exchange of -visits between German and British business men. He knew many of the -Liberal politicians in England and could walk into the House of Commons -more easily than I could. - -He seemed to be rather flustered when I called upon him and explained -the object of my visit, and he left me alone in his study for a while, -on pretext of speaking to his wife. I think he wanted me to read -his leading article, signed at the foot of the column, in a paper -which he laid deliberately on his desk before me. I puzzled through -its complicated argument in involved German, and through its fog of -rhetoric there emerged a violent tirade against England. - -When he came back, I tackled him on the subject. - -“I understood that you were an advocate of friendly relations between -our two peoples? That article doesn’t seem to me very friendly or -helpful.” - -He flushed a hot color, and said, “My views have undergone a change. -England has behaved abominably.” - -The particular abomination which he resented most deeply was the -warning delivered by Lloyd George--of all people in England!--that -Great Britain would support French interests in Morocco, and would -not tolerate German aggression in that region. That was at the time -of the Agadir incident. The British attitude in that affair, said the -Düsseldorf editor, was a clear sign that Great Britain challenged the -right of Germany to develop and expand. That challenge could not be -left unanswered. Either Germany must surrender her liberty and deny -her imperial destiny, at the dictation of Britain, or show that her -power was equal to her aspirations. That, anyhow, was the line of his -argument, which we pursued at great length over pots of lager beer, in -a restaurant where we dined together. - -I encountered the same argument, and more violent hostility, from a -high ecclesiastic in Berlin, who was a great friend of the Kaiser’s and -formerly a professed lover of England. He was a tall, thin, handsome -man, who spoke English perfectly, but was not very civil to me. -Presently, as we talked of the relations between our two nations, he -paced up and down the room with evident emotion, with suppressed rage, -indeed, which broke at last through his restraint. - -“English policy,” he said, “cuts directly across our legitimate German -rights. England is trying to hem in Germany, to hamper her at every -turn, to humiliate her in every part of the world, and to prevent her -economic development. During recent days she has not hesitated to -affront us very deeply and deliberately. It is intolerable!” - -He spoke of an “inevitable war” with startling candor, and when I said -something about the duty of all Christian men, especially of a priest -like himself, to prevent such an unbelievable horror, he asked harshly -whether I had come to insult him, and touched the bell for my dismissal. - -Such conversations were alarming. Yet I did not believe that they -represented the general opinion of the great mass of German people. -I was only able to get glimpses here and there in Düsseldorf and -Frankfort, Hanover, Leipzig, Berlin, and Dresden of middle-class and -working-class thought, but wherever I was able to test it in casual -conversation with business men, railway porters, laborers, hotel -waiters, and so on, with whom I exchanged ideas in my very crude -German, or their remarkably good English (in the case of commercial men -and waiters), I found utter incredulity regarding the possibility of -war between England and Germany, and a contempt of the sword-rattling -and “shining armor” of the Kaiser and the military caste. - -I was, for instance, in a company of commercial men at _Abendessen_ -in a hotel at Leipzig, when the topic of conversation was the Zabern -affair, in which Lieutenant von Förstner had drawn his sword upon -civilians--and a cripple--who had jeered at him for swaggering down -the sidewalk like a popinjay. The Crown Prince had sent him a telegram -of approbation for his defense of his uniform and caste. But, one and -all, the commercial men with whom I sat expressed their loathing of -this military arrogance, and were indignant with those who defended its -absurdity. I remember the German who sat next to me had been a designer -in a porcelain factory in the English potteries for many years. With -him I talked quietly of the chance of war between England and Germany. -“What is the real feeling of the ordinary folk in Germany?” I asked. He -answered with what I am certain was absolute sincerity--though he was -wrong, as history proved. He told me that, outside the military caste, -there was no war feeling in Germany, and that the idea of a conflict -with England was abhorrent and unbelievable to the German people. “If -there were to be war with England,” he said, “we should weep at the -greatest tragedy that could befall mankind.” - -There were many people I met who held that view, without hypocrisy, and -their sincerity at that time is not disproved because when the tocsin -of war was sounded, the fever of hate took possession of them. - -It was Edward Bernstein, the leader of the Socialists, who warned me of -the instability of the pacifist faith professed by German democrats. -“If war breaks out,” he said, “German Socialists will march as one man -against any enemy of the Fatherland. Although theoretically they are -against war, neither they nor any other Socialists have reached a plane -of development which would give them the strength to resist loyalty to -the Flag and the old code of patriotism, when once their nation was -involved, right or wrong.” - -I tried to get the ideas of German youth on the subject of war with -England, and I had an excellent opportunity and an illuminating -conversation with the students of Leipzig University. A group of these -young men, who spoke excellent English, allowed me to question them, -and were highly amused and interested. - -“Do you hate England?” I asked. - -There was a rousing chorus of “Yes!” - -“Why do you hate England?” - -One young man acted as spokesman for the others, who signified their -assent from time to time. The first reason for hatred of England, he -said, was because when a German boy was shown the map of the world and -when he asked what all the red “splodges” on it signified, he was told -that all that territory belonged to England. That aroused his natural -envy. Later in life, said this young man, he understood by historical -reading that England had built up the British Empire by a series of -wars, explorations, and commercial adventures which gave her a just -claim to possession. They had no quarrel with that. They recognized -the strength and greatness of the English people in the past. But -now they saw that England was no longer great. She was decadent and -inefficient. Her day was done. They hated her now as a worn-out old -monster who still tried to grab and hold, and prevent other races -from developing their genius, but had no military power with which to -defend their possessions. England was playing a game of bluff. Germany, -conscious of her newborn greatness, her immense industrial genius, -her vital strength, needing elbow room and free spaces of the earth, -would not allow a degenerate people to stand across her path. Germany -hated England for her arrogance, masking weakness, and her hypocritical -professions of friendship, which concealed envy and fear. - -All this was said, at greater length, with admirable good humor and no -touch of personal discourtesy. But it made me thoughtful and uneasy. -The boy was doubtless exaggerating a point of view, but if such talk -were taking place in German universities, it boded no good for the -peace of the world. - -I returned to England, perplexed, and not convinced, one way or the -other. As far as I could read the riddle of Germany, public opinion -was divided by two opposing views. The military caste, the old Junker -crowd, and their satellites, ecclesiastical and official, with, -probably the Civil Service, were beating up the spirit of aggression, -and playing for war. The great middle class, and the German people in -the mass, desired only to get on with their work, to develop their -commerce, and to enjoy a peaceful home life in increasing comfort. -The question of future peace or war lay with the view which would -prevail. I believed that, without unnecessary provocation on the part -of England, rather with generous and friendly relations, the peaceful -disposition of the German people would prevail over the military caste -and its intensive propaganda.... - -I was wrong, and the articles I wrote in an analytical but friendly -spirit were worse than useless, though I am still convinced that the -German people as a whole did not want war, until their rulers persuaded -them that the Fatherland was in danger, called to their patriotism, and -let loose all the primitive emotions, sentiments, ideals, passions, and -cruelties which stir the hearts of peoples, when war is declared. - -After that visit to Germany, I went several times to Ireland, and -although there seemed to be no link between these two missions, I -am certain now that in the mind of German agents, politicians, and -military strategists, the situation in Ireland was not left out of -account in their estimate of war chances. With labor “unrest” from the -Clyde to Tonypandy, with suffragette outrages revealing a weakness and -lack of virility (from the German point of view) in English manhood, -and with Ireland on the edge of civil war which would involve great -numbers of British troops, England was losing her power of attack and -defense. So as we know, German agents, like the Baron von Zedlitz, were -writing home in their reports. - -Sir Edward Carson, afterward Lord Carson, with F. E. Smith, afterward -Lord Birkenhead (so does England reward her rebels!) were arranging a -bloody civil war in Ireland, which, but for a Great War, would have -spread to England, without let or hindrance from the British government. - -When the Home Rule Bill, under Asquith’s premiership, was nearing its -last stages, Carson raised an army of Ulstermen and invited every -Protestant and Unionist to take a solemn oath in a holy league and -covenant to resist Home Rule to the very death. I was an eyewitness -of many remarkable and historic scenes when “King Carson,” as he was -called in irony by Irish Home Rulers, inspected his troops, made a -triumphal progress through Ulster, stirring up old fires of racial and -religious hatred. - -There was a good deal of play-acting about all this, and Carson was -melodramatic in all his speeches and gestures, with a touch of Irving -in the rendering of his pose as a grim and resolute patriot and leader -of Protestant forces, but there was real passion behind it all, and -the sincerity of fanaticism. If it came to the ordeal of battle, these -young farmers and shopkeepers who paraded in battalions before Carson -and his lieutenants, marching with good discipline, a strong and -sturdy type of manhood, would fight with the courage and ruthlessness -of men inspired by hatred and bigotry. - -The British government pooh-poohed Carson’s “army” and described it as -an unarmed rabble. But a very brief inquiry convinced me that large -quantities of arms were being imported into Belfast and distributed -through Ulster. There was hardly a pretense at secrecy, and the Great -Western Railway authorities showed me boxes bearing large red labels -with the word “Firearms” boldly printed thereon. The proprietor of one -of the Belfast hotels led me down into his cellars and showed me cases -of rifles stacked as high as the ceiling. He told me they came from -Germany. I went round to the gunsmith shops, and I was told that they -were selling cheap revolvers “like hot cakes.” There was hardly a man -in Ulster who had not got a firearm of some kind or other. “It’s good -for business,” said one of the gunsmiths, laughing candidly, “but one -of these days the things will go off, and there will be the devil to -pay. Why the British government allows it is beyond understanding.” - -The British government did not acknowledge the truth of it. I made a -detailed report of my investigations to Robert Donald, who passed it -on to Winston Churchill, and his comment was the incredulous remark, -“Gibbs has had his leg pulled.” But it was Churchill’s leg that was -pulled, very badly, and he must have had a nasty shock when there were -full descriptive reports of a gun-running exploit, done with perfect -impunity, by the conspiracy of Ulster officers and leaders, military -advisers, and men of all classes, down to the jarveys of the jaunting -cars. Carson had armed his troops--with German rifles and ammunition. - -In view of later history, there must have been some gentlemen of Ulster -whose consciences were twinged by those dealings with Germany, and by -allusions made in the heat of political speeches to their preference -for the German Emperor rather than a Home-rule House of Parliament in -Dublin. - -Religious fanaticism was at the back of it all in the minds of the -rank and file. Catholic laborers were chased out of the shipyards -by their Protestant fellow workers, and hardly a day passed without -brutal assaults on them, as was proved by the list of patients in the -hospitals suffering from bashed heads and bruised bodies. I saw with my -own eyes gangs of Ulster Protestants fall upon Catholic citizens and -kick them senseless. Needless to say, there was retaliation when the -chance came, and woe betide any Ulsterman who ventured alone through -the Catholic quarter. - -The mediæval malignancy of this vendetta was revealed to me among a -thousand other proofs by a draper’s assistant in a shop down the Royal -Avenue. I was buying a collar stud or something, and recognizing me as -an Englishman, he began to talk politics. - -“If they try to put Home Rule over us,” he said, “I shall fight. I’m a -pretty good shot, and if a Catholic shows his head, I’ll plug him.” - -He pulled out a rifle, which he kept concealed behind some bundles of -linen, and told me he spent his Saturday afternoons in target practice. - -“What do you think of this? Good shooting, eh?” - -He pulled out a handful of pennies and showed me how at so many paces -(I forget the range) he had plugged the head of His Majesty, King -George V. It seemed to me a queer way of proving his loyalty to the -British crown and Constitution. - -Carson’s way of loyalty was no less strange. By what method of -logic this great lawyer could justify, as a proof of loyalty and -patriotism, his raising of armed forces to resist an Act of Parliament -passed by the King with the consent of the people, passes my simple -understanding. I can understand rebellion against the law and -the Crown, for Liberty’s sake, or for passion’s sake, or for the -destruction of civilization, or for the enforcement of any kind of -villainy. But I cannot understand rebellion against the law and the -Crown in order to prove one’s passionate loyalty to the law, and one’s -ardent devotion to the King. - -Nor can I understand how those who condemn the “direct action” of -Labor in the way of general strikes and other methods of demanding -“rights” (as Lords Carson and Birkenhead and Londonderry condemned such -revolutionary threats), can uphold as splendid heroism the menace of -bloody civil war by a minority which refused to accept the verdict of -the government and peoples of Great Britain and Ireland. - -Sir Edward Carson was an honest man, a great gentleman in his manner, -a great lawyer in repute, but his blind bigotry, some dark passion -in him, made him adopt a line of action which has caused much blood -to flow in Ireland and made one of the blackest chapters in modern -history. For it was the raising of the Ulster Volunteers which led to -the raising of the Irish Republican Army, and the armed resistance to -Home Rule which led to Sinn Fein, and a thousand murders. It might have -led, and very nearly led to civil war in England as well as in Ireland. -When the British Officers in the Curragh Camp refused to lead their -troops to disarm Ulster, and resigned their commissions rather than -fulfil such an order, the shadow of civil war crept rather close, and -there were politicians in England who were ready to risk it, as when -Winston Churchill raised the cry, “The Army versus the People.” - -But another shadow was creeping over Europe, and fell with a chill -horror upon the heart of England, when, as it were out of the blue sky -of a summer in 1914, there came the menace of a war which would call -many great nations to arms, and deluge the fields of Europe in the -blood of youth. Ireland--suffragettes--industrial unrest, how trivial -and foolish even were such internal squabbles when civilization itself -was challenged by this abomination! - -In June of 1914--June!--there was a great banquet given in London to -the editors of German newspapers, where I renewed acquaintance with -a number of men whom I had met the previous year in Germany. Lord -Burnham, of _The Daily Telegraph_, presided over the gathering, and -made an eloquent speech, affirming the unbreakable ties of friendship -between our two peoples. There were many eloquent speeches by other -British journalists, expressing their admiration for German character, -science, art, and social progress. A distinguished dramatic critic was -emotional at the thought of the old kinship of the German and English -peoples. The German editors responded with equal cordiality, with -surpassing eloquence of admiration for English liberty, literature, -and life. There was much handshaking, raising of glasses, drinking of -toasts.... It was two months before August of 1914. - - - - -XVIII - - -Fleet Street in the days before the declaration of war was like the -nerve center of the nation’s psychology, and throbbed with all the -emotions of fear, hysteria, incredulity, and patriotic fever, deadened -at times by a kind of intellectual stupor, which took possession of her -people. - -It was self-convicted of stupendous ignorance. None of those leader -writers, who for years had written with an immense assumption of -knowledge, had revealed this imminence of the world conflict. Some of -them had played a game of party politics with “the German menace,” and -had used it as a stick for their political opponents. _The Daily Mail_, -favoring a big navy, and more capital ships, had led the chorus of “We -want eight and we won’t wait.” _The Daily News_, favoring disarmament, -had denied the existence of any aggressive spirit in Germany. According -to the political color of the newspapers, Liberal or Tory, the question -of German relations had been written up by the leader writers and news -had been carefully selected by the foreign news editors. But the public -had never been given any clear or authoritative guidance; they had -never been warned by the press as a whole, rising above the political -game, that the very life of the nation was in jeopardy, and that all -they had and were would be challenged to the death. Murder trials, -suffragette raids, divorce court news, the social whirligig, the -passionate folly in Ireland, had been the stuff with which the press -had fed the public mind to the very eve of this crash into the abyss of -horror. - -Even now, when war was certain, the press said, “It is impossible!” as -indeed the nation did, in its little homes, because their imagination -refused to admit the possibility of that monstrous cataclysm. And when -war was declared, the press said, “It will be over in three months.” -Indeed, men I knew in Fleet Street, old colleagues of mine, said, “It -will be over in three weeks!” Their theory seemed to be that Germany -had gone mad and that with England, France, and Russia attacking on all -sides, she would collapse like a pricked bladder. - -Looking back on that time, I find a little painful amusement in the -thought of our immeasurable ignorance as to the meaning of modern -warfare. We knew just nothing about its methods or machinery, nor about -its immensity of range and destruction. - -After the first shock and stupor, news editors began to get busy, as -though this war were going to be like the South-African affair, remote, -picturesque, and romantic. They appointed a number of correspondents to -“cover” the various fronts. They engaged press photographers and cinema -men. War correspondents of the old school, like Bennett Burleigh, H. W. -Nevinson, and Frederick Villiers, called at the War Office for their -credentials, collected their kit, and took riding exercise in the Park, -believing that they would need horses in this war on the western front, -as great generals--dear simple souls--believed that cavalry could ride -through German trenches. - -The War Office kept a little group of distinguished old-time war -correspondents kicking their heels in waiting rooms of Whitehall, -week after week, and month after month, always with the promise that -wonderful arrangements would be made for them “shortly.” Meanwhile, and -at the very outbreak of war, a score of younger journalists, without -waiting for War Office credentials, and disobeying War Office orders, -dashed over to France and Belgium, and plunged into the swirl and -backwash of this frightful drama. Some of them had astounding and -perilous adventures, in sheer ignorance, at first, of the hazards they -took, but it was not long before they understood and knew, with a shock -that changed their youthful levity of adventure into the gravity of men -who have looked into the flames of hell, and the torture chamber of -human agony. Henceforth, between them and those who had not seen, there -was an impassable gulf of understanding.... - -Owing to the rigid refusal of the War Office, under Lord Kitchener’s -orders, to give any official credentials to correspondents, the -British press, as hungry for news as the British public whose little -professional army had disappeared behind a deathlike silence, printed -any scrap of description, any glimmer of truth, any wild statement, -rumor, fairy tale, or deliberate lie, which reached them from France or -Belgium; and it must be admitted that the liars had a great time. - -A vast amount of lying was done by newspaper men who accepted the -official statements of French Ministers, hiding the frightful truth of -the German advance. It was an elaboration of the French _communiqués_ -which in the first weeks of the war were devoid of truth. But a great -deal of imaginative lying was accomplished by young journalists, who -at Boulogne, Calais, Dunkirk, Ghent, or Paris, invented marvelous -adventures of their own, exaggerated affairs of outposts into -stupendous battles, and defeated the Germans time and time again in -verbal victories, while the German war machine was driving like a knife -into the hearts of Belgium and France. - -Reading the English newspapers in those early days of the war, with -their stories of starving Germany, their atrocity-mongering, their -wild perversions of truth, a journalist proud of his profession must -blush for shame at its degradation and insanity. Its excuse and defense -lie in the psychological storm that the war created in the soul of -humanity, from which Fleet Street itself--very human--did not escape; -in the natural agony of desire to find some reason for hopefulness; in -the patriotic necessity of preventing despair from overwhelming popular -opinion in the first shock of the enemy’s advance; and in the desperate -anxiety of all men and women whose heritage and liberties were at -stake, to get some glimpse behind the heavy shutters of secrecy that -had been slammed down by military censorship. - -I was one of those who did not wait for official permits, and plunged -straightway into the vortex of the war game. In self-defense I -must plead that I was not one of the liars! I did not manufacture -atrocities, and had some temperamental difficulty in believing those -that were true, because I believed in the decency of the common -man, even in the decency of the German common man. I did not invent -imaginary adventures, but found tragedy enough, and drama enough, in -the things I saw, and the truth that I found. As I had two companions -most of the time in those early days, whose honor is acknowledged by -all who know them--H. M. Tomlinson and W. M. Massey--their evidence -supported my own articles which, like theirs, revealed something to our -people of the enormous history that was happening. - -Strangely, as it now seems to me, I was appointed artist correspondent -to _The Graphic_, as I had been in the Bulgarian war, and I actually -made some sketches of French mobilization and preparations for war, -which were redrawn and published. But my old paper, _The Daily -Chronicle_, desired my services and I changed over to them, and -abandoned the pencil for the pen, with _The Graphic’s_ consent, a few -days after the declaration of war. - -I had crossed over to Paris on the night the reservists had been called -to the colors in England, although so far war had not been declared by -England or France. But the fleet was cleared for action, and ready, -and that night destroyers were out in the English Channel and their -searchlights swept our packet boat, where groups of Frenchmen who -had been clerks, hairdressers, and shop assistants in England were -singing “The Marseillaise” with a kind of religious ecstasy, while -in the saloon a party of Lancashire lads were getting fuddled and -promising themselves “a good time” on a week-end trip to Paris, utterly -unconscious of war and its realities. - -In _The Daily Chronicle_ office in Paris, where I had done night duty -so often, my friend and colleague, Henri Bourdin, was white to the lips -with nervous emotion, and constantly answered telephonic inquiries from -French journalists: “Is England coming in? Nothing official, eh? Is it -certain England will come in? You think so? Name of God! why doesn’t -England say the word?” - -It was the consuming thought in all French minds. They were desperate -for an answer to their questions. Because of the delay, Paris was -suspicious, angry, ready for an outbreak of passion against the English -tourists, who were besieging the railway stations, and against English -journalists, who were in a fever of anxiety. - -I saw the unforgetable scenes of mobilization in Paris, which made -one’s very heart weep with the tragedy of those partings between men -and women, who clung to each other and kissed for the last time--so -many of them for the last time--and on the night of August 2nd I went -with the first trainload of reservists to Belfort, Toul, and Nancy. All -through the night, at every station in which the train stopped, there -was the sound of marching men, and the song of “The Marseillaise”: - - - “_Formez vos bataillons!_” - - -The youth of France was trooping from the fields and workshops, -not in ignorance of the sacrifice to which they were called, not -light-heartedly, but with a simple and splendid devotion to their -country which now, in remembrance, after the years of massacre and of -disillusion, still fills me with emotion.... - -I do not intend here to give a narrative of my own experiences of war. -I have written them elsewhere, and what do they matter, anyhow, in -those years when millions of men faced death daily and passed through -an adventure of life beyond all power of imagination of civilized men? -I will rather deal with the subject of the Press in war, and with the -peculiar difficulties and work of the correspondents, especially in the -early days. - -For the first few months of the war we had no status whatever. Indeed, -to be quite plain, we were outlaws, subject to immediate arrest (and -often arrested) by any officer, French or British, who discovered us in -the war zone. Kitchener refused to sanction the scheme, which had been -fully prepared before the war, for the appointment of a small body of -war correspondents whose honor and reputation were acknowledged, and -gave orders that any journalist found in the field of war should be -instantly expelled and have his passport canceled. The French were even -more severe, and sent out stern orders from their General Headquarters -for the arrest of any journalist found trespassing in the zone of war. - -For some time, however, it was impossible to enforce these rules. The -German advance through Belgium and Northern France was only a day or -two, or an hour or two behind the stampede of vast populations in -flight from the enemy. The roads were filled with these successive -tides of refugees. The trains were stormed by panic-stricken folk, -and even the troop trains found room in the corridors and on the -roofs for swarms of civilians, men and women. Dressed in civilian -clothes, unshaved and unwashed, like any of these people, how could a -correspondent be distinguished or arrested? Who was going to bother -about him? Even the spy mania which seized France very quickly and -feverishly did not create, for some time, a network of restriction -close enough to catch us. I traveled for weeks in the war zone on a -pass stamped by French headquarters, permitting me to receive the daily -_communiqué_ from the War Office in Paris. I had dozens of other passes -and _permis de séjour_ from local authorities and police, which enabled -me to travel with perfect facility, provided I was able to bluff the -military guards at the railway stations, who were generally satisfied -with those bunches of dirty passes and official-looking stamps. There -was, too, a dual control in France, and a divergence of views regarding -war correspondents. The civil authorities--prefects, mayors, and -police--favored our presence, desired to let us know the suffering and -heroism of their people, and welcomed us with every courtesy, because -we were English and their allies. Often they turned a blind eye to -military commands, or were ignorant of the orders against us. - -Massey, Tomlinson, and I, working together in close comradeship, in -those first weeks of war, traveled in Northern France and Belgium -with what now seems to me an amazing freedom. We were caught up in -the tide of flight from French and Belgian cities. We saw the retreat -of the French army through Amiens, from which city we escaped only a -short time before the entry of Von Kluck’s columns. We came into the -midst of the British retreat at Creil, where Sir John French had set -up his headquarters; mingled with the crowds of English and Scottish -stragglers, French infantry and engineers, who were falling back on -Paris, before the spearheads of the German invasion, with a world of -tragedy behind them, yet with a faith in victory that was mysterious -and sublime. We had no knowledge of the enemy’s whereabouts and set -out in simple ignorance for towns already in German hands, or alighted -at stations threatened with immediate capture. So it was at Beauvais, -where we were the only passengers in a train that pulled over a bridge -where a cuirassier stood by bags of dynamite ready to blow it up, and -where the last of the civilian population had trudged away from streets -strewn with broken glass. Only by a strange spell of luck did we escape -capture by the enemy, toward whose line we went, partly in ignorance -of the enormous danger, partly with foolhardy deliberation, and always -drugged with desire to see and know the worst or the best of this -frightful drama. - -We were often exhausted with fatigue. On the day we came into a -deserted Paris, stricken with an agony of apprehension that the Germans -would enter, I had to be carried to bed by Tomlinson and Massey, as -helpless as a child. A few days later, Massey, a strong man till then, -but now ashen-faced and weak, could not drag one leg after another. We -had worn down our nervous strength to what seemed like the last strand, -yet we went on again, in the wagons of troop trains, sleeping in -corridors, the baggage rooms of railway stations, or carriages crammed -with French _poilus_, who told narratives of war with a simplicity and -realism that froze one’s blood. - -We followed up the German retreat from the Marne, when the bodies -of the dead were being buried in heaps and the fields were littered -with the wreckage of battle, and then went north to Dunkirk, bombed -every day by German aëroplanes, but crowded with French _fusiliers_, -_marins_, Arabs, British aviators of the Royal Navy, and Belgian -refugees. Here I parted for a time with Massey and Tomlinson, and in -a brief experience as a stretcher bearer with an ambulance column -attached to the Belgian army, saw into the flaming heart of war, at -Dixmude, Nieuport, and other places, where I became familiar with the -sight of death, dirty with the blood of wounded men, and sick with the -agony of this human shambles--a story which I have told in my book, -_The Soul of the War_. - -Other men, old friends of mine in Fleet Street, were having similar -adventures, taking the same, or greater, hazards, dodging the military -authorities with more or less luck. Hamilton Fyfe, then of _The Daily -Mail_ and now editor of _The Daily Herald_, was caught in a motor car -by a patrol of German Uhlans, and only escaped becoming a prisoner of -war by an amazing freak of fortune. George Curnock, also of _The Daily -Mail_, was arrested by the French as a spy, and very nearly shot. A -little group of correspondents--among them Ashmead Bartlett--were flung -into the _Cherche Midi_ prison and treated for a time like common -criminals. I happened to fall into conversation with a French officer, -who had actually arrested them. He was strongly suspicious of me, and -asked whether I knew these gentlemen, all of whose names he had in -his pocket book. I admitted that I had heard of one or two of them by -repute, and expected to be arrested on the spot. But this officer had -been French master at an English public school and was anxious, for -some reason, to get an uncensored letter to the head master. I told him -I was going to England, and offered to take it.... I was not arrested -that time. - -Another adventurer was young Lucian Jones, son of the famous -playwright, Henry Arthur Jones. He made frequent trips to the Belgian -front and was one of the last to leave Antwerp after the siege, which -was not a pleasant adventure when heavy shells smashed the houses on -every side of him. As he made no disguise whatever of his profession -and purpose, he was sent back to England and forbidden to show his face -again. He took the next boat back, and was again arrested and flung -into a dirty prison. His editor, who received word of his plight, sent -a message to General Bridges, asking for his release, and obtained the -brusque answer, “Let the fellow rot!”--only it was a stronger word than -“fellow.” - -One great difficulty we had in those days was to get our messages -back to our newspapers. Sometimes we intrusted them to any chance -acquaintance who was making his way to England. Several times we -had to get back to the coast, in those terrible refugee trains, to -bribe some purser on a cross-Channel steamer. When that became too -dangerous--because it was strictly forbidden by the military and -naval authorities--we made the journey to London, handed in our -messages, and hurried back again the same day to France. The mental -state of our newspaper colleagues exasperated us. They seemed to have -no understanding whatever of what was happening on the other side, -no conception of that world of agony. “Had a good time?” asked a -sub-editor, hurrying along the corridor with proofs--and I wanted to -choke him, because of his placid unconsciousness of the things that had -seared my eyes and soul. - -I could not bear to talk with men who still said, “It will be over in -three months,” and who still believed that war was a rather jolly, -romantic adventure, and that our little professional army was more -than a match for the Germans who were arrant cowards and no better -than sheep. In Fleet Street, at that time, there was no vision of what -war meant to the women of France and Belgium, to the children of the -refugees, to the mothers and fathers of the fighting men. It had not -touched us closely in those first weeks of war. - -My vexation was great one morning, after one of these journeys home, -when I missed the train to Dover, and my good comrades Massey and -Tomlinson--by just a minute. Perhaps I should never see them again. -They would be lost in the vortex. - -“Take a special train,” said my wife. - -The idea startled me, not having the mentality or resources of a -millionaire. - -“It’s worth it,” said my wife, who is a woman of big ideas. - -I turned to the station master, who was standing at the closed gates of -the continental platform. - -“How long would it take you to provide a special train?” - -He smiled. - -“No longer than it would take you to pay over the money.” - -“How much?” - -“Twenty-two pounds.” - -I consulted my wife again with raised eyebrows, and she nodded. - -I went into a little office, half undressed, and pulled out of my -belt a pile of French gold pieces. By the time they had been counted -and a receipt given--no more than three minutes--there was a train -with an engine and three carriages, a driver and a guard, ready for -me on the line to Dover. My small boy (as he was then) gazed in awe -and admiration at the magic trick. I waved to him as the train went -off with me. I was signaled all down the line, and in the stations we -passed porters and officials stared and saluted as the train flashed -by. Doubtless they thought I was a great general going to win the war! -At Dover I was only one minute behind the express I had lost. Massey -and Tomlinson were pacing the platform disconsolately at the loss of -their comrade. They could not believe their eyes when I walked up and -said “Hello!” So we went back to a new series of adventures. - -I used with success, three times running, another method of getting my -“dispatches” to Fleet Street. After the third time some intuition told -me to change the plan. At that time, as all through the war, a number -of King’s messengers--mostly men of high rank and reputation--traveled -continually between British G.H.Q. and the War Office, with private -documents from the Commander-in-Chief. Three times did I accost one of -these officers--a different man each time--in an easy and confidential -manner. - -“Are you going back to Whitehall, Sir?” - -“Yes. What can I do for you?” - -“I shall be much obliged if you will put this letter in your bag, and -deliver it at the War Office.” - -“Certainly, my dear fellow!” - -My letter was addressed to _The Daily Chronicle_, care of the War -Office, and, much to the surprise of my editor, was punctually -delivered, by a War-Office messenger. But my intuition was right. After -the third time the editor of _The Daily Chronicle_ received word from -the War Office that if Gibbs sent any more of his articles by King’s -messenger, they would be destroyed. - -The method of delivery became easier afterward, because the newspapers -organized a series of their own couriers between England and France, -and that system served until the whole courier service was rounded up -and forbidden to set foot in France again. - -It was amazing that my articles, and those of my fellow correspondents, -were allowed to appear in the newspapers, in spite of military -prohibition. But the press censorship, which had been set up by the -government under the control of F. E. Smith, now Lord Birkenhead, -was not under direct military authority, and was much more tolerant -of correspondents who evaded military regulations. I wrote scores of -columns during the first few months of the war, mostly of a descriptive -character, and very few lines were blacked out by the censors. So far -from being in the black books of the press censorship as established -at that time, I was sent for by F. E. Smith, who thanked me for my -narratives and promised to give personal attention to any future -dispatches I might send. This was at the very time when Kitchener -himself gave orders for my arrest, after reading a long article of mine -from the Belgian front. - -I was also received several times by Sir William Tyrrell, Secretary -to the Foreign Office, who questioned me about my knowledge of the -situation and begged me to call on him whenever I came back, although -he knew that orders had been given to cancel my passport and that I -was in the black book, for immediate arrest, at any port. It was Sir -William Tyrrell, indeed, who, with great kindness provided me with a -new passport after I had fallen into very hot water indeed. - -It was F. E. Smith who read, approved, and even strengthened by a -phrase or two, a sensational dispatch written by my friend Hamilton -Fyfe and a colleague named Moore, which revealed for the first time -to the British nation the terrible ordeal and sacrifice of the little -Regular Army in the retreat from Mons. It was too sensational, perhaps, -in its account of “broken divisions,” and “remnants of battalions”; and -its tone was too tragic and despairing, so that there was one black -Sunday in England which will never be forgotten by those who lived -through it, because there seemed no hope for the British Army, or for -France. - -As it happened, Massey, Tomlinson, and I had covered the same ground -as Fyfe and his companion, had seen the same things, and had agonized -with the same apprehension. But owing largely, as I must honestly and -heartily say, to the cool judgment and fine faith of Tomlinson, our -deduction from those facts and the spirit of what we wrote was far -more optimistic--and future history proved us to be right--so that -they helped to restore confidence in England and Scotland, when they -appeared on Monday morning, following Fyfe’s terrible dispatch. - -But Fyfe did a great service to the nation and the Allies, by the truth -he told, somewhat overcolored as it was. It awakened Great Britain from -its false complacency. It revealed to the nation, for the first time, -the awful truth that our little Regular Army, magnificent as it was, -could not withstand the tremendous weight of the German advance on the -left flank of the French, was not sufficient to turn the scales of -victory in favor of France, and was in desperate need of reinforcements -from the untrained manhood at home. It shook the spirit of England -like an earthquake, and brought it face to face with the menace of its -life and liberties. For if France went down, we should follow.... The -recruiting booths were stormed by the young manhood of England and -Scotland, who had not joined up because they had believed that myth: -“The war will be over in three months.” - -There was tremendous anger in the War Office at the publication of that -article by Fyfe and Moore, and F. E. Smith, as the press censor, was -severely compromised. - -The truth was that the military mind was obsessed with the necessity of -fighting this war--“our war” as the regulars called it--in the dark, -while the nonmilitary mind knew that such a policy was impossible, and -might be disastrous, in a war costing such a frightful sum of life, and -putting such a strain upon the nation’s heart and spirit. - -Looking back on my experiences as an unauthorized correspondent in -that early part of the war, I must confess now that I was hardly -justified in evading military law, and that I might have been found -guilty, justly, of a serious crime against the Allied cause. By some -frightful indiscretion (which I did not commit) I or any other of those -correspondents might have endangered the position of our troops, or the -French army, by giving information useful to the enemy. - -The main fault, however, lay with the War Office, and especially with -Lord Kitchener, whose imagination did not realize that this war could -not be fought in the dark, as some little affair with Indian hillmen -on the northwest frontier. The immense anxiety of the nation, with its -army fighting behind the veil while the fate of civilization hung in -the balance, could not and would not be satisfied with the few lines of -official _communiqués_ which told nothing and hid the truth.... - -Gradually the net was drawn tighter, until, in the first months of -1915, it was impossible for any correspondent to travel in the war zone -without arrest. I had come home to get a change of kit, as my clothes -were caked with blood and mud, after supporting wounded men in Belgium. -It was then that I heard of Kitchener’s orders for my arrest and was -greeted with surprise and apprehension by Robert Donald and the staff -of _The Daily Chronicle_, who had sent over two messengers (who had -never reached me) to warn me of my peril. - -Next time I went to France I was provided with wonderful credentials -as a special commissioner of the British Red Cross, with instructions -to report on the hospital and medical needs of the army in the field. -These documents were signed by illustrious names, and covered with -red seals. I was satisfied they would pass me to any part of the -front.... I was arrested before I left the boat at Havre and taken by -two detectives to General Williams, the camp commander. He raged at me -with an extreme violence of language, took possession of my passport -and credentials, and put me under open arrest at the Hotel Tortoni, -in charge of six detectives. Here I remained for ten days or so, -unable to communicate my ignominious situation to the authorities of -the Red Cross, upon whose authority I had come. Fortunately I became -good friends with the detectives, who were excellent fellows, and with -whom I used to have my meals. It was by the kindness of one of them -that I was able to send through a message to the editor of _The Daily -Chronicle_, and shortly afterward General Williams graciously permitted -me to return to England. - -It looked as though my career as a war correspondent had definitely -closed. I had violated every regulation. I had personally angered Lord -Kitchener. I was on the black books of the detectives at every port, -and General Williams solemnly warned me that if I returned to France, I -would be put up against a white wall, with unpleasant consequences. - -Strange as it appears, the military authorities blotted out my sins -when at last they appointed five official war correspondents with a -recognized status in the British armies on the Western Front. No longer -did I have to dodge staff officers, and disguise myself as a refugee. -In khaki, with a green armlet denoting my service, I could face -generals, and even the Commander-in-Chief himself, without a quiver, -and with my four comrades was recognized as an officer and a gentleman, -with some reservations. - - - - -XIX - - -The appointment and work of five official war correspondents (of -whom I was one from first to last) caused an extraordinary amount of -perturbation at British General Headquarters. Staff officers of the -old Regular Army were at first exceedingly hostile to the idea, and to -us. They were deeply suspicious that we might be dirty dogs who would -reveal military secrets which would imperil the British front. They -had a conviction that we were “prying around” for no good purpose, and -would probably “give away the whole show.” - -Fear, personal and professional, was in the minds of some of the -generals, it is certain. We found that many of the regulations to which -we were subject--until we broke them down--were much more to safeguard -the reputation and cover up the mistakes of the High Command than to -prevent the enemy from having information which might be of use to -him. They were afraid of the British public, of politicians, and of -newspapers, and were profoundly uneasy lest we should dig up scandals, -raise newspaper sensations, and cause infernal trouble generally. - -I can quite sympathize with their nervousness, for if newspapers had -adopted ordinary journalistic methods of sensation mongering, the -position of the Army Command would have been intolerable. But this must -be said for the newspaper press in the Great War--whatever its faults, -and they were many--proprietors and editors subordinated everything -to a genuine and patriotic desire to “play the game,” to support the -army, and to avoid any criticism or controversy which might hamper the -military chiefs or demoralize the nation. - -As far as the five war correspondents were concerned, we had no other -desire than to record the truth as fully as possible without handing -information to the enemy, and to describe the life and actions of our -fighting men so that the nation and the world should understand their -valor, their suffering, and their achievement. We identified ourselves -absolutely with the armies in the field, and we wiped out of our minds -all thought of personal “scoops,” and all temptation to write one -word which would make the task of officers and men more difficult or -dangerous. There was no need of censorship of our dispatches. We were -our own censors. - -That couldn’t be taken for granted, however, by G.H.Q. They were -not sure at first of our mentality or our honor. The old tradition -of distrust between the army and the rest was very strong until the -New Army came into being, with officers who had not passed through -Sandhurst but through the larger world. They were so nervous of us in -those early days that they appointed a staff of censors to live with -us, travel with us, sleep with us, read our dispatches with a mass of -rules for their guidance, and examine our private correspondence to our -wives, if need be with acid tests, to discover any invisible message we -might try to smuggle through. - -We had to suffer many humiliations in that way, but fortunately we had -a sense of humor and laughed at most of them. Gradually also--very -quickly indeed--we made friends with many generals and officers -commanding divisions, brigades, and battalions, broke down their -distrust, established confidence. They were surprised to find us decent -fellows, and pleased with what we wrote about the men. They became -keen to see us in their trenches or their headquarters. They wanted to -show us their particular “peepshows,” they invited us to see special -“stunts.” Their first hostility evaporated, and was replaced by cordial -welcome, and they laughed with us, and sometimes cursed with us, at -the continued restrictions of G.H.Q., which forbade the mention of -battalions and brigades (well known to the enemy) whose heroic exploits -we described. - -For some time G.H.Q., represented by General Macdonagh, Chief of -Intelligence, under whose orders we were, maintained a narrow view -of our liberties in narration and description. Hardly a week passed -without some vexatious rule to cramp our style by prohibiting the -mention of facts far better known to the Germans than to the British, -whose men were suffering and dying without their own folk knowing the -action in which their sacrifice was consummated. - -The heavy hand of the censorship fell with special weight upon us -during the battle of Loos. General Macdonagh himself used the blue -pencil ruthlessly, and I had no less than forty pages of manuscript -deleted by his own hand from my descriptive account. Again it seemed -to us that the guiding idea behind the censorship was, to conceal -the truth not from the enemy, but from the nation, in defense of the -British High Command and its tragic blundering. That was in September -of 1915, and we became aware at that time that the man most hostile -to our work was not Sir John French, the Commander-in-Chief, but Sir -Douglas Haig, at that time in command of the First Corps. He drew a -line around his own zone of operations beyond which we were forbidden -to go, and the message which conveyed his order to us was not couched -in conciliatory language. It was withdrawn under the urgent pressure -of our immediate chiefs, and I was allowed to go to the Loos redoubt -during the progress of the battle, with John Buchan who had come out -temporarily on behalf of _The Times_. - -The tragic slaughter at Loos, its reckless and useless waste of life, -its abominable staff work, and certain political intrigues at home, led -to the recall of Sir John French and the succession of Sir Douglas Haig -as Commander-in-Chief. - -For a time we believed that our doom was sealed, knowing his strong -prejudice against us, and in the first interview we had with him, -he did not conceal his contempt for our job. But with his new -responsibility he was bound to take notice of the increasing demand -from the British government and people for more detailed accounts of -British actions and of the daily routine of war. It became even an -angry demand, and Sir Douglas Haig yielded to its insistence. From -that time onward we were given full liberty of movement over the whole -front, and full and complete privileges, never before accorded to war -correspondents, to see the army reports during the progress of battle, -and day by day; while Army Corps, Divisions, and Battalion headquarters -were instructed to show us their intelligence and operation reports -and to give us detailed information of any action on their part of the -front. - -The new Chief of Intelligence, General Charteris, who succeeded -General Macdonagh, devoted a considerable amount of time to our little -unit, and in many ways, with occasional tightening of the reins, was -broad-minded in his interpretation of the censorship regulations. It -may be truly said that never before in history was a great war, or any -war, so accurately and fully reported day by day for at least three -years, subject to certain reservations which were abominably vexatious -and tended to depress the spirit of the troops and to arouse the -suspicion of the nation. - -The chief reservations were the ungenerous and unfair way in which -the names of particular battalions were not allowed to be mentioned, -and the suppression of the immense losses incurred by the troops. -The last restriction was necessary. It would be disastrous in the -course of a battle to give information to the enemy (who read all our -newspapers) of the exact damage he had done at a particular part of -the line. Nothing would be more valuable to an attacking army than -that knowledge. In due course the losses became known to the nation by -the publication of the casualty lists, so that it was only a temporary -concealment. - -With regard to the mention of battalions, I am still convinced that -there was needless secrecy in that respect, as nine times out of ten -the German Intelligence was aware of what troops were in front of them, -along all sectors. Scores of times, also, mention was made of the -Canadians and Australians, where no reference was permitted to English, -Scottish, Irish, or Welsh battalions, so that the English especially, -who from first to last formed sixty-eight per cent of the total -fighting strength, and did most fighting and most dying, in all the -great battles, were ignored in favor of their comrades from overseas. -To this day many people in Canada and the United States believe that -the Canadians bore the brunt of all the fighting, while Tommy Atkins -looked on at a safe distance. The Australians have the same simple -faith about their own crowd. But splendid beyond words as these men -were, it is poor old Tommy Atkins of the English counties, and Jock, -his Scottish cousin, who held the main length of the line, took most of -the hard knocks, and fought most actions, big and little. Anybody who -denies that is a liar. - -Our victory over the censorship, and over the narrow and unimaginative -prejudice of elderly staff officers, was due in no small measure -to--the censors. That may sound like a paradox, but it is the simple -truth. I have already said that each correspondent had a censor -attached to him, a kind of jailer and spy, eating, sleeping, walking, -and driving. Blue pencil in hand, they read our dispatches, slip by -slip, as they were written, and our letters to our wives, our aunts, -or our grandmothers. But these men happened to be gentlemen, and -broad-minded men of the world, and they very quickly became our most -loyal friends and active allies. - -They saw the absurdity of many of the regulations laid down for -their guidance in censoring our accounts, and they did their best -to interpret them in a free and easy way, or to have them repealed, -if there was no loophole of escape. Always they turned a blind eye, -whenever possible, to a vexatious and niggling rule, and several of -them risked their jobs, and lost them, in putting up a stiff resistance -to some new and ridiculous order from G.H.Q. They went with us to the -front, and shared our fatigues and our risks, and smoothed the way for -us everywhere by tact and diplomacy and personal guarantees of our good -sense and honor. - -The first group of censors who were attached to our little organization -were as good as we could have wished if we had had a free choice of the -whole British Army. - -Our immediate chief was a very noble and charming man. That was Colonel -Stuart, a regular soldier of the old school, simple-hearted, brave -as a lion, courteous and kind. He led us into many dirty places and -tested our courage in front-line trenches, mine shafts, and bombarded -villages, with a smiling unconcern which at least taught us to hide any -fear that lurked in our hearts, as I freely confess it very often did -in mine. He was killed one day by a sniper’s bullet, and we mourned the -loss of a very gallant gentleman. - -Attached to us, under his command, was an extraordinary fellow, and -splendid type, famous in the two worlds of sport and letters by name of -Hesketh Prichard. Many readers will know his name as the author of _The -Adventures of Don Q._, _Where Black Rules White_, and other books. He -was a big game hunter, a great cricketer, and an all-round sportsman, -and he stood six foot four in his stockings, a long lean Irishman, with -a powerful, deeply lined face, an immense nose, a whimsical mouth, and -moody, restless, humorous, tragic eyes. He hated the war with a deadly -loathing, because of its unceasing slaughter of that youth which he -loved, his old comrades in the playing fields and his comrades’ sons. -Often he would come down in the morning, when the casualty lists were -long, with eyes red after secret weeping. He had a morbid desire to go -to dangerous places and to get under fire, because he could not bear -the thought of remaining alive and whole while his pals were dying. - -Often he would unwind his long legs, spring out of his chair, and say, -“Gibbs, old boy, for God’s sake let’s go and have a prowl round Ypres, -or see what’s doing Dickebush way.” There was always something doing in -the way of high explosive shells, and once, when my friend Tomlinson -and I were with Prichard in the ruin of the Grand Place in Ypres, a -German aëroplane skimmed low above our heads and thought it worth -while to bomb our little lonely group. Perhaps it was Hesketh’s G.H.Q. -arm-band which caught the eye of the German aviator. We sprawled under -the cover of ruined masonry, and lay “doggo” until the bird had gone. -But there was always the chance of death in every square yard of Ypres, -because it was shelled ceaselessly, and that was why Hesketh went there -with any companion who would join him--and his choice fell mostly on me. - -He left us before the battles of the Somme, to become chief sniper of -the British army. With telescopic sights, and many tricks of Red Indian -warfare, he lay in front-line trenches or camouflaged trees, and waited -patiently, as in the old days he had lain waiting for wild beasts, -until a German sniper showed his head to take a shot at one of our -men. He never showed his head twice when Hesketh Prichard was within -a thousand yards. Then Prichard organized sniping schools all along -the front, until we beat the Germans at their own game in that way of -warfare. - -He survived the war, but not with his strength and activity. Some “bug” -in the trenches had poisoned his blood, and when I saw him last he -lay, a gaunt wreck, in the garden of his home near St. Albans, where -his father-in-law was Earl of Verulam--Francis Bacon’s old title. In a -letter he had written to me was the tragic phrase, “_Quantum mutatus -ab illo_”--How changed from what once he was!--and as I looked at him, -I was shocked at that change. The shadow of death was on him, though -his beautiful wife tried to hide it from him, and from herself, by -a splendid laughing courage that masked her pity and fear. He was a -victim of the war, though he lived until the peace. - -Another man who was attached to the war correspondent’s unit in that -early part of the war was Colonel Faunthorpe, famous in India as a -hunter of tigers--he had shot sixty-two in the jungle--and as a cavalry -officer, pigsticker, judge, and poet. When, after the war, Faunthorpe -went for a time to the British Embassy in Washington (making frequent -visits to New York), American society welcomed him as the Englishman -whom they had been taught to expect and had never yet seen. Here he -was at last, as he is known in romance and legend--tall, handsome, -inscrutable, with a monocle, a marvelous gift of silence, a quiet, -deep, hardly revealed sense of humor, and a fine gallantry of manner to -pretty women and ugly ones. He left a trail of tender recollection and -humorous remembrance from New York to San Francisco. - -Faunthorpe, behind his mask of the typical cavalry officer, had (and -has), as I quickly perceived, a subtle mind, a lively sense of irony, -and a most liberal outlook on life. He had a quiet contempt (not always -sufficiently disguised) for the limited intelligence of G.H.Q. (or of -some high officers therein), he was open in his ridicule of journalists -in general and some war correspondents in particular, and he regarded -his own job in the war, as censor and controller of photographs, as -one of the inexplicable jests of fate. But he stood by us manfully -in a time of crisis when, at the beginning of a series of battles, a -venerable old gentleman, an “ancient” of prehistoric mind, was suddenly -produced from some lair in G.H.Q., and given supreme authority over -military censorship, which he instantly used by canceling all the -privileges we had won by so much work and struggle. - -With the Colonel’s full consent, we went “on strike” and said the war -could go on without us, as we would not write a single word about -the impending battles until all the new restrictions were removed. -This ultimatum shocked G.H.Q. to its foundations--or at least the -Intelligence side of it. After twenty-four hours of obstinate -command, the ancient one was sent back to his lair, our privileges -were restored, but Colonel Faunthorpe was made the scapegoat of our -rebellion, and deposed from his position as our chief. - -We deplored his departure, for he had been great and good to us. One -quality of his was a check to our restlessness, nervousness, and -irritability in the wear and tear of this strange life. He had an -infinite reserve of patience. When there was “nothing doing” he slept, -believing, as he said, in the “conservation of energy.” He slept -always in the long motor drives which we made in our daily routine -of inquiry and observation. He slept like a babe under shell fire, -unless activity of command were required, and once awakened to find -high explosive shells bursting around his closed car, which he had -parked in the middle of a battlefield, while his driver was painfully -endeavoring to hide his body behind a mud bank.... Colonel Faunthorpe -is now “misgoverning the unfortunate Indians”--it is his own phrase--as -Commissioner at Lucknow, with command of life and death over millions -of natives whom he understands as few men now alive. - -India was well represented in the group of censors attached to our -organization, for we had two other Indian officials with us--Captains -Reynolds and Coldstream, both men of high education, great charm of -character, and unfailing sense of humor. For Reynolds I had a personal -affection as a wise, friendly, and humorous soul, with whom I tramped -in many strange places where death went ravaging, always encouraged by -his cool disregard of danger, his smiling contempt for any show of fear. - -Coldstream was a little Pucklike man, neat as a new pin, damnably -ironical of war and war correspondents, whimsical, courteous, sulky -at times, like a spoiled boy, and lovable. He is back in India, like -Reynolds and Faunthorpe, helping to govern our Empire, and doing it -well. - -Our commanding officers and censors changed from time to time. It was -a difficult and dangerous position to be O. C. war correspondents, for -such a man was between two fires--our own resentment (sometimes very -passionate) of regulations hampering to our work, and the fright and -anger of G.H.Q. if anything slipped through likely to create public -criticism or to encourage the enemy, or to depress the spirit of the -British people. - -Colonel Hutton Wilson, who was our immediate chief for a time, was a -debonair little staff officer with the narrow traditions of the Staff -College and an almost childlike ignorance of the press, the public, and -human life outside the boundaries of his professional experience, which -was not wide. He was amiable, but irritating to most of my colleagues, -with little vexatious ways. Personally I liked him, and I think he -liked me, but he had a fixed idea that I was a rebel, and almost a -Bolshevik. - -Later in the war he was succeeded by Colonel the Honorable Neville -Lytton, the grandson of Bulwer Lytton, the great novelist, and the -brother of the present Lord Lytton. Neville Lytton was, and is, a -man of great and varied talent, as painter, musician, and diplomat. -In appearance as well as in character he belongs to the eighteenth -century, with a humorous, whimsical face, touched by side whiskers, -and a most elegant way with him. He is a gentleman of the old school -(with a strain of the gypsy in his blood), who believes in “form” above -all things, and the _beau geste_ in all situations of life or in the -presence of death. When I walked with him one day up the old duckboards -under shell fire, he swung his trench stick with careless grace, made -comical grimaces of contempt at the bursting shells, and said, “Gibbs, -if we have to die, let’s do it like gentlemen! If we’re afraid (as we -are!) let’s look extremely brave. A good pose is essential in life and -war.” - -At the soul of him he was a Bohemian and artist. His room, wherever we -were, was littered with sketches, sheets of music, poems in manuscript, -photographs of his portraits of beautiful ladies. Whatever the agony -of the war around us, he loved to steal away alone or with one of -his assistant officers, my humorous friend Theodore Holland (“little -Theo” and “Theo the Flower,” as he called himself), well known as a -composer, and play delightful little melodies from Bach and Gluck on an -eighteenth-century flute. - -In the early part of the war Lytton had served as a battalion officer -in the trenches, with gallantry and distinction, and then was put in -charge of a little group of French correspondents, whom he controlled -with wonderful tact and good humor. He spoke French with the _argot_ -of Paris, and understood the French temperament and humor so perfectly -that it was difficult to believe that he was not a Frenchman, when he -was in the midst of his little crowd of excitable fellows who regarded -him as a “_bon garçon_” and “_un original_” with such real affection -that they were enraged when he was transferred to our command. - -Another distinguished and unusual type of man--one of the greatest -“intellectuals” of England, though unknown to the general -public--joined us as assistant censor, halfway through the war. This -was C. E. Montague, editor of _The Manchester Guardian_. At the -outbreak of war he dyed his white hair black, enlisted as a “Tommy,” -served in the trenches, reached the rank of sergeant, and finally was -blown up in a dugout. When he joined us he had taken the dye out of his -hair again and it was snow-white, though he was not more than fifty -years of age. - -It was absurd for Montague to be censoring our dispatches, ordering -our cars, looking after our mess, soothing our way with headquarter -staffs, accompanying us as a silent observer to battlefields and -trenches and “pill-boxes” and dugouts. He could have written any man of -us “off our heads.” He would have been the greatest war correspondent -in the world. He writes such perfect prose that every sentence should -be carved in marble or engraved on bronze. He had the eye of a hawk -for small detail, and a most sensitive perception of truth and beauty -lying deep below the surface of our human scene. Compared with Montague -our censor--hating his job, deeply contemptuous of our work, loathing -the futility of all but the fighting men, with a secret revolt in his -soul against the whole bloody business of war, yet with a cold white -passion of patriotism (though Irish)--we were pigmies, vulgarians, and -shameless souls. His bitterness has been revealed in a book called -_Disenchantment_--very cruel to us, rather unfair to me, as he admits -in a letter I have, but wonderful in its truth. - -There was one other man who joined our organization as one of the -censors, to whom I must pay a tribute of affection and esteem. This -was a young fellow named Cadge, unknown to fame, always silent and -sulky in his manner, but with a level head, a genius for doing exactly -the right thing at the right time, and a secret sweetness and nobility -of soul which kept our little “show” running on greased wheels and made -him my good comrade in many adventures. Scores of time he and I went -together into the dirty places, into the midst of the muck and ruin of -war, across the fields where shells came whining, along the trenches -where masses of men lived in the mud, under the menace of death. - -A strange life--like a distant dream now!--but made tolerable at -times, because of these men whose portraits I have sketched, and whose -friendship was good to have. - - - - -XX - - -The four and a half years of war were, of course, to me, as to all men -who passed through that time, the most stupendous experience of life. -It obliterated all other adventures, impressions, and achievements. I -went into the war youthful in ideas and sentiment. I came out of it old -in the knowledge of human courage and endurance and suffering by masses -of men, and utterly changed, physically and mentally. Romance had given -way to realism, sentiment of a weak kind to deeper knowledge and pity -and emotion. - -Our life as war correspondents was not to be compared for a moment in -hardness and danger and discomfort to that of the fighting men in the -trenches. Yet it was not easy nor soft, and it put a tremendous, and -sometimes almost intolerable, strain upon our nerves and strength, -especially if we were sensitive, as most of us were, to the constant -sight of wounded and dying men, to the never-ending slaughter of our -country’s youth, to the grim horror of preparations for battle which we -knew would cause another river of blood to flow, and to the desolation -of that world of ruin through which we passed day by day, on the -battlefields and in the rubbish heaps which had once been towns and -villages. - -We saw, more than most men the wide sweep of the drama of war on the -Western front. The private soldier and the battalion officer saw the -particular spot which he had to defend, knew in his body and soul the -intimate detail of his trench, his dugout, the patch of No-Man’s Land -beyond his parapet, the stink and filth of his own neighborhood with -death, the agony of his wounded pals. But we saw the war in a broader -vision, on all parts of the front, in its tremendous mass effects, as -well as in particular places of abomination. Before battle we saw the -whole organization of that great machine of slaughter. After battle we -saw the fields of dead, the spate of wounded men, the swirling traffic -of ambulances, the crowded hospitals, the herds of prisoners, the -length and breadth of this frightful melodrama in a battle zone forty -miles or more in length and twenty miles or more in depth. - -The effect of such a vision, year in, year out, can hardly be -calculated in psychological effect, unless a man has a mind like a -sieve and a soul like a sink. - -Our headquarters were halfway between the front and G.H.Q., and we were -visitors of both worlds. In our château, wherever we might be--and we -shifted our locality according to the drift of battle--we were secluded -and remote from both these worlds. But we set out constantly to the -front--every day in time of active warfare--through Ypres, if Flanders -was aflame, or through Arras, if that were the focal point, or out from -Amiens to Bapaume and beyond, where the Somme was the hunting ground, -or up by St. Quentin to the right of the line. There was no part of the -front we did not know, and not a ruined village in all the fighting -zone through which we did not pass scores of times, or hundreds of -times. - -We trudged through the trenches, sat in dugouts with battalion -officers, followed our troops in their advance over German lines, -explored the enemy dugouts, talked with German prisoners as they -tramped back after capture or stood in herds of misery in their -“cages,” walked through miles of guns, and beyond the guns, saw -the whole sweep and fury of great bombardments, took our chance of -harassing fire and sudden “strafes,” climbed into observation posts, -saw attacks and counterattacks, became familiar with the detail of the -daily routine of warfare on the grand scale, such as, in my belief, -the world will never see again. - -We were visitors, also, to the other world--the world behind the lines, -in G.H.Q., in Army Corps and Divisional Headquarters, in training -schools and camps, and casualty clearing stations and billets in the -“rest” areas, remote from the noise and filth of battle. From the -private soldier standing by a slimy parapet to the Commander-in-Chief -in his comfortable château, we studied all the psychological strata of -the British armies in France, as few other men had the chance of doing. - -But all the time we were between two worlds, and belonged to neither, -and though I think our job was worth doing (and the spirit of the -people would have broken if we had not done it) we felt at times (or -I did) that the only honest job was to join the fighting men and die -like the best of British manhood did. Our risks were not enough to -make us honest when so many were being killed, though often we had the -chance of death. So it seemed to me, often, then; so it seems to me, -sometimes, now. - -We had wonderful facilities for our work. Each man had a motor car, -which gave him complete mobility. On days of battle we five drew lots -as to the area we would cover, and with one of the censors, who were, -as I have said, our best comrades, set out to the farthest point at -which we could leave a car without having it blown to bits. Then often -we walked, to get a view of the battlefield, amid the roar of our own -guns, and in the litter of newly captured ground. We got as far as -possible into the traffic of supporting troops, advancing guns, meeting -the long straggling processions of “walking wounded,” bloody and -bandaged prisoners, stepping over the mangled bodies of men, watching -the fury of shell fire from our own massed artillery, and the enemy’s -barrage fire. - -Then we had to call at Corps Headquarters--our daily routine--for the -latest reports, and after many hours, motor back again to our own -place to write fast and furiously. Dispatch riders took our messages -(censored by the men who had been out with us that day) back to -“Signals” at G.H.Q., from which they were telephoned back to the War -Office in London, who transmitted them to the newspapers. - -The War Office had no right of censorship, and our dispatches were -untouched after they had left our quarters. Nor were our newspapers -allowed to alter or suppress any word we wrote. - -It may surprise many people to know that we were not in the employ of -our own newspapers. The dispatches of the five men on the Western front -(apart from special Canadian and Australian correspondents attached to -their own Corps) were distributed by arrangement with the War Office to -all countries within the Empire, under the direction of an organization -known as The Newspaper Proprietors Association, who shared our expenses. - -From first to last we were read, greedily and attentively by millions -of readers, but I tell the painful truth when I say that many of -them were suspicious of our accounts and firmly believed that we -concealed much more than we told. That distrust was due, partly, to -the heavy-handed censorship in the early days of the war, when our -first accounts were mutilated. Afterward, when the censorship was very -light so that nothing was deleted except very technical detail and, too -often, the names of battalions, that early suspicion lasted. - -During long spells of trench warfare, without any great battles but -with steady and heavy casualties, the British public suspected that we -were hiding enormous events. They could not believe that so many men -could be killed unless big actions were in progress. Also, when great -battles had been fought, and we had recorded many gains, in prisoners -and guns, and trench positions, the lack of decisive result seemed to -give the lie to our optimism. - -Again, the cheerful way in which one or two of the correspondents -wrote, as though a battle was a kind of glorified football match, -exasperated the troops who knew their own losses, and the public who -agonized over that great sum of death and mutilation. - -Personally, I cannot convict myself of overcheerfulness or the -minimizing of the tragic side of war, for, by temperament as well as -by intellectual conviction, I wrote always with heavy stress on the -suffering and tragedy of warfare, though I coerced my soul to maintain -the spiritual courage of the nation and the fighting men--sometimes -when my own spirit was dark with despair. - -To our mess, between the two worlds, came visitors from both. It was -our special pleasure to give a lift in one of our Vauxhalls to some -young officer of the fighting line and bring him to our little old -château or one of our billets behind the lines and help him to forget -the filth and discomfort of trenches and dugouts by a good dinner in -a good room. They were grateful for that, and we had many friends in -the infantry, cavalry, Tank corps, machine guns, field artillery and -“heavies” to whom we gave this hospitality. - -When Neville Lytton became our chief, we even rose to the height of -having a military band to play to our guests after dinner on certain -memorable nights, and I remember a little French interpreter, himself a -fine musician, who, on one of those evenings when our salon was crowded -with officers tapping heel and toe to the music, raised his hands in -ecstasy and said, “This is like one of the wars of the eighteenth -century when slaughter did not prevent elegance and the courtesies of -life.” - -But in the morning there was the same old routine of setting out for -the stricken fields, the same old vision of mangled men streaming -back from battle, prisoners huddled like tired beasts, and shell fire -ravaging the enemy’s line, and ours. - -Army, Corps, and Divisional Generals, occasionally some tremendous -man from G.H.Q., like our supreme chief, General Charteris, favored -us with their company, and discussed every aspect of the war with us -without reserve. Their old hostility had utterly disappeared, their old -suspicion was gone, and for three years we possessed their confidence -and their friendship. - -In a book of mine--“Realities of War,” published in the United States -under the title of “Now It Can Be Told”--I have been a critic of the -Staff, and have said some hard and cruel things about the blundering -and inefficiency of its system. But for many of the Generals and Staff -officers in their personal character I had nothing but admiration and -esteem. Their courage and devotion to duty, their patriotism and honor, -were beyond criticism, and they were gentlemen of the good old school, -with, for the most part, a simplicity of mind and manner which doesn’t, -perhaps, belong to our present time. Yet I could not help thinking, as -I still think, that those elderly gentlemen who had been trained in -the South-African school of warfare, had been confronted with problems -in another kind of war which were beyond their imagination and range -of thought or experience. Even that verdict, however, which is true, -I believe, of the High Command, must be modified in favor of men who -created a New Army, marvelously perfect as a machine. Our artillery, -our transport, our medical service, our training, were highly -efficient, as the Germans themselves admitted. The machine was as good -as an English-built engine, and marvelous when one takes into account -its rapid and enormous growth in an untrained nation. It was in the -handling of the machine that criticism finds an open field--and it’s an -easy game, anyhow! - -Apart from Generals, staff officers, and battalion officers who came to -our mess, there were other visitors, now and then, from that remote -world which had been ours before the war--the civilian world of England. - -During the latter part of the war all sorts of strange people were -invited out for a three-days’ tour behind the lines, with a glimpse -or two of the battlefields, in the belief that they would go back as -propagandists for renewed effort and strength of purpose and “the will -to win.” A guest house was established near G.H.Q., to which were -invited politicians, labor leaders, distinguished writers, bishops, and -representatives of neutral countries. - -In their three-days’ visit they did not see very much of “the real -thing,” but enough to show them the wonderful spirit of the fighting -men and the enormous organization required for their support, and the -unbroken strength of the enemy. Now and then these visitors to the -guest house came over to our mess, more interested to meet us, I think, -than Generals and officers at the Base, because they could get from us, -in a more intimate way, the truth about the war and its progress. - -Among those apparitions from civil life, I remember, particularly, -Bernard Shaw, because it was due to a freakish suggestion of mine that -he had been invited out. It seemed to me that Shaw, of all men, would -be useful for propaganda, if the genius of his pen were inspired by the -valor and endurance of our fighting men. Anyhow, he would, I thought, -tell the truth about the things he saw, with deeper perception of its -meaning than any other living writer. - -Bernard Shaw, in a rough suit of Irish homespun, and with his beard -dank in the wet mist of Flanders, appeared suddenly to my friend -Tomlinson as a ghost from the pre-war past. His first words were in the -nature of a knock-out blow. - -“Hullo, Tomlinson! Are all war correspondents such bloody fools as they -make themselves out to be?” - -The answer was in the negative, but could not avoid an admission, like -the answer yes or no to that legal trick of questioning: “Have you -given up beating your wife?” - -Bernard Shaw was invited, by suggestion amounting to orders from -G.H.Q., to lunch with various Generals at their headquarters. I -accompanied him two or three times, and could not help remarking the -immense distinction of his appearance and manners in the company of -those simple soldiers. Intellectually, of course, he was head and -shoulders above them, and he could not resist shocking them, now and -then, by his audacity of humor. - -So it was when an old General who had sat somewhat silent in his -presence (resentful that this “wild Irishman” should have been thrust -upon his mess) enquired mildly how long he thought the war would last. - -“Well, General,” said Shaw, with a twinkle in his eye, “we’re all -anxious for an early and dishonorable peace!” - -The General’s cheeks were slightly empurpled, and he was silent, -wondering what he could make of this treasonable utterance, but there -was a loud yelp of laughter from his A.D.C.’s at the other end of the -table. - -Before entering the city of Arras, in which shells were falling -intermittently, Shaw, whose plays and books had had a great vogue in -Germany, remarked with sham pathos, “Well, if the Germans kill me -to-day, they will be a most ungrateful people!” - -I accompanied him on various trips he made--there was “nothing doing” -on the front just then, and he did not see the real business of -war--and in conversation with him was convinced of the high-souled -loyalty of the man to the Allied Cause. His sense of humor was only a -playful mask, and though he was a Pacifist in general principles, he -realized that the only course possible after the declaration of war was -to throw all the energy of the nation into the bloody struggle, which -must be one of life or death to the British race. - -“There is no need of censorship,” he told me; “while the war lasts we -must be our own censors. All one’s ideas of the war are divided into -two planes of thought which never meet. One plane deals with the folly -and wickedness of war. The other plane is the immediate necessity of -beating the Boche.” - -He has surprising technical knowledge of aviation, and talked with our -young aviators on equal terms regarding the science of flight. He was -also keenly interested in artillery work. Unfortunately his articles, -written as a result of his visit, were not very successful, and the -very title, “Joy-riding at the Front,” offended many people who would -not tolerate levity regarding a war whose black tragedy darkened all -their spirit. - -Sir J. M. Barrie was another brief visitant. He dined at our mess one -night, intensely shy, ill-at-ease until our welcome reassured him, and -painfully silent. Only one gleam of the real Barrie appeared. It was -when one of my colleagues asked him to write something in the visitors’ -book. He thought gloomily for a moment, and then wrote: “_Beware of -a dark woman with a big appetite_.” The meaning of this has kept us -guessing ever since. - -Sir Arthur Conan Doyle created a great sensation along the roads -of Flanders when he appeared for a few days, not because the -troops recognized him as the writer of Sherlock Holmes and other -favorite books, but because he looked more important than the -Commander-in-Chief, and more military than a Field Marshal. He wore the -uniform of a County Lieutenant, with a “brass hat,” so heavy with gold -lace, and epaulettes so resplendent, that even Colonels and Brigadiers -saluted him as he passed. - -John Masefield was more than a three-days’ guest. After his beautiful -book “Gallipoli,” he was asked to study the Somme battlefields from -which the enemy had then retreated, and to write an epic story of those -tremendous battles in which the New Armies had fought the enemy yard -by yard, trench by trench, wood by wood, ridge by ridge, through twenty -miles deep of earthworks, until, after enormous slaughter on both -sides, the enemy’s resistance had been broken. - -Masefield arrived late on the scene, and was only able to study the -ground after the line of battle had moved forward, and to get the -stories of the survivors. I had had the advantage of him there, as an -eyewitness of the tremendous struggle in all its phases and over all -that ground. When I republished my daily narrative in book form under -the title of “The Battles of the Somme,” Masefield abandoned his plan, -and so deprived English literature of what I am certain would have -been a deathless work. All he published was an introduction, which he -called “The Old Front Line,” in which, with most beautiful vision, he -described the geographical aspects of that ground on which the flower -of our British youth fell in six weeks of ceaseless and terrible effort. - -I met Masefield at that time. He was billeted at Amiens with Lytton’s -wild team of foreign correspondents. They were all talking French, -arguing, quarreling, gesticulating, noisily and passionately, and -Masefield sat silent among them, with a look of misery and long -suffering. - -The most important visitor from the outside world whom we had in our -own mess was Lloyd George, then Minister for War. He came with Lord -Reading, the Lord Chief Justice of England. Like most other visitors, -they did not get very far into the zone of fire, and it would, of -course, have been absurd to take Lloyd George into dangerous places -where he might have lost his life. He did, however, get within reach of -long-range shells, and I remember seeing him emerge from an old German -dugout wearing a “tin hat” above his somewhat exuberant white locks. -Some Tommies standing near remarked his somewhat unusual appearance. -“Who’s that bloke?” asked one of them. - -“Blimy!” said the other. “It looks like the Archbishop of Canterbury.” - -The visit of Lloyd George was regarded with some suspicion by the -High Command. “He’s up to some mischief, I’ll be bound,” said one of -our Generals in my hearing. It was rumored that his relations with -Sir Douglas Haig were not very cordial, and I was personally aware, -after a breakfast meal in Downing Street, that Lloyd George had no -great admiration of British Generalship. But it was amusing to see -how quickly he captured them all by his geniality, quickness of -wit, and nimble intelligence, and by the apparent simplicity in his -babe-blue eyes. Officers who had alluded to him as “the damned little -Welshman,” were clicking heels and trying to get within the orbit of -his conversation. - -He was particularly friendly and complimentary to the war -correspondents. I think he felt more at ease with us, and was, I think, -genuinely appreciative of our work. Anyhow, he went out of his way -to pay a particular compliment to me when, in 1917, Robert Donald of -_The Daily Chronicle_, was kind enough to give a dinner in my honor. -The Prime Minister attended the dinner, with General Smuts, and made a -speech in which he said many generous things about my work. It was the -greatest honor ever given to a Fleet-Street man, and I was glad of it, -not only for my own sake, but because it was a tribute to the work of -the war correspondents--handicapped as they were by many restrictions, -and by general distrust. - -I had an opportunity that night of saying things I wanted to say to the -Prime Minister and his colleagues, and the memory of the men in the -trenches, and of the wounded, gassed, and blinded men crawling down to -the field hospitals, gave me courage and some gift of words.... I do -not regret the things I said, and their emotional effect upon the Prime -Minister. - -At that time, I confess, I did not see any quick or definite ending -to the war. After the frightful battles in Flanders of 1917, with -their colossal sum of slaughter on both sides, the enemy was still in -great strength. Russia had broken, and it was inevitable that masses -of German troops, liberated from that front, would be brought against -us. America was still unready and untrained, though preparing mighty -legions. - -There was another year for the war correspondents to record day by -day, with as much hope as they could muster, when in March of ’18 our -line was broken for a time by the tremendous weight of the last German -attack, and with increasing exaltation and enormous joy when at last -the tide turned and the enemy was on the run and the end was in sight. - -That last year crammed into its history the whole range of human -emotion, and as humble chroniclers the small body of war correspondents -partook of the anguish and the exaltation of the troops who marched at -last to the Rhine. - -The coming of the Americans, the genius of Foch in supreme command, -the immortal valor of the British and French troops, first in retreat -and then in advance, the liberation of many great cities, the smashing -of the German war machine, and the great surrender, make that last -year of the war unforgettable in history. I have told it all in -detail elsewhere. Here I am only concerned with the work of the war -correspondents, and the supreme experience I had in journalistic -adventure. - -On the whole we may claim, I think, that our job was worth doing, and -not badly done. Some of us, at least, did not spare ourselves to learn -the truth and tell it as far as it lay in our vision and in our power -of words. During the course of the battles it was not possible to tell -all the truth, to reveal the full measure of slaughter on our side, and -we had no right of criticism. But day by day the English-speaking world -was brought close in spiritual touch with their fighting men, and knew -the best, if not the worst, of what was happening in the field of war, -and the daily record of courage, endurance, achievement, by the youth -that was being spent with such prodigal unthrifty zeal. - -I verily believe that without our chronicles the spirit of the nation -would not have maintained its greatness of endeavor and sacrifice. -There are some who hold that to be the worst accusation against us. -They charge us with having bolstered up the spirit of hatred and made a -quicker and a better peace impossible. I do not plead guilty to that, -for, from first to last no word of hate slipped into my narrative, and -my pictures of war did not hide the agony of reality nor the price of -victory. - - - - -XXI - - -The coming of Peace, after four and a half years of a world in -conflict, was as great a strain to the civilized mind as the outbreak -of war. Indeed, I think it was more tragic in its effect upon the -mentality and moral character of the peoples who had been strained to -the uttermost. - -The sudden relaxation left them limp, purposeless, and unstrung. A -sense of the ghastly futility of the horrible massacre in Europe -overwhelmed multitudes of men and women who had exerted the last -vibration of spiritual energy for the sake of victory, now that all -was over, and the cost was counted. The loss of the men they had loved -seemed light and tolerable to the soul while the struggle continued and -the spirit of sacrifice was still at fever heat, but in the coldness -which settled upon the world after that fever was spent, and in homes -which returned to normal ways of life, after the home-coming of the -Armies, the absence of the breadwinner or the unforgotten son, was felt -with a sharper and more dreadful anguish. A great sadness and spirit -of disillusion overwhelmed the nations which had been victorious, even -more than those defeated. What was this victory? What was its worth, -with such visible tracks of ruin and death in all nations exhausted by -the struggle? - -As a journalist again, back to Fleet Street, in civil clothes, which -felt strange after khaki and Sam Brown belts, I found that my new -little assignment in life was to study the effects of the war which -I had helped to record, and to analyze the character and state of -European peoples, including my own, as they had been changed by that -tremendous upheaval. - -Fleet Street itself had changed during the war. In spite of the -severity of the censorship under the Defense of the Realm Act, and the -almost slavish obedience of the press to its dictates, the newspaper -proprietors had risen in social rank and power, and newspaper offices -which had once been the shabby tenements of social outcasts--the -inhabitants of “Grub Street”--were now strewn with coronets and the -insignia of nobility. Fleet Street had not only become respectable. It -had become the highway to the House of Lords. - -The Harmsworth family had become ennobled to all but the highest grade -in the peerage, this side of Dukedom. As chief propagandist, the man I -had first met as Sir Alfred Harmsworth (when General Booth forced me to -my knees and prayed for him!) was now Viscount, with his brother Harold -as Lord Rothermere. He aspired to the dictatorship of England through -the power of the press, and, but for one slight miscalculation, would -have been dictator. - -That miscalculation was the growing disbelief of the British public in -anything they read in the press. The false accounts of air raids (when -the public knew the truth of their own losses), such incidents as the -press campaign against Kitchener, and that ridiculous over-optimism, -the wildly false assurances of military writers (I was not one of them) -when things were going worst in the war, had undermined the faith of -the nation in the honesty of their newspapers. Nevertheless, the power -of men like Northcliffe was enormous in the political sphere, and -Cabinet Ministers and members of Parliament acknowledged their claims. - -Burnham of _The Telegraph_ was now a Viscount, but, unlike Lord -Northcliffe, he supported whatever government was in power and had no -personal vendetta against politicians or policies. - -Max Aitken, once a company promoter in Canada, and now proprietor of -_The Daily Express_, became Lord Beaverbrook as his reward for the part -he played in unseating Asquith and bringing in Lloyd George. Another -peer was Lord Riddell, owner of the “News of the World,” which is not -generally regarded as a spiritual light in the land. As one of the most -intimate friends of Lloyd George, he merited the reward of loyalty. Not -only peerages, but baronetcies and knighthoods were scattered in Fleet -Street and its tributaries by a Prime Minister who understood the power -of the press, but, in spite of a free distribution of titles, did not -possess its loyalty when the tide of public favor turned from him. - -The five war correspondents on the Western front--Perry Robinson, -Beach Thomas, Percival Phillips, Herbert Russell, and myself--received -knighthood from the King, at the recommendation of the War Office. -I had been offered that honor before the war came to an end, but it -was opposed by some of the newspaper proprietors who said that if -I were knighted the other men ought also to receive this title--a -perfectly fair protest. I was not covetous of that knighthood, and -indeed shrank from it so much that I entered into a compact with Beach -Thomas to refuse it. But things had gone too far, and we could not -reject the title with any decency. So one fine morning, when a military -investiture was in progress, I went up to Buckingham Palace, knelt -before the King in the courtyard there, with a top hat in my hand, -and my knee getting cramped on a velvet cushion, while he gave me the -accolade, put the insignia of the K.B.E. round my neck, fastened a star -over my left side, and spoke a few generous words. I should be wholly -insincere if I pretended that at that moment I did not feel the stir -of the old romantic sentiment with which I had been steeped as a boy, -and a sense of pride that I had “won my spurs” in service for England’s -sake. Yet, as I walked home with my box of trinkets and that King’s -touch on my shoulder, I thought of the youth who had served England -with greater gallantry, through hardship and suffering to sudden death -or to the inevitable forgetfulness of a poverty-stricken peace. - -That knighthood of mine deeply offended one of my friends, whose good -opinion I valued more than that of most others. This man, who had -been in the ugly places with me, could hardly pardon this acceptance -of a title which seemed to him a betrayal of democratic faith and -an allegiance to those whom he regarded as part authors of the war, -traitors to the men who died, perpetrators of hate, architects of -an infamous peace, and profiteers of their nation’s ruin. A harsh -judgment! The only difference I find that knighthood has made to my -outlook on life is the knowledge of a slight increase in my tradesmen’s -bills. - -One change in the editorial side of Fleet Street affected me in a -personal way, and was a revelation of the anxiety of the Coalition -Government to capture the press in its own interests. Robert Donald, -under whose Directorship I had served on _The Daily Chronicle_ for -many years--with occasional lapses as a free lance--had been a -close personal friend of Lloyd George, but toward the end of the -war permitted himself some liberty of criticism--very mild in its -character--against the Prime Minister. It was his undoing. Lloyd George -was already under the fire of the Northcliffe press which had helped to -raise him to the Premiership and now tired of him, for personal reasons -by Lord Northcliffe, and he foresaw the time when, after the war, he -would need all the support he could get from the press machine. A group -of his friends, including Sir Henry Dalziel (afterward promoted to the -peerage) and Sir Charles Sykes, a rich manufacturer, approached the -Lloyds, who owned _The Daily Chronicle_, and bought that paper and -Lloyds _Weekly News_ for over £1,000,000. Robert Donald found it sold -over his head, without warning, and felt himself obliged to resign his -editorship. Ernest Perris, the former news editor, who had managed that -department with remarkable ability, reigned in his stead, and _The -Daily Chronicle_ became the official organ, the defender through thick -and thin, fair and foul, of Lloyd George and his Coalition. - -A series of dramatic telegrams reached me at the front, but I paid very -little heed to them and failed to understand the inner significance -of this affair. But in loyalty to Robert Donald, and by his advice, I -signed a contract with _The Daily Telegraph_. It made no difference -to my readers, as my articles continued to appear in _The Daily -Chronicle_, as well as in _The Telegraph_, as they had done throughout -the war, by arrangement of the Newspaper Proprietors Association and -the War Office. - -Nominally Lord Burnham was my chief instead of Robert Donald. I -liked him thoroughly, as he had always been particularly kind to me, -especially on a night when I was deeply humiliated by one of those -social _faux pas_ which hurt a man more than the guilty knowledge of a -secret crime. - -This was during the war, when I arrived home on leave to find a card -inviting me to dine with Lord Burnham at the Garrick Club. I had -often dined at the Garrick with my brother, who was a member of the -club, and remembered that evening clothes had not been worn by most -of the men there. Anyhow, I arrived from a country journey in an -ordinary lounge suit, with rather muddy boots, owing to a downpour of -rain, and then found, to my consternation, that I was the guest of a -distinguished dinner party assembled in my honor. The first man to whom -I was presented was Field Marshal Sir William Robertson, Chief of the -Imperial Staff, and behind him stood Admiral Lord Charles Beresford -(old “Charlie B.”) and a number of important people who were helping to -“win the war.” Lord Burnham entirely disregarded my miserable clothes, -but I was damnably uncomfortable until I forgot my own insignificance -in listening to the conversation of these great people who were as -gloomy and pessimistic a crowd as I have ever met, and seemed to have -abandoned all hope. The one exception was Sir William Robertson, who -sat rather silent until at the end of the meal he said “We may be -puffed, and breathing hard, but all I can say is, gentlemen, that the -Germans are more exhausted.” - -That reminiscence, however, only leads me to the fact that after the -Armistice I again transferred to _The Daily Chronicle_ and remained -with them until Lloyd George’s policy of reprisals in Ireland filled -me with a sudden passion of disgust and led to my resignation from the -paper which supported it. - -I think every journalist must now admit that the English press, with -very few exceptions, fell to a very low moral ebb after the Armistice. -The “hate” campaign was not relinquished but revived with full blast -against the beaten enemy. A mountain of false illusion was built up on -the basis that Germany could be made to pay for all the costs of war in -all the victorious nations, and a peace of vengeance was encouraged, -full of the seeds of future wars, at a time in the history of mankind -when by a little spirit of generosity, a little drawing together of -the world’s democracies, even a little economic sanity in regard to -the ruined state of Europe as a whole, civilization itself might have -been lifted to a higher plane, future peace might have been secured -according to the promise of “the war to end war,” and at least we -should have been spared the squalor, the degradation, the bitterness -of the last four years. But the English press led the chorus of -“Hang the Kaiser,” “Make the Germans pay,” “They will cheat you yet, -those Junkers!” and all the old cries of passionate folly, instead of -concentrating on the defeat of militarism now that Germany was down and -out, the economic reconstruction of Europe after the ruin of war, and -the fulfilment of the pledges that had been made to the men who won the -war. For, as we now know, and as I foretold, the German people could -not pay these colossal, unimaginable sums upon which France and Great -Britain reckoned, and the whole argument of these “fruits of victory” -was built upon a falsity which demoralized the peoples of the allied -Powers, and kept Europe in a ferment. The English press (apart from a -few papers) refused to bear witness to the real truth, which was that -the Peace of Versailles was impossible of fulfillment, that Europe -could not recover under its economic provisions, and that the victor -nations would have to face poverty, an immense burden of taxation, a -stagnation of trade, the awful costs of war, with no chance of getting -rich again by putting a stranglehold on the defeated peoples. - -For four years following the Armistice I become a wanderer in Europe, -Asia Minor, and America, as a student of the psychology and state of -this after-war world, trying to see beneath the surface of social -and political life to the deeper currents of thought and emotion and -natural law set in motion by the enormous tragedy through which so many -nations had passed. - -Everywhere I saw a loosening of the old restraints of mental and moral -discipline and a kind of neurotic malady which was manifested by -alternate gusts of gayety and depression, a wild licentiousness in the -crowded cities of Europe, a spirit of restlessness and revolt among the -demobilized men, and misery, starvation, disease, and despair, beyond -the glare and glitter of dancing halls, restaurants, and places of -frivolity. - -In France the exultation of victory, which inspired a spirit of -carnival in the boulevards of Paris, crowded with visitors from all -the Allied nations, did not uplift the hearts of masses of peasants -and humble bourgeois folk who returned to the sites of their old homes -and villages of which only a few stones or sticks or rubbish heaps -remained in the fields which had been swept by the flame of war. -With courage and resignation they cleared the ground of barbed wire -and unexploded shells, and the unburied bodies of men, and the foul -litter of a four years’ battle, but they faced a bleak prospect, and -behind them and around them was the vision of ruin and death. For a -long time they were without water or light, stone or timber, for the -work of reconstruction, or any recompense for their losses from the -French Government which looked to Germany for reparations and did not -get them. I talked with many of these people in their hovels and huts, -marveled at their patience and courage and was saddened because so -quickly after war they mistrusted the friendship of England, and the -security of the peace they had gained. Their hatred to the Germans was -a cold, undying fire, and beneath their hatred was the fear, already -visible, that Germany hadn’t been smashed enough, and that one day she -would come back again for vengeance. - -In Italy there was violence, bitterness, poverty, and revolt. The -nation was demoralized by all the shocks that had shaken it. The -microbe of Bolshevism was working in the brains of demoralized -soldiers. The very walls of Rome were scrawled with Communistic cries -and the name of Lenin. - -In Rome I accomplished a journalistic mission which, in its way, was a -unique honor and experience. This was to interview the Pope on behalf -of _The Daily Chronicle_ and a syndicate of American newspapers. Such a -thing seemed impossible, and I knew that the chances against me were a -million to one. Yet I believed that some plain words from the Pope who, -perhaps, alone among men had been above and outside all the fratricidal -strife of nations, and had been abused by both sides as “Pro-German” -and “Pro-Ally,” would be of profound interest and importance. It was -possible that he might give a spiritual call to humanity in this time -of moral depression and degradation. I pressed these views upon a -certain prelate who had the confidence of Benedict XV, and who was a -broad-minded man in sympathy with democratic thought and customs. - -He laughed at me heartily for my audacity, and said, “Out of the -question!... Impossible!” He explained that no journalists were -allowed even at the public audiences of the Pope, owing to regrettable -incidents, and that my request for a private interview couldn’t be -considered.... We talked of international affairs, and presently I took -my leave. “It is no use pressing for that interview?” I asked at the -door. He laughed again, and said, “I will let you have a formal reply.” - -Three days later, to my immense surprise, I received, without any other -word, a card admitting me to a private interview with H. H. Benedict -XV, at three-thirty on the following afternoon. - -I knew that I had to wear evening clothes, and on that hot afternoon -I entirely wrecked three white ties in the endeavor to make a decent -bow, and then borrowed one from a waiter. Hiring an old _carrozza_, and -feeling intensely nervous at the impending interview, I drove to the -Vatican. My card was a magic talisman. The Swiss Guards grounded their -pikes before me, and their officer bowed toward a flight of marble -steps leading to the private apartments. I was passed on from room -to room, saluted by gentlemen of the Pope’s bodyguard in impressive -uniforms, until my knees weakened above the polished boards, my tongue -clave to the roof of my mouth, and my waiter’s dress tie slipped up -behind my right ear. - -Finally, in a highly self-conscious state, I reached an ante-chamber -where I was kept waiting for ten minutes until a chamberlain came -through a little door and beckoned to me. As I passed through the -doorway, I saw a tiny little man in white robes, waiting for me on the -threshold. - -He smiled through his spectacles, took hold of my wrist as I went down -on one knee, according to etiquette, hauled me up with a firm grip, and -led me to two gilt chairs, side by side. “Now we can talk,” he said in -French, and he sat in one chair and I in the other, in that big room -where we were alone together. - -In a second my nervousness left me, and we had what the Americans -call a heart-to-heart talk. The Pope did not use any fine phrases. He -asked me a lot of questions about the state of Europe, the feeling in -England and America, and then spoke about the war and its effects. -Several times he called the war “a Scourge of God,” and spoke of his -efforts to mitigate its misery and relieve some of its agonies. He -alluded to the abuse he had received from both sides because of his -neutrality and his repeated efforts on behalf of peace, and then waved -that on one side and entered into a discussion on the economic effects -of war. He saw no quick way of escape from ruin, no rapid means of -recovery. “We must steel ourselves to poverty,” he said, and alluded to -the great illusion of masses of people, duped by their leaders, that, -after the destruction of the world’s wealth, there could be the same -prosperity. He spoke sternly of the profiteers, and in a pitying way -of the poverty-stricken peoples. “The rich must pay,” he said. “Those -who profited out of the war must pay most.” His last words, after a -twenty-minutes’ talk, were a plea for charity and peace in the hearts -of peoples. - -All the time he was talking, I had in the back of my mind the doubt -whether I might publish this conversation, and whether, indeed, he -knew my profession and purpose. I could not leave him with that doubt, -and asked him, with some trepidation, if I might publish the words -he had spoken to me. He smiled, and said, “It is the purpose of this -conversation.” - -I hurried back to my hotel, and wrote a full account, and then desired -to submit it for approval to the prelate who had obtained this great -consent. But he waved it on one side, and said, “You can write what you -like, and publish what you like, provided it is the truth. We trust -you!” - -I did not abuse that trust, and my interview with the Pope was quoted -in every newspaper in the English-speaking world, and created a very -favorable effect. - -The raid on Fiume by d’Annunzio was a passionate assertion of Imperial -claims denied by the Great Powers which have made a peace regarded -by Italy as a robbery of all its rightful claims, but this new -manifestation of militarism was offset by the capture of factories by -Communist workers and the hoisting of the Red Flag in many industrial -towns. Beneath the beauty of Rome, Florence, Naples, and Venice, I saw -the ugly shadow of revolution and anarchy. - -I went from Trieste to Vienna, and saw worse things in a city -deliberately doomed by the Allied Powers--a city of two million people -which had once been the capital of a great Empire, the brilliant -flower of an old civilization, and now was cut off from all its old -resources of wealth and life. In slum streets and babies’ crêches, and -hospital wards, away from the wild vice and gayety of great hotels -and dancing halls crowded with foreigners and profiteers, I saw the -children of a starving city, stricken with rickets, scrofula, all -kinds of hunger-diseases, and so weak that children of six or seven -had no hardness of bone, so that they couldn’t stand up or sit up, -and had bulbous heads above their wizened bodies. The women could not -feed their babes for lack of milk. Men like skeletons in rags slouched -about the streets, begging with clawlike hands. Ladies of good family -could not buy underclothing or boots. Professional men, aristocrats, -Ministers of State, lived on thin soup, potatoes, war bread, and the -very nurses in the hospitals were starving. The Austrian kronen became -worth hardly more than waste paper, and despair had settled upon this -great and beautiful city. - -I went on to Germany, deeply curious to know what had happened in the -soul and state of this people after their tremendous struggle and their -supreme defeat. I found there an immense pride of resistance to the -consequence of defeat, an utter repudiation of war guilt, an intense -vital energy and industry by which they hoped to recapture their lost -trade and economic supremacy in Europe, a friendly feeling toward -England, a deadly hatred toward France. Outwardly there was no sign -of poverty or despair. There were no devastated regions, like those -in France, no tidal wave of unemployment, like that in England. All -the great engineering works, like those of Krupp which had provided a -vast output of artillery and munitions for a world war, had adapted -their machinery to the purposes of peace, and were manufacturing -railway engines, agricultural machines, typewriters, kitchen utensils, -everything that is made of metal, for the world’s needs. It was -staggering in its contrast to the lack of energy, the commercial -stagnation, the idleness and debility of other war-tired peoples. - -But, again, I tried to see below the surface of things, and I saw -that this feverish activity was not based on sound foundations of -material life, but on a rotten financial system and unhealthy laws. -The workingman was underpaid and underfed, and the victim of a system -of slave labor. The professional classes were in dire poverty, and -what money they earned and saved lost its value day by day, because the -German Government was deliberately inflating its paper money by racing -the printing presses with issues of false notes which had no reality to -back them. German export trade was capturing the world’s markets, but -only by underselling to a rate which gave no real industrial profit. -And whatever wealth Germany made, or could make, was earmarked for -reparations and indemnities which, when the day of reckoning came, -would make a mockery of all her efforts, reveal the great sham of her -paper money, cast her into the depths of ruin, and mock at the demands -of France and her Allies for the payment of those debts of war upon -which they counted for their own needs and escape from ruin. - -In Germany I had long talks with some of their leading politicians, -bankers, and financial experts, whose figures and statements I checked -by consultation with our own Ambassador and political observers. It -was not without a thrill of cold emotion, and dark remembrance, that -I stood for the first time in the Reichstag and saw all around me -those men who had been the propagandists of hate against England, the -supporters of the War Lords, the faithful servants of the Kaiser and -his Chancellors, up to the last throw in their gamblers’ game with -fate, when all was lost. There was Scheidemann, the Social Democrat -who had voted for all the war subsidies until the hour of defeat, -when he voted for the new Republic. There was Stresemann, the leader -of the People’s Party, and an avowed Monarchist, in spite of all that -had happened. There was Bernsdorff, the intriguer in America, up to -his neck in conspiracy with dynamiters and Sinn Feiners and spies. -These men filled me with distrust. Their new profession of good will -to England had a hollow sound. Yet these, and others, spoke with the -utmost frankness about Germany’s condition, and for their own reasons -did not hide the desperate menace of that gamble with national finance -by which they hoped to postpone the inevitable crash. I was more deeply -interested in the mentality of the ordinary German folk and their -way of life. A strain of pacifism seemed to be working among them, -and they were sick and saddened by their loss of blood in the war, -terrible in its sum of death. But the very name of France inflamed -their passion. “We are all pacifists,” said one man I met. “We want -no more war--except one!” The humiliation of the French occupation on -the Rhine, the continued insults of the French press, above all, the -presence of Moroccan troops in German cities, instilled a slow poison -of hate into every German mind. It made me afraid of the future.... - - - - -XXII - - -In the spring of 1921 I lay on the deck of the steamship _Gratz_, -7,000 tons, once Austrian and now flying the Italian flag, bound from -Brindisi to Constantinople. With me as a comrade was my young son. - -Our fellow passengers were a strange company, mostly Jews from America, -Germany, and Greece, going to sell surplus stocks, if they could, to -merchants in Pera. They talked interminably in terms of international -exchange, dollars, pounds, marks, lire, drachmas, and kronen, and -raised their hands to the God of Abraham, because of the stagnation of -the world’s markets. There was also a sprinkling of dark-complexioned, -somber-eyed men of uncertain nationality until we came in sight of -Constantinople, when they changed their bowler hats or cloth caps for -the red fez of Islam. One of them was very handsome and elegant, with -a distinguished but arrogant manner. I tried to get into conversation -with him, but he answered coldly and in monosyllables until we passed -the narrows of the Dardanelles when his eyes glowed with a sudden -passion, and he told me he had fought against the British there, below -the hill of Achi Baba. It had been a great victory, he said, for -Turkish arms. - -There were some queer women aboard, international in character, given -to loud, shrill laughter and amorous ogling. One of them, a buxom -creature of middle age, drank champagne at night in the smoking saloon -with one of the American Jews, enormously fat, foul in conversation, -free with his money, who seemed to covet her favor, and was jealous of -a young Turk who, unlike others of his race aboard, was as noisy as a -schoolboy and played pranks all day long up and down the ship. - -A young British officer, now “demobbed,” was resuming his career as a -commercial traveler in woollen vests and socks. He showed me his diary. -Before the war he had made as much as £3,000 in one year, as commission -on business with Turkish merchants in Constantinople, Stamboul, Smyrna. -He spoke well of the Turks’ commercial honesty. Their word was good. -They had always paid for orders. A simple soul, this young man who had -been a temporary officer in the Great War, believed that trade was -reviving and that Europe would recover quickly from the effects of war. - -There were others on board who did not think so. “After -Austria--Germany,” said the fat American Jew. Lying on the sun-baked -decks I listened to conversations by these students of international -business, as, for two years and more, since the war, I had been -listening to the talk of men and women in Belgium, France, Italy, -Austria-Germany, Canada, and the United States. It was always the -same. They had no certainty of peace, no sense of security, but -rather an apprehension of new conflicts in Europe and outside Europe, -a fear of revolution, anarchy, and upheaval of forces beyond the -control of men like themselves of international mind, business common -sense. But here, on this boat, there was talk of peoples and forces -not generally discussed in these other conversations to which I had -listened, in wayside taverns, in railway trains, in wooden huts on the -old battlefields, in the drawing-rooms of London, Paris, Rome, Vienna, -Berlin, and New York. - -“The Angora Turks have got to be reckoned with.” ... “Greece is out for -a big gamble.” ... “The Armenians have not all been massacred.” ... -“The East is seething like a cauldron.” ... “It’s the oil that will -put all the fat in the fire.” ... “The Bolshies have got Batoum.” -... “Mesopotamia means oil.” ... “Russia is not dead yet, and make no -mistake!” ... “My God! This peace is just a breathing space before -another bloody war.” ... “It’s a world gone mad.” ... “What we want is -business.” - -Then back again to dollars, pounds, lire, marks, drachmas, kronen, -roubles. - -They ate enormously at meal times, and took snacks between meals. -The fat American Jew at my table ate greedily, forgetting his fork -sometimes, and mopping his plate with bits of bread. He bullied the -stewards for bigger or tenderer helpings. He spoke Russian, German, -and American with equal fluency, but an international accent. At night -there was card playing, outbursts of song, gusts of laughter, popping -of champagne corks, whisperings and chasings along the dark decks, a -reek of cigar smoke, no silence or wonderment because of the beauty -through which our boat was passing. - -The Ionian Sea, merging into the Adriatic, was so calm that when our -ship divided its waters, leaving behind a long furrow, the side of each -wave was like a polished jewel, and reflected the patches of snow still -on the mountain crests (though it was May, and hot) and the fissures in -the rocks. It was unbroken by any ripple, except where the boat stirred -its quietude by a long ruffle of feathers, and it was so blue that it -seemed as though one’s hand would be dyed, like a potter’s, to the same -color, if one dipped it in. With this sea, and the sky above, we went -on traveling through a blue world, except where our eyes wandered into -the gorges of those mountains along the coast of old Illyria, where the -barren rocks are scarred and gleam white, or when they were touched by -the sun’s rays at dawn and sunset and glittered in a golden way, or -became washed with rose water, or all drenched in mist as purple as the -Imperial mantle which once fell across them. All day long the ship was -followed by a flight of sea gulls skimming on quiet wings and calling -plaintively so that we heard again the sirens who cried to Ulysses as -he sailed this way through the Enchanted Seas. - -We steamed slowly through the Gulf of Corinth, so narrow that if any -boulder had fallen from its high walls it would have smashed a hole in -our ship. Small Greek boys ran along a foot path, clamoring for pennies -like gutter urchins beside an English char-à-banc. Then we lay off -Athens, but in spite of a special Greek _visa_ from the consulate in -London for which I had paid a fee, I was not allowed to land. Through -my glasses I saw, with a thrill of emotion, the tall columns of the -Parthenon. At our ship’s side was a crowd of small craft rowed by -brown-skinned boatmen who kept up a chant of _Kyrie! Kyrie!_ (Lord! -Lord!) like the _Kyrie eleison_ (Lord have mercy!) of the Catholic -Mass, touting for the custom of passengers, as they did three thousand -years ago, with those same shouts and waving of brown arms, and curses -to each other, and raising of oars, when ships came in from Crete and -Mediterranean ports with merchandise and travelers. - -So we passed into the Ægean Sea, and saw on our port side, like -low-lying clouds, the Greek islands in which the Gods once dwelt, and -the old heroes. We drew close to Gallipoli, and I thought of heroes -more modern, lying there in graves that were not old, who had done -deeds needing more courage than that of Ulysses and his men, and who -had faced monsters of human machine guns more dreadful than dragons -and many-headed dogs, and the Medusa head. The trenches were plainly -visible--British and Turkish--and the old gun-emplacements, and the -Lone Tree, and the barren slopes of Achi Baba where the flower of -Australian and New Zealand youth had fallen, and many Irish and English -boys. - -“Quite a good landing place,” said one of the passengers by my side. -I looked at him, suspecting irony, and remembering the landing of the -Twenty-Ninth Division, and the Australian troops, under destroying -fire. But this elderly Jew said again, in a cheerful way, “A nice cove -for a boat to land.” - -We went on slowly through the narrow channel, until in the morning -sunlight we saw the glory of the Golden Horn and the minarets of -Constantinople. It was then that half the passengers put on the red -fez of Islam, and paced the deck restlessly, with their eyes strained -toward the city of the Sultan. - -The fat American Jew touched me on the arm and spoke solemnly, with a -kind of warning. “For those who don’t wear a fez Constantinople won’t -be a safe place, I guess. They say there are bodies floating every -morning at the Golden Horn--stabbed in the back. I’m keeping close to -Pera.” - -The first view of the Golden Horn was as beautiful as I had hoped, -more than I had imagined, as we rounded the old Seraglio Point and -saw in the early sunlight of a May morning the glittering panorama of -Constantinople. - -The domes of San Sophia lay like rose-colored clouds above the cypress -trees. Beyond was the great mosque of Suleyman, its minarets, white and -slender, cutting the blue sky like lances. Further back, rising above a -huddle of brown old houses, was the mosque of Mohammad, the conqueror -who, five hundred years ago, rode into San Sophia on a day of victory, -over the corpses there, and left the imprint of a bloody hand on one of -the pillars where it is now sculptured in marble. White in the sun on -the water’s edge were the long walls of the Sultan’s palace. One could -see Galata, and the old bridge which crosses from Stamboul, and above, -on the hill, Pera, with its Grand’ Rue, its night clubs, its cabarets, -its Christian churches, and haunts of vice. - -Before we anchored, our ship was surrounded by a swarm of boats, as -at Athens, but these were the narrow caïques of the Golden Horn, rowed -by Turks, who hung on by thrusting grapnel hooks through our portholes -and by clinging on to ropes. They were old sun-baked Turks, with white -beards, and young Turks with only down on their faces and roving eyes -for the unveiled women on our decks, and together they raised a wild -chant as they called “Effendi! Effendi!” and invited us to go ashore. -Other ships passed us--a steamer crowded with Russian refugees fleeing -from the Bolshevik pursuit of Wrangel, a British destroyer, sailing -boats with leg-o’-mutton sails, billowing white above the blue water, -and many of the little _caïques_ where, on Turkish rugs, sat Turkish -ladies like bundles of black silk, deeply veiled, so that one had no -glimpse of a face. - -My young son and I, with light baggage, secured a _caïque_ with the fat -American Jew, who had enormous cases of samples which nearly sank the -boat when they were dumped in by the Turkish porters. We were rowed -across the Golden Horn to the Customs office by two Kurdish boatmen, -and there were seized upon by a crowd of Turks who fought each other -for our baggage. In the customs office the Turkish officials were -highly arrogant young men in uniform, who smoked innumerable cigarettes -and refused to pass the American’s samples of boots and shoes until -he had bribed them with some of his very best pairs. After that long -delay we took a carriage and two horses and drove at a smart trot to -the Pera Palace Hotel where I found my comrade of the war, Percival -Phillips, and a bevy of English and American correspondents watching -the secret progress of a drama which might result in another European -war and set the whole East aflame. It was Phillips, as well as the High -Commissioner, Admiral Webber, and various Intelligence officers, who -“put me wise,” as the Americans say, to the situation which had its -secret plot in Constantinople, but its fighting center in Angora. Here -in “Constant” there was a mask of peaceful obedience to the decrees -of the International Occupation. It was called “International,” and -there were French and Italian troops and police on both side of the -Galata Bridge, but the real command was in the hands of the British -High Commissioner and the real power in the hands of the British -fleet. The French were “huffy” because of that, and General Franchet -de l’Esperay had left in a temper because he would not take orders -from the British, and was up to his eyes in political intrigue. The -Sultan was a puppet in the hands of the British, ready to sign any -document they put before him, provided his personal safety was assured. -But every Turk in his palace, and in the back streets of Galata and -Stamboul, were rebels against his submission, and spies and agents on -behalf of the Nationalist Turks in Angora. Those were the real fellows. -They refused to recognize the Allied terms of peace, or any peace. They -were contemptuous of the Sultan’s enforced decrees. They even denied -his religious authority. They had raised the old flag of Islam and were -stirring up fanaticism through the whole Mohammadan world as far as -India. But they were modern in their ideas and methods, “Nationalist” -and not religious in their faith, like the Irish Sinn Feiners who put -national liberty before Catholic dogma. They were raising levies of -Turkish peasants, drilling them, arming them (with French weapons!), -teaching them that if they wanted to keep their land they must fight -for it. There was a fellow named Mustapha Kemal. He would be heard of -later in history as a great leader. He was raiding up the coast as far -as Ismid, and little companies of British Tommies had had to fall back -before his irregulars. Not good for our prestige! But what could we do -on the Asiatic side, with only a few battalions of boys? Meanwhile, -the Turks in Constantinople were sending money, men and munitions to -the Nationalists, and there was precious little we could do to stop -them, in spite of our troops and police. Why, there was gun-running -under the Galata Bridge, almost as open as daylight! Mustapha -Kemal’s strength was growing--nobody knew how strong. Perhaps it was -underestimated. Perhaps one day the Greeks, holding a long line across -Asia Minor for the protection of Smyrna, would get a nasty surprise. -Who could trust a Greek Army, anyhow? And what was the British -Government--that beggar Lloyd George!--doing with all their pro-Greek -policy? It was doing us no good in the Mohammadan world. Even India was -getting restless because their political agitators were pretending the -Sultan was a prisoner and the Prophet insulted! Not that the Indian -Mohammadans cared a curse about the Sultan really, belonging to a -different sect. But it was all propaganda, and dangerous. The whole -situation was full of danger, and Constantinople was a very interesting -city in this time of history. - -That was the gist of the conversation I heard from Phillips, and -British Intelligence officers, and naval lieutenants, and travelers -from the Near or Far East, in the smoking room of the Pera Hotel, which -looked out to the Grand’ Rue with its ceaseless procession of Turks, -Greeks, Armenians, Israelites, French and Italian officers, Persians, -Arabs, Negroes, Gypsies, American “drummers,” British soldiers, and -Russian refugees--the queerest High Street in the world, the meeting -place between the East and the West, the unsafe sanctuary of those in -flight from the greatest tragedy in the world, which was in Russia. - -For one scene in this drama the dining room of the Pera Palace -Hotel--a thieves’ kitchen in the way of fleecing the visitor--was an -entertaining prologue. Rich Turks came here to listen to incautious -conversations by foreign journalists, or irresponsible young middies -from the British fleet lying in the Bosphorus, or to act as liaison -officers between Mustapha Kemal and his political supporters in the -sacred city. There was one Turkish family who dined here every day, -the women unveiled as a sign of their modernism, and one of them so -beautiful with her dark liquid eyes touched by kohl, that she had to -sustain the gaze of young Christian dogs in naval uniform--and did not -seem to mind. Greek and Armenian merchants brought their ladies here, -dressed in Paris fashions by way of the Grand’ Rue de Pera, and light -in their way of behavior, despite the glowering eyes of old Turks who -watched them sullenly. Cossack officers who had lost their command, and -all but their pride, came in full uniform, with black tunics crossed -by cartridge belts, high, black boots, and astrachan caps. One of them -was a giant with a close-cropped head like a Prussian officer, and -a powerful, brutal face, but elegant drawing-room manners, as when -he bent over the hands of lady friends and kissed their rings. These -last fugitives from the last expedition against Bolshevik Russia lived -gayly for a time on the diamonds they had hidden in their boots. Their -motto was the old one: “Let’s eat, drink, and be merry, for to-morrow -we die!” They gave banquets to each other while they had any means of -paying the bill. That was easy while they had a few jewels, for in -a private room at the Pera Palace were Jew dealers who would value -a diamond ring with expert knowledge and pay in Turkish pounds. One -general paid for his dinner party in a different way. At the end of the -meal he took his wife’s fur tippet from her shoulders, handed it to the -waiter, and said, “Bring me the change!” - -Their own paper money was almost worthless in purchasing value, whether -Czarist roubles, or Denikin roubles, or Soviet roubles. One of the -Cossack officers ordered a cocktail, and paid 100,000 roubles for the -little nip of stimulant. - -Once or twice a week there was a dance after dinner at this hotel -patronized by the younger officers of the British and American fleets -and the society of Pera. Some of the women there were beautiful, though -mostly too plump, which is the way of Greek ladies and Armenian, after -a certain age. Their shoulders rose above their low-cut dresses. Young -naval lieutenants winked at each other, sometimes danced with each -other and said, “Hot stuff, dear child! Beware!” - -In such a place, at such a time, there was no sense of the East, near -or far, no reminder of the tragedies within a stone’s throw of the -windows, no reminder of great menace creeping across the clock of Time -to this city and its mixed inhabitants, no fear of massacre. Yet, when -I went outside that hotel, by day, and often by night, I was aware of -those things, smelt something evil here, beyond the noxious stench -of the narrow streets. The Turks who slouched up the Grand’ Rue, -or crowded the bazaars of Stamboul and Galata, had no love for the -Christian inhabitants, civil or military. I saw them spit now and then, -when British Tommies passed giving the glad eye to young Turkish women -who let down their veils like window blinds hurriedly drawn. - -Often I went down to the Galata Bridge with my young son, glancing -often over my shoulder when there was any crush, because I did not want -his young life ended by a stab in the back which happened sometimes, -I was told, to soldier boys of ours. Beyond that bridge, where two -Turks stood receiving toll from all who passed, was the beginning -of the East, stretching away and away to that great swarming East -which was held back from Europe by a few battleships, a few British -regiments, and the last prestige of the European peoples, weakened -by its internecine warfare. Could we hold back the East forever, or -even the Turkish nationalists from this city on the Bosphorus? Across -the bridge came Turkish porters carrying great loads at the nape of -the neck, Persians in high fur caps, Kurds, Lazis, Arabs, Soudanese, -negroes, Gypsy queens in tattered robes, smart young Turks in black -coats and the red fez, Turkish women in blue silk gowns, deeply veiled. -In the bazaars near by there were swarms of Turks, Armenians, and Jews, -selling German and American goods, Oriental spices, Turkish and Persian -carpets, dried fruits, shell oil. Around the mosques of Stamboul sat -groups of Turks smoking their narghili and talking, between the hours -when they washed their feet according to the law of the Prophet. Camel -caravans, with mangy, tired beasts, heavily laden, plodded down narrow -streets, and their drivers had news to tell, exciting to little groups -of Turks who gathered round. What news? What excitement?... There were -hidden emotions, passions, secrets, among these people, at which I -could only guess, or fail to guess. - -I thought of a story I had heard of the Reverend Mother in a Catholic -convent here in Constantinople. She had a Turkish porter at the convent -gate, an old man who had been a faithful servant. She asked him if he -thought there would be any rising in the city among the Turks, and, if -so, whether her convent school would be respected. “Do not be afraid,” -he said. “When the massacre begins I myself will kill you without any -pain.” He promised her an easy death. - -There was, I thought, only one safeguard against massacre in this city -seething with racial hatred. It was the fear of those young British -soldiers, with their French comrades, and sailor cousins, who kept -order in Constantinople. It was a fear inspired mainly by British -prestige. We had no great strength at that time, as far as I could see, -less than two full Divisions of infantry--mostly boys who had been too -young to fight in the Great War--and some Indian cavalry, Mohammadans -like the Turks. In the Bosphorus, it was true, there was a considerable -fleet, led by the Iron Duke, and some American warships, but a rising -in Constantinople, an attack on the European quarters, would lead to -dirty work. There would be many Christian throats cut. - -The British troops did not seem nervous. They are never nervous, but -take things as they come. At the upper end of the Rue de Pera there -were numbers of wine shops and dancing halls where they gathered in -the evenings. As I passed them I saw groups like those with which I -had been familiar in the estaminets on the Western front. They were -singing the same old songs. Through the swing doors came gusts of -laughter and those choruses roared by lusty voices. In Constantinople -as in Flanders! The Y.M.C.A. was doing good work in keeping them out of -temptation’s way, down back alleys, where Greek girls waited for them, -or where Turkish ladies hid in the dark courtyards. On the whole they -gave no great trouble to the “red caps” who rounded them up at night. -The American Jacks gave more. Coming from “dry” ships, they drew a -bee line for the booze shops, and were mad drunk rapidly. The British -A.P.M. with whom I went round the city one night, had the genial -permission from the American Admiral to have them knocked on the head -by the naval police as quickly and smartly as possible. It was safer -for them. - -I shall never forget one of those young American sailors whom I -encountered at a music hall close to the Pera Palace, known as the -“Petits Champs.” A variety show was given there nightly, by Russian -singers and dancers with a Russian orchestra, and it was crowded with -all the races of the world which met in Constantinople. Some of the -dancing girls had been ladies of quality in Russia. Now they showed -their bodies to this assembly of wine-drinking men and evil women, of -East and West, for the wages of life. The orchestra played Russian -music with a wild lilt in it--the rhythm of the primitive soul of the -old Slav race. It worked madness in the brain of the young American -Jack, who sat next to me, with one of his petty officers. He was a -nice, sweet-faced fellow, but with too much beer in him to withstand -this music. For a time he contented himself with dangling his watch in -his glass of beer, but presently his body swayed to the rhythm, and he -waved his handkerchief to the ladies on the stage. Then he seized a -great tin tray from a passing waiter and danced the hula-hula with it, -with frightful crashes and bangs. No one took much notice of him. The -petty officer smiled, as at a pleasant jest. Our own sailors were merry -and bright, and there was a great noise in the cabaret of the Petits -Champs. - -There was no noise, but a kind of warm silence, if such a thing may be, -in a Turkish house on the hillside overlooking the Bosphorus, where my -son and I took dinner with a young English merchant and his wife. It -was an old wooden house called a “palace,” with a broad balcony above -a little tangled garden. Down there among the trees with a little old -mosque with one minaret, and far below the British fleet lay at anchor, -mirrored in the glasslike water. The spearheads of black cypress trees -in our garden pointed to the first stars of evening in a turquoise sky, -faintly flushed by the rose tints of sunset. Beyond, the Asiatic shore -stretched away, with the lights of Scutari clustered at the water’s -edge below the slopes of Bulgaria, and clear-cut against the sky rose -the tall white minarets of Buyak Djami, the great mosque built in -honor of Mirimah, the daughter of Suleyman the Magnificent. A band was -playing on one of our warships, and its music came faintly up to us. -When it ceased, there was a great silence around us, except for the -flutter of bats skimming along our balcony. - -The young English merchant--the head of the greatest trading house -in the Near East--sat back in a cane chair, talking somberly of the -stagnation of his business owing to the effects of war and the failure -of peace. He was anxious about the Nationalists in Angora. That fellow -Mustapha Kemal--The Greeks might not have the strength to hold Smyrna! -Every Turk had vowed to get back Smyrna at all costs. It was the worst -wound to their pride. The future was very uncertain. Damned bad for -trade. What was going to happen in Europe with all these race hatreds, -political intrigues, jealousies between French and British, Italian and -French, Greeks and all others. Venizelos had claimed too much. More -than Greece could hold.... - -He was newly married, this young merchant of the Near East, and his -wife was beautiful and restless, and rather bored. She liked dancing -better than anything in the world, and had enjoyed it on the Iron Duke -with young British officers. Her merchant husband was not keen on -it--especially when his wife danced with those young naval officers, -I thought. He was a little annoyed now when she brought a gramaphone -on to the balcony and set it going to a dance tune and offered her -arms to a boy who had brought the latest steps from London--my son. -While they moved about to the rhythm of a rag-time melody, the young -merchant continued his analysis of a situation ugly with many perils -and troubles, and then was silent over his pipe. From the garden -came another kind of music as the rose flush faded from the sky and -the cypress trees were blacker against a paler blue. A white-robed -figure stood in the little turret of the minaret and turned eastward -and raised his voice in a long-drawn chant, rising and falling in the -Oriental scale of half-tones. It was the imam, calling to the Faithful -of the Prophet in the city of Mohammad. It was the voice of the East -as it has called through the centuries to desert and city and camel -tracks, to the soul of Eastern peoples under this sky and stars. It -rose above the music of a gramaphone playing rag-time melody, and -called across the waters of the Bosphorus where Western battleships -were lying, with their long guns, like insects with their legs -outstretched, as we looked down on them. Faintly from the shadow world, -and through this warm-scented air of an evening in Constantinople, came -answering voices, wailing, as the imams in each minaret of the city of -mosques, gave praise to God, and to Mohammad his Prophet. - -“The Turks aren’t finished yet,” said the young English merchant. “And -behind the Turk is Russia--and the East.” - -A chill made me shiver a little.... The sun had gone down. - -With Percival Phillips, sometimes, we visited the mosques and explored -Turkish street life on the Stamboul side of Constantinople, and went up -to Eyoub and the Sweet Waters of Europe, and wandered among the charred -ruins of a quarter of the city where a great fire had raged. Once, with -the young commercial traveler in vests and pants--three years before -an officer in the Great War--we walked to lonely districts where the -Indian cavalry had pitched their camps beyond the city and when in a -little Turkish coffee shop, remote and solitary, some wild Gypsy women -in tattered robes of many colors, through which could be seen their -bare brown limbs, danced and sang. No need to ask the origin of the -Gypsy folk after seeing these. They were people of the Far East, and -their songs had the harsh and ancient melody of Oriental nomads. - -“Not particularly safe to wander far afield like this,” said the young -commercial traveler. He told stories of Turkish robbers and assassins -in the outskirts of the city. But no harm befell us. - -In narrow streets off the Grand’ Rue de Pera, we came into touch with -another aspect of life in Constantinople--the heart of the Russian -tragedy among the Royalist refugees. Those people had arrived in -successive waves of flight following the defeat and rout of the -“White” expedition under Denikin, Wrangel, and others. The luckiest -among them, who had jewels to sell and a business instinct, had set up -little restaurants and wine shops in Pera. Somehow or other many of -them were able to get enough money to eat and drink in these places, -and they were always filled with Russian officers in uniform, with -their ladies. Those who served were often of higher rank than those -who dined, and a score of times I saw an officer rise, bow profoundly, -and kiss the hand of the waiting girl before he ordered his _bortsch_. -Probably she was a Princess. One could hardly order a cup of tea in -Constantinople without receiving it from a Russian princess or at least -a lady of quality in the old régime. I had a pork chop handed to me by -a bald-headed man with an apron round his waist whom I knew afterward -as the Admiral of the late Czar’s yacht. His fellow serving men were -aristocrats and intellectuals, wearing white linen jackets and doing -their job as waiters with dignity as well as skill. Poor devils! In -spite of their courage and their gayety, they were having a rough life -in Constantinople with no hope ahead, except the fading dreams that -Soviet Russia would be overthrown by some internal plot or foreign -intervention. In spite of all the millions lent to Russia by Great -Britain, and all the arms and ammunition supplied by us to Koltchak, -Denikin, and all the “White” Armies, they regarded England as the chief -cause of their repeated failures, and as a nation which had not helped -their cause with proper loyalty. It was the one-time Admiral of the -Czar’s yacht who made this complaint to me, and said, “England has -betrayed us!” - -That evening I sat with a young British naval officer in the Pera -Palace hotel and heard the other side of the story. He had been looking -angrily at some Cossack officers and their ladies, laughing over their -coffee cups. - -“I’m not bloodthirsty,” he said, “but it would give me the greatest -pleasure in the world to cut one of those fellow’s throats.” - -He told me the cause of his bitterness--the inefficiency, the -corruption, the vanity, the damned selfishness, the jealousy of those -White officers. We had sent out vast stores of arms and ammunition, -but they never got to the front. Crowds of these fellows, swaggering -about in uniform, never went near their wretched men in the trenches, -and were hundreds of miles behind, gambling, drinking, indulging in -amorous adventure. The women were just as bad, many of them. Worse, -if anything! We had sent out consignments of clothes for the Russian -nurses, who were in rags at the front where they were looking after the -wounded. That underclothing, those stockings, and boots, and raincoats -never reached the nurses. They had been seized and worn by the female -harpies hundreds of miles behind the line. He had more respect for the -Reds than for this White rabble. One day the British taxpayer would -want to know why we were keeping thousands of them in the island of -Prinkipo and elsewhere.... - -I went out to Prinkipo, and did not feel the bitterness of that young -officer who had no patience with our charity. A boatload of refugees, -with a crowd of women and children, had just arrived and were sitting -among their bundles and boxes on the quayside, forlorn, melancholy, -sick after a long voyage across the Black Sea, and after the horror -of flight from the Red Terror. We could not let them starve to death -without a helping hand. - -Certainly we were doing them rather well on Prinkipo, and it seemed to -me an island of delight where I, for one, would gladly have stayed a -month or two, or a year or two, if my own folk had been there. These -Russian exiles made the best of it. Their laughter rang out in a -wooden restaurant where a party of them dined to the music of a little -orchestra which played mad and merry music. Some of those Russian girls -were amazingly beautiful, patrician in manner and grace. - -Along a road leading through green woods to a golden shore lapped by -little frothing waves, came a cavalcade of Russians on donkeys, which -they raced with each other, screaming with laughter. Further on, where -the woods ended, there was a smooth greensward on which a crowd of -Russian folk were dancing to the music of a hurdy-gurdy. Hand in hand -young Russian men and women, once great people in Moscow and Odessa, -wandered playing the pleasant game of love-in-idleness. Not too bad to -be a refugee at Prinkipo, until they awakened from their lotus eating -to the hopelessness of their state, to the raggedness of their clothes, -to their life without purpose and prospect, and, later on, to a new -menace of death from bloodthirsty Turks in alliance with Red Russia. -There would not be much good will to Russian Royalists living here on -Prinkipo in the wooden villas and palaces built by Turkish pashas for -their summer pleasure. - -When the last wave of flight came, after Wrangel’s downfall, -Prinkipo became overcrowded and fever-stricken, and the Russians -in Constantinople, tens of thousands of poverty-stricken folk of -peasant class, would have starved to death but for the charity of -British and American relief work. They were panic-stricken as well as -poverty-stricken, after the burning of Smyrna. - -So in Constantinople I saw the drama of a city in which the East met -the West--across the Galata Bridge--and where the strife and agony -of many races upheaved by war and revolution, seethed as in a human -cauldron. In this city of the Mohammadan world, and of Russia in exile, -and of French, German, Italian, and Greek intrigue, the peace of the -world did not seem secure and lasting. It filled me with sinister -forebodings. - - - - -XXIII - - -It was a British ship which took me from Constantinople to Smyrna, -and it gave me a thrill of patriotic pleasure to get porridge for -breakfast, and ham and eggs with buttered toast. - -Apart from the officers and crew, there were few English folk aboard. I -can only remember one--a good-looking and good-humored major, who was -bound for Alexandria in company with a pretty Greek woman who seemed to -be under his chivalrous protection. The other first-class passengers -were Greeks, Armenians, and Jews. On the lower deck were groups of -Italian soldiers who sang and danced continuously, a few Turks, an -old Arab woman in a dirty white robe, who gazed all day long over the -side of the ship as though reading some spell of fate in the lace work -patterns of froth woven by our passage through the dead calm sea, and -families of Israelites lying among their bundles. - -It was good to lie on the boat deck in the direct glare of the sun, -pouring its warmth down from a cloudless sky, and to watch with -half-shut eyes the golden glitter of the sea and its change of color -and light from deepest blue to palest green, as the currents crossed -our track and white clouds passed overhead and the sun sank low, as -evening came. Fairy islands, dreamlike and unsubstantial, appeared on -the far horizon, and then seemed to sink below its golden bar. At night -the sky was crowded with stars, shining with a piercing brightness, and -it seemed no wonder then that to each of them the Greeks had given a -name and godlike attributes. They seemed closer to the world than in an -English sky, heaven’s brilliant train, and on this ship in a lonely -sea--no other boat passed us--the company of the stars was friendly and -benign. - -From the lower deck came the singing of the Italian soldiers, with -their liquid words and open notes, in which I heard something very old -in the melody of life. The Greeks were singing, too, in a separate -group, softly, to themselves, and with a melancholy cadence. Tiny -sparks of fire, like glow-worms, flitted to and fro on the lower deck. -It was the glow of cigarette ends, as the Italian soldiers danced the -fox trot and the one step. Now and then a match was lighted, and one -saw it held in the hollow of brown hands, illumining a dark Italian -face. - -My son and I sat on coils of rope, up on the boat deck, with a Greek -girl with whom we had made friends. She talked and talked, and held us -spellbound by her philosophy of life, her gayety, her bitter wisdom, -her fearlessness and wit. It was a short voyage, and we have never -seen her again, but we shall not forget that laughing Greek girl -who spoke half the languages of Europe, and English perfectly, and -American with such intimate acquaintance that she could sing little -old nigger songs with perfect accent, as it seemed to us. Yet she had -never been in England or America, and had spent nearly all her life in -Constantinople, with brief visits to Greece, and two frightful years in -Russia. She had learnt English, and her negro songs, in the American -College at Constantinople, to which she looked back with adoration, -though she had been a naughty rebel against all its discipline. - -As a governess to a German family in Russia, she had learnt another -language--besides Russian, Greek, French, Turkish and English--and had -been thoroughly amused with life, until the Red Revolution broke in -Moscow. Her Germans fled, leaving her alone in their empty flat, and -then she learnt more than ever she had guessed about the cruelties of -life. Her life was saved by her gayety and “cheek,” as she called it. -When a crowd of Red soldiers threatened to slit her throat, she jeered -at them, and then made them roar with laughter by playing comic songs -on the piano and singing them with merry pantomime. That was all right, -but she starved and went in expectation of death month after month. -Her Russian friends, students and intellectuals, were mostly shot or -hanged. She recognized some of them as they hung from lamp-posts in the -streets, and gave us a vivid imitation of how they looked, with their -necks cricked and their tongues hanging out. She became used to that -sort of thing.... After wandering adventures, abominable hardships, in -dirt and rags, she got through at last to Constantinople, and lived for -a time on a Greek gunboat, as one of the crew, wearing one of their -caps and a sailor’s jersey. They saved her from starving to death, -until she was able to get in touch with her family. Now she was going -to Alexandria, as a typist in an English office. - -She was tremendously amused with all this experience. She wouldn’t have -missed it for the world. It was the adventure of life, and the great -game. There was nothing in life but that--and what did death matter -after this adventure whenever it came! We spoke of war, and the chance -of world peace, and she scoffed at the chance. War was inevitable--the -greatest adventure of all. Cruelty?--Yes, that was part of the -adventure. Men were heartless, but amusing, even in their cruelties. -It was no good looking at life seriously, breaking one’s heart over -impossible ideals. It was best to laugh and take things as they came, -and shrug one’s shoulders, whatever happened. It was Life!... So we -talked under the stars. - -There was another girl on board who talked to us. She belonged to a -different type and race--a tragic type, and Armenian. She had some -frightful photographs in a satchel which she wore always round her -waist. They were photographs of Turkish atrocities in Asia Minor. There -was one of a Turkish officer sitting on a pile of skulls and smoking a -cigarette. Those skulls had once held the living brains of this girl’s -family and townsfolk at Samsun. She told me of the death march of the -Armenians when the Turks drove them from the coast into the interior. -The women and children had been separated from their men folk, who were -then massacred. Her father and brother had been killed like that. They -passed their bodies on the roadsides. The women and children had been -driven forward until many dropped and died, until all were barefoot and -exhausted to the point of death. Kurdish brigands had robbed them of -the little money they had, and their rings. Some of the younger girls -were carried off. Their screams were heard for a long way. There were -not many who reached the journey’s end.... A terrible tale, told with a -white passion of hate against the Turk, but without tears, and coldly, -so that it made me shiver. - -In that ship, sailing under the stars in the Ægean Sea, I learnt more -than I had known about the infernal history of mankind during war and -revolution. I had seen it in the West. These were stories of the East, -unknown and unrecorded, as primitive in their horror as when Assyrians -fought Egyptians, or the Israelites were put to the sword in the time -of Judas Maccabæus. - -Our ship put in at Mitylene, and with the Greek girl we explored the -port and walked up the hillside to an old fort built by the Venetians -in the great days when Venice was the strongest sea power in that part -of the world. On the way, the Greek girl chatted to shopkeepers and -peasants in their own tongue, and hers, and then climbed to the top of -the fort, sitting fearlessly on the edge of the wall and looking back -to the sea over which we had traveled, and down to our ship, so small -as we saw it from this height. - -In the valley, Greek peasants of better type and stock than those at -Athens, and true descendants of the people whose tools and gods and -jewels they turn up sometimes with their spades, were leading their -sheep and goats. Some of them were singing and the sound rose clear -up the hillside with a tinkling of goat bells and the baaing of the -sheep. Wild flowers were growing in the old walls of the fort, and the -hillside was silvered with daisies. We seemed very close to the blue -canopy of the sky above us, as we sat on the edge of the wall, and in -the warm sunshine, and above that calm, crystal-clear sea, mirroring -our ship, we seemed to be touched by the immortality of the gods, and -to be invested with the beauty of the springtime of the world. - -“It would be good to stay here,” said the Greek girl. “We could keep -goats and sing old Greek songs.” - -However, presently she was hungry, and scrambled off the wall and said, -“The ship--and supper!” - -So we went down to the little port again and rowed away from Mitylene -to the ship which was sounding its siren for our return. - -We reached Smyrna next morning, and I, for one, was astonished by the -modern aspect of its sea frontage, upon which the sun poured down. -Beyond the broad quays it swept round the gulf in a wide curve of white -houses, faced with marble and very handsome along the side inhabited, I -was told, by rich Armenian merchants. - -“The Turks will never rest till they get Smyrna back,” said the English -major by my side, and his words came as a sharp reminder of the lines -away beyond the hills, where a Greek army lay entrenched against the -Turkish nationalists and Mustapha Kemal. But no shadow of doom crept -through the sunlight that lay glittering upon those white-fronted -houses, nor did I guess that one day, not far ahead, Englishmen, like -myself, looking over the side of this ship, would see the beauty of -that city devoured by an infernal fury of flame, and listen to the -screams of panic-stricken crowds on those broad quaysides, hidden -behind rolling clouds of smoke.... - -When we landed, in the harbor-master’s pinnace, we found that we had -come on a day of festival among the Greek army of occupation and -the Greek inhabitants of Smyrna. All the ships in the harbor--among -them the very gunboat in which our Greek lady had lived as one -of the crew--were dressed in bunting, and flags were flying from -many buildings. Greek officers, very dandified, in much decorated -uniforms, with highly polished boots, drove along the esplanade in -open carriages, carrying great bouquets, on their way to a review by -the Commander-in-Chief outside the city. Smyrniote girls, Greek and -Armenian, were in fancy frocks and high-heeled shoes tripping gayly -along with young Greek soldiers. Bands were playing as they marched, -and all the air thrilled with the music of trumpets and military pomp. -Few Turks were visible among those Christian inhabitants. They were -mostly dockside laborers and porters, wearing the red fez of Islam. - -It was the English major who told me of the horror that had happened -here when the Greeks first landed. They had rowed off from their -transports in boats, and a crowd of these Turkish porters had helped -to draw the boats up to the quayside. All the Christian population was -on the front, waving handkerchiefs from windows and balconies. Ladies -of the American Red Cross were looking at the scene from the balcony -of the Grand Hotel Splendid Palace--what a name! There was no sign of -hostility from the Turks, but suddenly the Greek soldiers seemed to go -mad, and started bayoneting the Turks who had helped them to land. In -view of all the women and children who had assembled to greet them -with delirious joy, they murdered those defenseless men and flung their -bodies into the sea. It was a crime for which many poor innocents were -to pay when the Turkish irregulars came into Smyrna with the madness -of victory after the destruction of the Greek army by Mustapha Kemal -and his Nationalist troops. Well, that grim secret of fate lay hidden -in the future when Tony and I booked rooms at the Grand Hotel Splendid -Palace and entertained our little Greek lady to breakfast, and then at -midday waved towels out of the bedroom window in answer to her signals -from the ship which took her on her way to Alexandria and another -adventure of life. The English major brought a bucket to the upper -deck, as we could see distinctly and wrung a towel over it as a sign of -tears. We made the countersign.... - -The sea front of Smyrna, with its modern marble-fronted houses, masked -an older and more romantic city, as we found in many walks in all its -quarters. It masked the Turkish squalor of little streets of wooden -shops and booths where crowds of Turkish women, more closely veiled -than those in Constantinople, bargained for silks and slippers and -household goods. In the old markets at the end of Frank Street, now -a heap of cindered ruins, we sauntered through the narrow passages -with vaulted roofs where old Turks sat cross-legged in their alcoves, -selling carpets from Ouchak and Angora, dried raisins and vegetables, -strips of colored silk for Turkish dresses, Sofrali linen, Manissa -cotton, German-made hardware, and all manner of rubbish from the East -and West, drenched in the aroma of spices, moist sugar, oil, and camels. - -I was anxious, as a journalist, to get the latest information about the -military situation away to the back of Smyrna, and for that purpose -called upon the British Military Mission, represented by a General -Hamilton and his staff. A charming and courteous man, he was obviously -embarrassed by my visit, not knowing how much to tell me of a situation -which was extremely delicate in a political as well as a military way. -He decided to tell me nothing, and I did not press him, seeing his -trouble. - -I obtained all the information I wanted, and even more than I bargained -for, from the Greek authorities. The fact that I represented _The -Daily Chronicle_, known for its pro-Greek sympathies and for its -official connection with Lloyd George’s Government, gave me an almost -embarrassing importance. No sooner had I revealed my journalistic -mission than I received a visit from a Greek staff officer--Lieutenant -Casimatis--who put the entire city of Smyrna at my feet, as it were, -and as one small token of my right to fulfill the slightest wish, sent -round a powerful military car with two tall soldiers, under orders -to obey my commands. Tony was pleased with this attention and other -courtesies that were showered upon us. It was he, rather than myself, -who interviewed the Commander-in-Chief of the Greek army, and received -the salutes of its soldiers as we drove up magnificently to General -Headquarters. - -A military band was playing outside--selections from “Patience,” by -some strange chance--and in the antechamber of the General’s room Greek -staff officers, waisted, highly polished, scented, swaggered in and -out. The Commander-in-Chief was a very fat old gentleman, uncomfortable -in his tight belt, and perspiring freely on that hot day. The windows -of his room were open, and the merry music floated in, and the scent of -flowers, and of the warm sea. “He received us most politely,” as poor -Fragson used to sing in one of my brother’s plays, and with his fat -fingers moving about a big map, explained the military situation. It -was excellent, he said. The Greek army was splendid, in training and -_morale_, and longing to advance against the Turk, who was utterly -demoralized. Those poor Turkish peasants, forcibly enlisted by Mustapha -Kemal, wanted nothing but leave to go home. The Greek advance would -be a parade--the Commander-in-Chief, speaking in French, repeated his -words with relish and pride--“a parade, sir!” Unfortunately, he said, -Greece was hampered by differences among the Allies. The French were -certainly intriguing with the Turkish Nationalists of Angora--supplying -them with arms and ammunition! The Italians were no better, and very -jealous of Greek claims in Asia Minor. Greece had trust, however, in -the noble friendship of England, in the sympathy and aid of that great -statesman, Mr. Lloyd George.... The Greek army would astonish the world. - -So the old gentleman talked, and I listened politely, and asked -questions, and kept my doubts to myself. There was not a British -officer I had met anywhere, except General Hamilton in Smyrna, who had -a good word to say for the fighting qualities of Greek soldiers. There -was not one I had met who believed that they could hold Smyrna for more -than a year or two, until the Turks reorganized. - -It was Lieutenant Casimatis who introduced us to the -Commander-in-Chief, and he devoted himself to the task of presenting us -to all the people of importance in Smyrna, and taking us to schools, -hospitals, museums, and other institutions which would prove to us the -benevolence and high culture of Greek rulers in Asia Minor. He was a -cheery, stout little man, speaking English, which he had learnt in -India, and almost bursting with good nature and the desire to pump us -with Greek propaganda. - -He took us to the Greek Metropolitan at Smyrna, a black-bearded, -broad-shouldered, loud-laughing, excitable Bishop of the Orthodox -Church, wearing the high black hat and long black robe of his priestly -office, but reminding us of one of those Princes of the Church in -the Middle Ages who led their armies to battle and sometimes wielded -a battleax in the name of the Lord. “An old ruffian,” I heard him -called by an English merchant of Bournabat, whose sympathies, however, -were decidedly pro-Turk. A picture representing the martyrdom of St. -Polycarp at Smyrna, in the early days of the Christian era, adorned -the wall opposite his desk, and he waved his hand toward it and spoke -of the martyrdom of the Christian people, not so long ago as that, but -only a year or two ago, when they were driven from the coast, as that -Armenian girl had told me. “The spirit of St. Polycarp,” he said, in -barbarous French, “animates the Greek Christians to-day, and nothing -would give me greater joy than to die for the faith as he did.” I have -never heard whether this pious wish was fulfilled. It seems to me -probable. - -For a long time he talked of the sufferings of the Greeks and -Armenians, calling upon various men in the room--his secretaries and -priests--to bear witness to the truth of his tales. Presently, with -some ceremony, servants came round with silver trays laden with glasses -of iced water and some little plates containing a white glutinous -substance. As the guest of ceremony, it was my privilege to be served -first, which did not give me the chance of watching what others might -do. I took a spoonful of the white substance, and swallowed it, hoping -for the best. But it was the worst that I had done. I discovered -afterward that it was a resinous stuff called _mastica_, something -in the nature of chewing gum. The mouthful I had swallowed had a -most disturbing effect upon my system, and even the Metropolitan was -alarmed. My son Tony, served second, was in the same trouble. - -In the Greek schools of Smyrna all the scholars were kept in during the -luncheon hour, while we went from class to class inspecting their work -and making polite bows and speeches to the teachers. The scholars, -ranging from all ages of childhood, did not seem to bear us any grudge -for their long wait for lunch, and we were much impressed by their -discipline, their pretty manners, their beautiful eyes. Tony felt like -the Prince of Wales, and was conscious of the “glad eyes” of the older -girls.... When Smyrna was reported to be a city of fire and massacre, I -thought with dreadful pity of those little ones. - -We touched with our very hands the spirit of this ancient race in -the time of its glory, when we went into the museum and handled the -pottery, the gods, the household ornaments, the memorials--found by -peasants with their picks not far below the soil--of that time when -Homer was born (it is claimed) in this city of the Ægean, when the -Ionians held it, when Lysimachus made it great and beautiful, until it -was one of the most prosperous ports in the world, crowded with Greek -and Roman and Syrian ships trading between the West and East. - -Lieutenant Casimatis took us to his little home away on a lonely road -beyond the Turkish quarter, and we spent an evening with his family, -a handsome wife and three beautiful children who sang little songs to -us in French and Greek. The poor lady was nervous. Some shadow of fear -was upon her because of that Turkish army beyond the Greek trenches. I -hope with all my heart she escaped from Smyrna with her babes before -the horror happened.... I drank to the welfare of Greece in the sweet -resinous wine which Lieutenant Casimatis poured out for us. It was a -sincere wish, but at the back of my mind was some foreboding. - -We drove out one day to Boudja and Bournabat, past the slopes of Mount -Pagus and away in the hills. Turkish peasants riding on donkeys or in -ox wagons jogged along the dusty tracks. We passed Turkish cemeteries -with tombstones leaning at every angle below tall, black cypress -trees, and looking back, saw the brown roofs of Smyrna below, as in a -panorama under the hot sun which made the gulf like molten metal. - -In the country we lost touch with the Western world. It was Asia, -with the smell and color and silence of the East. A camel caravan -moved slowly in the valley, like a picture in “The Arabian Nights.” -But at Boudja, and later at Bournabat, we were astonished to see -English-looking girls in English summer frocks, carrying tennis -racquets, and appearing as though they had just left Surbiton. These -two villages were inhabited by British merchants who had been long -settled there as traders in Oriental carpets, spices, raisins, dates, -and the merchandise of the East. We called on one of them at Bournabat, -and I rubbed my eyes when, with Asia Minor at the gate, we drove up -to a house that might have been transplanted from Clapham Park in the -early Victorian period, when Cubitt was building for a rich middle -class. - -The house was furnished like that, except for some bearskins and -hunting trophies, and the two old ladies and one old gentleman who gave -us tea might have been transported on a magic carpet from a tea party -in the time of the Newcomes. We had toasted muffins, and the stouter of -the two old ladies (who wore a little lace cap and sat stiffly against -an antimacassar, in a chintz-covered chair) asked whether we would take -one or two lumps of sugar with our tea. Tony, who was beginning to feel -an exile from civilization, beamed with happiness at this English life -again. - -The old gentleman had been the greatest trader in Asia Minor, and in -his younger days had hunted with Turkish peasants in the mountains. He -loved the Turk still, though he deplored the cruelties they had done -to the Christian populations in the war. For the Greeks he had pity, -and dreadful forebodings. He knew something of what was happening -behind the Turkish lines, with Mustapha Kemal. There would be no peace -until they had Smyrna back again. The Greeks had claimed too much. -Venizelos had lost his head. Lloyd George--The old man sighed, and fell -into a gloomy silence. “I’m afraid of the future,” he said, presently. -“Nobody will listen to my advice. The Greeks think I am pro-Turk. What -I want is a just peace, and above all peace. This is only an armed -truce.” He told me many things about the situation which filled me with -uneasiness. I promised to see him again, but after a few days we left -Smyrna for Athens. - -We traveled in a little steam yacht which had once been Vanderbilt’s -and now was a Greek passenger ship, called _Polikos_. It was crowded -with Greek officers, in elegant uniforms, and very martial-looking -until a certain hour of the evening. The passage began in a wonderful -calm, and after darkness there were groups of singing folk of different -nationalities, as on that other ship, but presently a terrific storm -broke upon us, and the singing ceased, and the _Polikos_ was a ship of -sick and sorry people. - -Tony and I crept to our bunks in a big crowded cabin, and the Greek -officers in the other bunks were frightfully and outrageously ill. -Early next morning their martial appearance had gone and they were the -disheveled wrecks of men. Tony, with extreme heroism, staggered to the -saloon and ordered ham and eggs, but thought better of it before they -came, and took to his bunk again, below mine which I, less brave, had -never left. We were glad to reach Athens without shipwreck. - -We had a week of joy there, in dazzling sunshine, and wandered about -the ruins of the Acropolis and touched old stones with reverence, and -sipped rose-tinted ices in the King’s Gardens, and saw Greek boys -throwing the discus in the very arena where the games were played -in the Golden Age, and tried to remember odd scraps of classical -knowledge, to recall the beauty of the Gods and the wisdom of the -poets. All that need not be told, but it was as pro-Greeks that we -returned to England, and with memories which made us understand more -sharply the tragedy of that defeat when the Cross went down before the -Crescent, and the horror happened in Smyrna, and all the world held its -breath when Constantinople was threatened with the same fate. - - - - -XXIV - - -In October of 1921 I went to Russia for the purpose of making a report -on the Famine to the Imperial Relief Fund. - -Much as I disliked the idea of seeing the grisly vision of Famine after -so many experiences of war and its effects, I felt that it was an -inescapable duty to accept the invitation made to me. I was also drawn -by a strong desire to see the conditions of Russia, outside as well as -inside the famine area, and to get first-hand knowledge of the system -of Bolshevism which was a terror to the majority in Europe, with some -secret attraction, holy or unholy, among men and women of revolutionary -or “advanced” views. - -It was impossible to know the truth from newspaper reading. Stories -of Russian atrocities and horrors arrived from Riga, Helsingfors and -other cities on the border of the Soviet Republic, and were denied by -other correspondents. Knowing the way in which “atrocities” had been -manufactured in time of war, by every nation, I disbelieved all I read -about Russia circulated by the “White” propaganda department, while -doubting everything which came from “Red” sources. I think that was a -general attitude of mind among unprejudiced people. - -Even with regard to the Famine it was impossible to get near the -truth by newspaper accounts. _The Daily Mail_ said the tales of -famine were vastly exaggerated. _The Daily Express_ said there was -no famine at all. _The Morning Post_ suggested that it was a simple -scheme for deluding Western nations in order to feed the Red Army. I -wanted to know, and promised to find out and report impartially to -the Imperial Relief Fund. _The Daily Chronicle_ agreed to publish a -number of articles written after my return from Russia (in order to -avoid censorship), and I arranged to send an account to _The Review of -Reviews_, of which I was the rather nominal editor. - -A journalist friend of mine named Leonard Spray was also under -instructions from _The Daily Chronicle_ to go to Russia, for another -line of inquiry, and much to my delight promised to wait for me -in Berlin so that we could travel together. It would make a great -difference having a companion on that adventure, for I confess that I -hate the lonely trail. - -It was a question of waiting for passports from the Soviet Foreign -Office in Moscow. I had applied to the Russian Trade Mission in -London and was recommended by an assistant to Krassin, an intelligent -and well-educated young Russian who professed devoted adherence to -Communism while doing himself remarkably well, I thought, with all the -material pleasures of capitalistic luxury. After a couple of weeks my -credentials arrived, my passport was indorsed with the stamp of the -Soviet Republic, and I had in this way a talisman which would open the -gate of Red Russia and let me enter the heart of its mystery. To some -of my friends it seemed the free admission to a tiger’s cage. - -In Berlin I was advised to buy blankets, cooking utensils, as much -food as I could carry, and illimitable quantities of insect powder. -I took this advice, and with Leonard Spray and a very useful lady -who understood the German ways of shopping, we bought this outfit, -remarkably cheap, reckoning in German marks which were then not quite -4,000 to the English pound. - -Among other items we acquired an enormous Dutch cheese, round and red, -which we wrapped up in a towel. It became our most precious possession, -and, as I may tell later, came to an honorable and joyous end. A -quantity of solid alcohol in tins somewhat in the style of the “Tommy’s -Cooker” also bulged out our bags and were an immense boon by enabling -us to heat up food and drink on our Russian journey. - -Spray and I spent two solid days obtaining _visas_ in Berlin for all -the countries through which we had to pass on our way to the Russian -frontier by way of Riga--those new Baltic States created at Versailles. - -Our journey to Riga was half a nightmare and half a farce, and Spray -called our train the “Get in and Get out Express.” We generally arrived -at a new frontier in the dead of night or in the early hours of dawn, -after fitful sleep. Then we were awakened by armed guards demanding -to see our visa for each side of the “Danzig corridor” for Lithuania, -Esthonia, and Latvia. - -At Eydtkühnen, in East Prussia, we had a six-hours’ wait and were able -to see something of the Russian invasion and Germany’s “devastated -region” which had been the greatest cause of terror to the German mind -when the “Russian steam roller” first began to roll forward before -its subsequent retreat. Russian cavalry had done a lot of damage--the -Germans had plenty of atrocity stories to set beside those of Alost and -Louvain--and we saw even at that late date, so long after those early -days of war, the ruins of burnt-out farms and shell-wrecked houses. But -not many. German industry had been quick at work, and Eydtkühnen was -built up like a model town, with red-tiled roofs not yet toned down by -weather, and shop windows just exhibiting their first stocks. - -As we passed through the new Baltic States--Lithuania, Esthonia, -Latvia--I had an impression that the old British Armies of khaki men -had been transferred to those far countries. At every station there -was a crowd of soldiers, all of them clad in unmistakable khaki from -British stores, but made into misfits for bearded, or unshaven, portly -or slouchy men who looked--many of them--like the old Contemptibles -after years of foreign exile and moral degeneration. Yet it would be -unfair to say they were all like that, for these Baltic peasants were -sturdy fellows enough, and, I should say, hard fighting men. - -In Riga we put up for three or four days, waiting for a train into -Russia and permission from Soviet representatives in that city to cross -the Russian frontier. In spite of our visas from headquarters, those -Riga Bolsheviks were extremely insolent and put up a blank wall of -indifference to our requests for railway facilities. There seemed to be -no chance of a place in any train, and very little chance of a train. - -Spray and I kicked our heels about in the little old city, very German -in its character, which seemed in a state of stagnation and creeping -paralysis. In its once busy port we saw no ship but a vessel carrying a -cargo of apples which it unloaded on the quayside. The restaurants were -almost deserted, and we drank little glasses of Schnapps in solitary -cafés. After midnight there was the awakening of a squalid night life -and we watched the Riga manifestation of the fox-trot mania, and an -imitation of the Friedrichstrasse _Wein Stube_, with a fair amount of -amusement on my part because of the strange types here in a city filled -with Russian exiles, Letts, Poles, Germans, Swedes, Lithuanians, and -all variety of northern races. But it was not Russia, which we had come -to see. - -I doubt whether we should ever have set foot in Russia if it had not -been for the American Relief Administration established in Riga and -just beginning to send food supplies into the famine area. The chief -of the Riga headquarters promised us two places on the next food train -going to Moscow, and broke through all formalities by reckoning us as -members of his staff. - -“What about the Famine?” I asked, and he said, “There’s a Famine all -right, with a capital F.” - -It was a queer journey from Riga to Moscow--unforgotten by me. I have -put the spirit of it, as indeed of all my experience in Russia, into -my novel “The Middle of the Road,” under a thin guise of fiction, with -some imaginary characters. The train started at night, and Spray and -I, with our baggage carried by Lettish porters, stumbled along unlit -rail tracks to a long train in absolute darkness, except in a few -carriages where candles, stuck in their own grease, burned dimly on -the window ledges. In the corridor was a seething mass of Lettish and -Russian porters, laden with the enormous baggage of Russian, British, -German, American, and other couriers, who shouted at them in various -languages. A party of young American clerks and typists for the central -headquarters in Moscow of the American Relief Administration (always -known as the A.R.A., or even, shorter, as “Ara”) smoked cigarettes, -cursed because of the darkness and filth and stench and lack of space -for their baggage, and between their curses sang ragtime choruses. - -Violent action and terrific language in the American accent, on the -part of a large-sized man, cleared the corridor somewhat, and I met, -for the first time, a cheery young giant whom I have put into my -novel as “Cherry of Lynchburg, U.S.A.,” but who is really H. J. Fink, -courier, at that time, to the A.R.A. He is known as “The Milk-fed Boy” -by his fellow-travelers, and but for his enormous good nature, his -mixture of ferocity and joviality with obstructive Bolsheviks, his -genial command of the whole “outfit” from the “_provodniks_” or guards -to the engine drivers, the journey would have been more intolerable -than we found it. I take off my hat, metaphorically, to the “Milk-fed -Boy.” - -Our blankets were uncommonly valuable in the filthy carriage of bare -boards with wooden bunks which I shared with Spray. By rigging up -a “gadget” of straps strung across the carriage, we were able to -use our solid alcohol for heating up soups and beans, with only a -fifty-per-cent chance of setting the bunks on fire. We went easy on the -red Dutch cheese, remembering that we might have greater need of it in -times to come. - -The insect powder was extraordinarily good, for the insects, which -came out of their lairs as soon as the train warmed up. They throve -on it. It sharpened their appetite for Leonard Spray, who suffered -exceedingly. Afterward, all through Russia, he was a victim of these -creatures who at the first sight of him leapt upon him joyously. By -some thinness of blood, or anti-insect tincture--I strongly suspect -the nicotine of innumerable “gaspers”--I was wonderfully immune, and -Russian lice had no use for me, though I encountered them everywhere, -for Russia is their stronghold as carriers of typhus, with which the -people were stricken in every city and village. - -We saw Red soldiers for the first time at Sebesh, the Russian frontier, -anæmic-looking lads, wearing long gray overcoats and gray hoods, rising -to a point like Assyrian helmets, with the Red Star of the Soviet -Republic above the peak. Here at Sebesh also we saw the first trainload -of refugees from the famine area, whom we met in hordes throughout -our journey. They were Letts, and in a bad state, after being three -months on the way, in closed cattle trucks. Many were typhus-stricken. -All were weak and wan-looking, except some of the children, who -had a sturdy look in their ragged sheepskins. A man spoke to me in -English, with an American accent. He had come from Ufa, three thousand -miles away, and spoke tragic words about the people there. They were -starving, and near death. - -Our train crawled forward through flat, desolate country. The people -we saw at wayside stations looked wretched and gloomy. A light snow -lay on the ground, and the woods were black against it, and grim. Many -times our engine panted and then stopped for lack of fuel. We waited -while fresh timber was piled on. The journey seemed interminable but -for the laughter of the “Milk-fed Boy,” and tales of Russian tragedy -by Mr. Wilton, the King’s messenger, who had a queer red glint in his -eyes, and a suppressed passion beneath his quiet and charming grace of -manner, when he spoke of all that agony in the country he loved. So at -last we reached Moscow, and in a little while came to know its way of -life. - -The fantastic aspect of the city, and especially at its heart by the -palace of the Kremlin, seemed to me as wild as an Oriental nightmare -in a hasheesh dream, with golden pear-shaped domes, and tall towers, -and high walls with fan-shaped battlements, and step flights of steps -leading to walled walks, and old narrow gateways guarded by Red -soldiers. There was something sinister as well as splendid in that vast -fortress palace which is a city within a city. It seemed to tell of -ancient barbarities. There was a spirit of evil about its very walls, -I thought. Perhaps vague memories of Russian history were sharpened by -the knowledge that somewhere within those walls was the brooding mind -of Lenin, whose genius had drowned Russia in blood and tears, if all -one heard, or a thousandth part of it, were true. - -I entered the Kremlin one day on a visit to Radek--whose name means -“scoundrel”--and was arrested three times at the guard posts before -reaching the rooms where the chief propaganda agent of Soviet Russia -lived with his wife and child, in simple domesticity, while he pulled -wires in all parts of the world to stir up revolution, or any kind of -trouble. Smiling through his spectacles, this man who looked a cross -between an ancient mariner and a German poet, with a fringe of reddish -beard round his face, was disarmingly frank and cynical on the subject -of Anglo-Russian relations, and had a profound and intimate knowledge -of foreign politics which startled me. He knew more than I did about -the secret intrigues in England and France. - -Leonard Spray and I were billeted in a house immediately opposite -the Kremlin along an embankment of the river called the Sophieskaya. -It was, indeed, more than a house, being the palace of a pre-war -monopolist in sugar, and most handsomely furnished in the French Empire -style, with elegant salons on whose walls hung some valuable pictures, -among which I remember a Corot, and a Greuze. - -We arrived in the dark, after a visit to the Soviet Foreign Office and -an interview with a melancholy, soft-spoken, cross-eyed Jew, by name -Weinstein, who was in charge of foreign visitors and correspondents. A -pretty Lettish girl, shuffling along in bedroom slippers, opened the -door to us, and locked us in afterward. Then the housekeeper, a tall -Swede who spoke a little of all languages, conducted us up a noble -stairway, richly carved, to our bedroom, which was an immense gilded -salon without a bed. This lack of sleeping accommodation was remedied -by four Red soldiers who came staggering in under bits of an enormous -four-poster which they fixed up in a corner of the room. Spray took -possession of it, and I slept on a broad divan. - -It was bitterly cold, and we were almost frozen to death. I shall never -forget how Spray used to wrap himself up in the blankets to the top -of his head, like an Eskimo in his sleeping bag. That house was full -of strange people whom we used to pass in the corridors, including a -deputation of Chinese Mandarins from the Far Eastern Republic, and -a mission of Turks from Angora. One evening while we were there, -Tchicherin, the Foreign Minister, with whom I had a long interview, -gave a banquet on the third anniversary of the Soviet Republic to all -the missions represented in Moscow. It was a very handsome affair. All -the leading Bolsheviks were in evening dress, the Chinese Mandarins -wore cloth of gold, wine flowed copiously, and watching from the -doorway of my bedroom, I wondered what had happened to Bolshevism -and Communism, and what equality there was between those well-fed, -elegantly dressed gentlemen, dining richly in their noble rooms, and -those millions of starving peasants who were waiting for death, and -dying, in the Volga valley, or even the population of Moscow itself, -not starving altogether, but pinched, and half hungry in their ragged -sheepskins. - -Spray and I explored the life of Moscow, freely, as I must admit, for -never once were we aware of any deliberate espionage about us, though -often there were watchful eyes. - -We had arrived in time to witness a complete reversal of the -Communistic system by what Lenin called the “New Economic Laws.” On -October 17, 1921, while we were there, Lenin made an historic speech -in which he admitted, with amazing frankness, the complete breakdown -of the Communistic way of life which he had imposed upon the people. -He explained, with a kind of vigorous brutality of speech, that owing -to the hostility and ignorance of the peasants, who resisted the -requisition of their food stuffs, and the failure of world revolution -which prevented any international trade with Russia, industry had -disintegrated, factories were abandoned, transport had broken down, and -the system of rationing which had been in force in the cities, could no -longer be maintained. - -The cardinal theory of Communism was that in return for service to the -State, every individual in the State received equal rations of food, -clothes, education, and amusements. That was the ideal, but it could no -longer be fulfilled, for the causes given. - -“We have suffered a severe defeat on the economic front,” said Lenin. -“Our only safety lies in a rapid retreat upon prepared positions.” - -He then outlined the “New Economic Laws,” which abolished the -rationing system, re-established the use of money, permitted “private -trading” which had been the unpardonable crime, and even invited the -introduction of foreign capital. - -We saw the immediate, though gradual and tentative effect of this -reversal of policy. It was visible in the market places of Moscow, -where peasants freely sold the produce of their farms under the eyes -of Red soldiers who previously would have seized and flung them into -prison for trading in that way. - -Among these peasants stood long lines of men and women who as I saw at -a glance were people of the old régime--aristocrats and intellectuals. -Shabby as most of them were, haggard and wan, unshaven and unwashed -(how could they wash without soap?), their faces, and above all their -eyes, betrayed them. They stood, those ladies and gentlemen of Imperial -Russia, holding out little articles which they had saved or hidden -during the time of revolution. The women carried their underclothing, -or their fur coats, tippets, and caps, embroidered linen, old shoes -and boots, their engagement rings, brooches, household ornaments. The -men--mostly old fellows--held out woollen vests, socks, pipes, rugs, -books, many odds and ends of their ancient life. Who bought these -things I could never tell, though I saw peasant women and old soldiers -fingering them, and asking the price, and generally shrugging their -shoulders and walking away. - -I spoke to some of the ladies there in French or German, and at first -they were very much afraid and would not answer, or left the market -place immediately, lest this were some police trap which would endanger -their liberty or life. Almost all of them, as I found afterward, had -been imprisoned for doing secretly the very thing which they now dared -to do in the open market place, but with trembling fear at first. - -In the same way, timidly, with nervous foreboding, little groups of -families or friends opened a few shops in the Arbat, furnishing them -with relics of their old homes, and stocking them with a strange -assortment of goods. - -Two restaurants opened, one called “The English Restaurant,” where -Spray and I used to dine, almost alone, except for a Red Commissioner -or two who came in for coffee and a secret inspection, and now and then -a few ladies, furtively, for a plate of soup. The restaurant keepers -were of good family and ancient rank. The lady spoke English and -French, and told me many tales of her tragic life during the years of -revolution. Behind the bar was a pretty, smiling girl of sixteen or so, -amazed and delighted to see two English customers. Her father, dressed -like a seafaring man, was charming in his courtesy to us, but always -afraid. - -Even now I dare not write too freely about the people we met by hazard, -or by introduction, lest any words of mine should do them harm. There -was one family, of noble blood, who lived in two squalid rooms divided -by a curtain from a public corridor. The two daughters had one pair -of decent boots between them. They took turns to go out “visiting” at -the British Mission which gave Sunday afternoon receptions to a little -group of ladies, and taught them the fox trot and two step and other -dances which had become a mania in many Western nations, but were -utterly unknown in Russia, cut off from all the world. - -The old gentleman their father, and their charming mother, had dirty -hands. There was no soap in Russia, and in those rooms no chance of -hot water, except for tea. I marveled at their courage (though the old -man wept a little), and at the courage of all those people of the old -régime, who were living in direst poverty, in perpetual fear of prison, -or worse than that. They saw the ruin of Russia, but still had hope -that out of all that agony, and all their tears, some new hope would -dawn for the country they loved. So many people told me, and among them -one bedridden lady, near to death, I think, who said that there would -be a new and nobler Russia born out of all this terror and tribulation. - -Moscow was not starving to death, though many in it were always hungry. -When the American Relief Administration opened a soup kitchen in the -famous old restaurant, The Hermitage, thousands of children came to be -fed, but, on the whole, they were not famine-stricken--only underfed -and uncertain of the next day’s meal. - -With its dilapidated houses, many of them wrecked by gunfire in the -first days of the revolution, Moscow had a melancholy look, and few of -its people, outside the Commissar and Soviet official class had any -margin beyond the barest needs of life. But the people in the mass -looked healthy, and they were not deprived of all light and beauty in -life. The opera, and two or three theaters were open, crowded every -night by the “proletariat” in working clothes. In the Imperial box of -the opera, with its eagles covered under the Red Flag, sat a group of -mechanics with their wives, and between the acts the foyer was crowded -with what looked like the “lower middle class,” as we should see them -in some music hall on the Surrey side of London. The opera and the -ballet were as beautiful as in the old days, maintaining their historic -traditions, though all else had gone in Russia, and it was strange to -see this stage splendor in a Republic of ruin.... But not yet had I -seen the famine. - -I came closer to the effects of famine in Petrograd. That city, grim -but magnificent as I saw it under heavy snow, had a sinister and tragic -look. During the war its population had been 3,000,000 and more. When -Spray and I walked along the Nevski Prospekt, where all the shops -but six or seven were barricaded with wooden planks, there were only -750,000 people in the whole of this great city. Palaces, Government -offices, great banks, city offices, huge blocks of buildings, were -uninhabited and unlighted. Many of those who had been government -officials, rich merchants, factory owners, were shoveling snow upon the -streets, or dragging loads of wood on sledges over the slippery roads. -They wore bowler hats, black coats with ragged collars of astrachan, -the clothes of a “genteel” world that had gone down into the great -gulfs of revolution. - -At every street corner were men and women selling cigarettes. Some of -those women, and one I especially remember, were thinly clad, shivering -in the biting wind, and obviously starved. The very look of them made -me shiver in my soul. - -In Petrograd I went to a home for refugees from the famine region. All -round the city were great camps of these people, who had come in a tide -of flight--hundreds of thousands--when the harvest of 1921 was burnt as -black as that of 1920 in the awful drought. Four thousand or so were -in one of the old Imperial barracks, and they had come three thousand -miles to reach this refuge at the end of their journey. Outside, in -Petrograd, there was a hard, grim frost. In these bare whitewashed -rooms there was no heat, for lack of fuel, and men, women and children -lay about in heaps, huddled together in their sheepskins for human -warmth, tormented by vermin, fever-stricken, weak. Too weak to stand, -some of them, even to take their place in line for the daily ration of -potato soup. A doctor there took us round. He pointed to those with -typhus, and said, “There’s no hope for them. They’ll be dead to-morrow -or next day.” - -When we crossed a courtyard, he stopped a moment to thrust back a heavy -door. “Our morgue,” he said. “Three-days’ dead.” Inside was a pile of -dead bodies, men, women and children, flung one on top of the other -like rubbish for the refuse heap. Hands and legs obtruded from the -mass of corruption. It was the end of their journey. - -But the opera was very brilliant in Petrograd, some distance from that -heap of mud-colored corpses. I went to the Marinsky theater and heard -“Carmen.” It was marvelously staged, admirably sung, and there was a -packed audience of “trade unionists,” as I was told, on free tickets, -but as everybody in Russia had to belong to a trade union or die, it -did not specify the character of the people closely. I think most of -them were of the clerical class, with a few mechanics. On the way -back we followed a party of young men and women walking in snow boots -and wrapped to their ears in ragged furs or woollen shawls. They were -laughing gayly. Their voices rang out on the still frosty air under the -steely glint of stars.... So there were still people who could laugh -and make love in Russia! - -How did they live, these people? I never could find out in actual -detail. Russian money meant nothing to me. When I changed ten pounds in -Moscow, I received four big bundles of notes, containing three million -roubles. My first experience with the purchasing power of this money -was when I wanted to buy a pair of boots in the market place. They were -good top boots, splendid looking for snow and mud, but when I was asked -one million roubles, I was abashed. Yet, after all, it was not much in -English money. But what did it mean to those Russians? - -I found out that the average wage for a mechanic, or Soviet official, -or University professor, was 150,000 roubles a month. That sounded -well until I came up against those boots, and later discovered that -in Petrograd a pound of bread cost 80,000 roubles, a pound of tea -120,000 roubles, ten cigarettes 60,000 roubles. How, then, could any -human soul live on 150,000 roubles a month? I asked many of them, and -some said, “We don’t live. We die,” but others said, “We supplement -our wages by speculation.” For some time I was puzzled by that word -speculation, until I found that it meant bartering. Secretly, and -at risk of imprisonment or death, until the “New Economic Laws,” -there was a general system of exchange in goods. A man with a second -pair of boots exchanged them for a sack of potatoes, kept some and -bartered the others for tea, or bread, or meat, kept some of that, and -bartered the rest for a woollen vest, a fur waistcoat, or a tin of -sardines, smuggled in from Riga. And so on, in a highly complicated, -difficult and dangerous system of “underground trade.” But in spite of -“speculation,” life was hard, and almost impossible for elderly folk, -and the sick, and frail women. For years hundreds of thousands of them -had lived on bread and tea and small rations of soused herrings and -millet seed. Now there were no rations, but still bread and tea, for -those who had the money. - -“What do you think of Bolshevism?” asked Spray one night in the Sugar -king’s palace. We lay in bed, with only our mouths and noses out. - -I asked him three questions in return. Was there liberty in Russia? -Was there equality? Was there a higher type of civilization and human -happiness here than in Western Europe, or any chance of it? I asked -the questions without prejudice, and we discussed them between the low -divan and the four-poster bed, in that great gilded salon opposite the -Kremlin, where, in some secret room, Lenin sat that night scheming out -some way of saving Russia from the fate into which he had led it, to -test his theory of the Communistic state. - -We could find no liberty. The two chief papers published--_Pravda_, -and _Izvestia_--were propaganda sheets under Government control. There -was no freedom of speech or opinion. There was no equality, even of -misery--surely the first test of the Communistic state. Between the -Soviet Commissars, even the “trade-union” audience of the Marinsky -theater, and the peasants, the workers, the underfed masses, there was -a gulf as wide as between the profiteers and unemployed of England, -wide though lower down the scale of life on both sides. Civilization, -human happiness? Well, there was the Marinsky theater, and those -laughing boys and girls. Human nature adapted itself marvelously to the -hardest conditions of life. Perhaps there were happy people in Russia, -but for the most part, Spray and I had met only those who told us -tragic tales, of imprisonings, executions, deaths, misery. - -When we left Moscow and traveled across Russia to Kazan, and took a -boat down the Volga, and sledges across the snow fields to the villages -where Famine dwelt, we left human happiness behind us and saw nothing -but suffering and despair, hunger and pestilence. - -It was again due to the American Relief Administration that we were -able to make that journey. Colonel Haskell, chief of the A.R.A., and -a man of indomitable energy, iron will power, and exquisite courtesy, -invited Spray and myself to join his own party which was going to Kazan -on a tour of inspection under his command, and after that he would -provide us with a ship for the Volga voyage. Without that immense help -of the A.R.A., all-powerful in Russia because it was the one source of -hope in the famine region, I should have seen nothing outside Moscow. -It was they who controlled the railways, got the trains to move, and -forced officials to work. - -It was a four-days’ journey to Kazan. The carriages were verminous, -and Spray was tortured again--and we crawled slowly through the -dreary woods and plains. Colonel Haskell and his staff carried good -rations which they shared with us, and at night, when our darkness was -illumined by candlelight, we played poker for Russian roubles, gambling -wildly, as it seemed, in thousands of roubles, but losing or winning -no more than a few shillings. - -One man on board impressed me beyond words. It was Governor Goodrich -of Indiana, who had come to report to Washington on the agricultural -conditions and prospects of Russia, and the truth about the Famine. -He was an elderly man with the fresh complexion of a new-born babe, -and a powerful clear-cut face, wonderfully softened by the look of -benevolence in his eyes and the whimsical smile about his lips. -“Governor Jem” he used to be called in Indiana, and he must have been -a gallant fellow in his youth, before he became lame in one leg. Now -he had come as a knight-errant to Russia, for the rescue of a stricken -people. I think no man of greater quality ever went into Russia, or -ever came out of it, and it was due not a little to his report (which -he allowed me to read) that the Government of the United States, acting -through the American Relief Association, fed ten million Russians every -day in the famine regions, and saved that number from certain death by -hunger or disease. - -Kazan lay under a heavy mantle of snow. It was now the capital of the -“Tartar Republic,” a province of Soviet Russia, on the edge of the -richest grain-growing districts of the Volga valley, where now there -was no grain. It was a garden city, with many great houses where the -nobles of Imperial Russia had taken their pleasure in summer months, -now inhabited by misery, hunger, and disease. - -There were forty homes here for abandoned children--abandoned not by -the cruelty of their parents but by their love, because they could -not bear to see their little ones wailing over empty platters. I went -into a number of them, and they were all alike in general character. -In one of them were fifteen hundred children, naked, or merely clothed -in little ragged shirts. Their clothes had been burnt because of the -lice in them, which spread typhus fever. There were no other clothes -to replace their ragged old sheepskins and woollen garments. There was -no heat in the rooms, for lack of fuel. There was no furniture. On -the bare boards they huddled together, these little wizened things, -with deep, sunken eyes, and tight-drawn skin, like little bald-headed -monkeys. There were many homes like that, and worse than that, because -many of the children were dying, and the rooms reeked with their fever, -and the very doorposts crawled with lice. - -I went into the hospitals, and they were dreadful. Because there was -no fuel for heat, these people, stricken with typhus, dysentery, all -manner of hunger diseases, were huddled together in unventilated wards -for human warmth. Many of the beds had been burnt for fuel and most -of them lay on mattresses or the bare boards. Those who had beds lay -four together, two one way and two the other. There were no medicines, -no anaesthetics, no soap, no dressings. The nurses were starving, and -dying of the diseases they could not cure. They came clamoring round -the doctor of the A.R.A. with whom I went, begging for food in a wild -animal way which made his heart go sick. - -But there was an opera, even in Kazan! It was true that the stench of -it was pretty bad, and that its audience tightened their belts from -time to time in lieu of supper, but Madam Butterfly delighted them, -they thrilled to the “Carmen” of a Persian prima donna. - -One night the ladies and gentlemen of the opera invaded the -headquarters of the A.R.A. after midnight. They were hungry, and made -no secret about it. So the young Americans of the Kazan headquarters -brewed cocoa in a saucepan, with the help of one of the ladies, and -scraped up some bully beef and beans and a loaf or two and some apples, -and odds and ends. Not much for a banquet! Spray and I whispered -together! I fetched out the last hunk of our round red cheese. It was -received with a chorus of approval. It died a sacrificial death in the -cause of art and beauty. The Persian prima donna had an insatiable -appetite.... Out in the streets of Kazan were starving wanderers, and -in the station lay the latest of the abandoned children. - -The last boat to go down the Volga before the ice came was put under -command of the press representative of the A.R.A., my good friend -Murphy, a most kind and generous-hearted soul. Spray and I were the -only passengers. We three explored the ship before she left the -quayside. She had been a rescue ship for the fugitives from famine, and -was in a noisome state. We dared not linger in the sleeping cabins. The -very washbasins were crawling. That night Murphy and I slept on the -table in the dining saloon--the safest place. Spray gave himself up for -lost and curled up on the floor, where he tossed all night. I was cook -on that voyage, and did rather well with boiled beans and a mess of -pottage. We went down to Tetiushi, and found ourselves among the people -of famine.... - -After two droughts in successive years, there was no harvest of any -account. The Red soldiers had requisitioned the peasants’ reserves of -grain for rationing the cities. Without reserves they had no means of -life. The Soviet Government had supplied them with seed grain for the -next harvest, and they had sown it, not expecting to reap it. They had -also sent, lately, some barges of potatoes, but they lay there rotting. -To carry them to the villages, horses were needed for the sledges, -but there was no fodder, and the horses were dying, or dead. So we -discovered the State of Tetiushi. - -By a message from the Prime Minister of the Tartar Republic, four -horses were found for us, and two sledges, after many hours of waiting, -and we set out across the snow to the villages. They were very -silent when we entered. They seemed abandoned. But we saw in one or -two of their timbered houses little wizened faces staring at us from -the windows. They were faces like those I had seen in the homes for -abandoned children, monkeylike. We went into the cottages and found -there peasant families waiting for a visitor who tarried, which was -Death. - -They showed us the last food they had--if they had any left. It was a -brownish powder, made of leaves ground up and mixed with the husks of -grain. Others showed us bits of hard stuff like lead. It was a bluish -clay dug from a hillside called Bitarjisk. It had some nutritive -value, but it swelled when eaten, and was the cause of dreadful agony -to children. Peasant women, weeping very quietly, showed us their -naked children, with distended stomachs, the sign of starvation in its -last stage. From other cottages they came to where we stood, crossing -themselves at the doorways, in the Russian way, and then lamenting. - -Handsome Russian peasants, with blue eyes and straw-colored beards, -struck their breasts with a gesture of absolute despair, and said--we -had a Russian with us who spoke English--that death could not be long -delayed, for all of them. The last cows had been killed for lack of -fodder. There was no milk for the children, as for a long time there -had been no bread. Here and there a woman wailed loudly, or grasped my -wrist with her skinny hand and spoke fiercely, as though I denied her -food. I remember one cottage in which a whole family lay dying, and -nearly dead. It was the Famine.... - -I will not write more about the horrors here. In many articles, and in -my novel “The Middle of the Road” I have given the picture of it, and -the agony of it. - -It is said that two million of these people died. That is Nansen’s -figures. That twenty million did not die is due to the magnificent -work of the A.R.A. and the Save the Children Fund who, against all -political prejudice and for humanity’s sake, achieved a great rescue -of these stricken folk. As I have said, the A.R.A. alone fed ten -million people a day in the famine area, and I pay a tribute here to -the courage and efficiency and devotion of those young Americans whose -work I saw, and of whose friendship I am proud. Our people did less, -having less means, but it was work well and nobly done in the spirit -of Christianity kept alight in a dark and cruel world, which is this -jungle of Europe. - - - - -XXV - - -In the spring of 1919, while the Peace Conference was sitting in Paris, -I made my first visit to the United States, and lectured in many -American cities. I went there again in 1920 and 1921, and on the third -visit traveled from New York to San Francisco. - -I regard these American visits as the greatest experience of my life, -apart from the War, and they added enormously to the knowledge of -world forces and the human problem which I had been studying among -the peoples of Europe. I was, and still remain, convinced that the -United States will shape, for good or ill--and I believe for good--the -future destiny of the world, for these people, in the mass, have a -dynamic energy, a clear-cut quality of character, and a power not only -of material wealth, but of practical idealism, from which an enormous -impetus may be given to human progress, in the direction of the -common well-being, international peace, liberty, decency, and average -prosperity of individual life. - -During those three visits, when I talked with innumerable men and women -of great intelligence and honesty of thought, I was “made wise,” as -they call it, to many of the darker aspects of American life. I was not -unconscious of a strong strain of intolerance; a dangerous gulf between -the very rich and--not the very poor, there are few of those--but -well-paid, speeded-up, ugly-living, dissatisfied labor; something -rather hysterical in mass emotion when worked up by the wire-pullers -and the spellbinders; and the noisy, blatant, loud-mouthed boasting -vulgarity of the mob. I saw the unloveliness of “Main Street,” I met -“Babbitt” in his club, parlor car, and private house. But though I -did not shut my eyes to all that, and much more than that--a good deal -of it belongs to civilization as well as to the United States--I saw -also the qualities that outweigh these defects, and, in my judgment, -contain a great hope for the world. I met, everywhere, numbers of men -and women who have what seems to me a clean, sane, level-headed outlook -on life and its problems. They believe in peace, in a good chance for -the individual, in a decent standard of life for all people, in honesty -and truth. They are impatient of dirt, however picturesque, of ruin, -however romantic, of hampering tradition, however ancient. They are, in -the mass, common-sense, practical, and good-natured folk, who, in the -business of life, cut formalities and get down to the job. - -But behind all that common sense and their practicality, they are -deeply sentimental, simply and sincerely emotional, quick to respond -to any call upon their pity or their charity, and when stirred that -way, enormously generous. I agree with General Swinton, the inventor -of the “Tanks” who, after a tour in the United States, told me, with a -touch of exaggeration, that he thought the Americans, as a nation, were -the only idealists left in the world. Europe is cynical, remembering -too much history, and suffering too much disillusionment. The United -States, looking always to the future, and not much backward to the -past, is hopeful, confident of human progress, and strangely and -wonderfully eager to find a philosopher’s stone of human happiness, for -which we, in Europe, have almost abandoned search. - -I think that, as a people, they are more ready than any other to do -some great work of rescue for humanity (I have told how they fed ten -million people a day in Russia), and to adopt and carry out an ideal -on behalf of humanity in the way of peace and reconstruction, at some -personal sacrifice to themselves. That is possible at least in the -United States, and it may almost be said that it is impossible in any -other nation. - -As a personal experience, my first visit to the United States was -exciting and rather overwhelming, in an extremely pleasant way, except -for my extreme nervousness. For the first time in my life I was made -to believe (except for secret doubts and a sense of humor) that I was -a person of some importance. By good fortune, of which I was not aware -until my arrival in New York, I had gained the good opinion, and almost -personal popularity, of an immense American public from coast to coast. -I do not minimize the pleasure of that, the real joy of it, for there -is no reward in the world so good to a man who for years has been an -obscure writer, as to realize at last that his words have been read -and remembered, with emotion, by millions of fellow mortals, almost by -a whole nation--and this had happened to me. It happened by the great -luck that since the entry of the United States into the War my daily -dispatches from the Western front had been published in _The New York -Times_, and a syndicate of newspapers covering the whole country. Day -after day during those years of enormous history, I appeared with the -grape fruit and the cereal at millions of American breakfast tables, -and because of the things I had to tell, and perhaps, a little, the way -in which I told them (I tried to give the picture and the pity of the -things I saw), I got home to the bosom and business (to use Francis -Bacon’s words) of the American merchant, lawyer, and city man, to the -lady whom he provides with a Packard or a Ford (according to his rung -on the social ladder) and to the bright young thing who is beginning -to take an interest in the drama of life outside her dancing school or -her college rooms. My articles were read on lonely farms, in tenement -houses, by Irish servant girls, Slav foundry workers, German metal -workers, clerks and telephone girls, as well as by all manner of folk -in Fifth Avenue, Riverside Drive, and the Main Street of many towns. I -am not making a boast of that, for if I had written like an archangel -instead of like a war correspondent (there’s a difference), I should -not have secured those readers unless _The New York Times_ and its -syndicate had stepped in where angels fear to tread--in Chicago, and -other American cities. But it was my luck, and, as I say, pleasant and -encouraging. - -People wanted to see the fellow whose name had become familiar to them -over the breakfast table. They wanted to see what manner of man he was -(and some were disappointed); they wanted to know if he could speak as -he wrote (and presently they knew he didn’t); they wanted to pay back -by hospitality, by booking seats for the theaters, by friendly words -afterward, for some of the things he had written at a time when they -had wanted to know. - -One of the first little thrills I had was when I stood at the desk of -the Vanderbilt hotel, ten minutes after getting away from the dockside, -where scores of telegrams were waiting for me, inviting me to speak -at all sorts of places with strange and alarming names, and having -picked up the receiver in answer to the urgent calls, heard the voice -of a telephone girl saying, “Welcome to our city, Philip Gibbs!... and -here’s another call for you.” I have always remembered that little -human message from the girl at the switchboard. - -I was still a journalist, though about to become a lecturer, and -_The New York Times_ desired me to write a series of articles -recording--rapidly!--my first impressions of New York. It still seems -to me a miracle that I was able to do so, for I was caught up by the -social life of New York like a straw in a whirlpool, and my head was -dazed by the immensity of the city, by its noise, its light, its rush -of traffic, its overheated rooms, its newspaper reporters, its camera -men, and, when I staggered to my bedroom for a moment’s respite, by -the incessant tinkle of the telephone which rang me up from scores of -addresses in New York city, from Boston, Philadelphia, Chicago, the -Lord knows where. - -I wrote those articles, blindly, subconsciously, like a man in a -nightmare, and they came out rather like that, with a sort of wild -impressionism of confused scenes, which seemed to please the American -people. - -They were vastly amused, I was told, by one phrase which came from my -nerve ganglia all quivering with the first walk through Broadway at -night. I confessed that I felt “like a trench cootie under the fire of -ten thousand guns.” Now a cootie is a louse, as I had lately learnt, -and that simile tickled my readers to death, as some of them said, -though it expressed in utter truthfulness the terror of my sensation as -a traffic dodger down the Great White Way. - -But that terror was easily surpassed when I faced for the first time -an audience in the Carnegie Hall. As I drove up with my brother, and -saw hundreds of motor cars setting down people in evening dress who had -come to have a look at me (and paid good money for it), with the odd -chance of hearing something worth while--poor dears!--I was cold with -fright. My fear increased until I was stiff with it when, having shaken -hands with my brother and received his hearty pat on the shoulder, -like a man about to go over the top with the odds against him, I went -through a little door and found myself on a large stage, facing a great -audience. I was conscious of innumerable faces, white shirt fronts, -and eyes--eyes--eyes, staring at me from the great arena of stalls, -and from all the galleries up to the roof. As I made my bow, my tongue -clave, literally, to the roof of my mouth, my knees weakened, and I -felt (as some one afterward told me I looked) as cheap as two cents. - -What frightened me excessively was a sudden movement like a tidal wave -among all those people. They stood up, and I became aware that they -were paying me a very great honor, but the physical effect of that -movement was, for a moment, as though they were all advancing on me, -possibly with intent to kill! - -My chairman was my good and great comrade, Frederick Palmer, the -American war correspondent. I am told he made a fine introductory -speech, but I did not hear a word of it, and was only wondering with -a sinking heart whether I should get through my first few sentences -before I broke down utterly. It was a fearful thought, to make a public -fool of myself like that!... - -I had one thing in my favor--a strong, far-reaching voice, and I had -been told to pitch it to the center of the top gallery. I know they -heard. A young foreigner I know--not an American--a most friendly -and candid soul, told me that he had heard every word, and wished he -hadn’t. Attracted by the title of a book of mine, “The Soul of the -War,” he had bought four tickets for himself and friends, believing -that at last he would hear the inner meaning of the war and its -madness, in which he had found no kind of sense. But when he heard -my straightforward narrative of what the British Armies had done, he -sighed deeply, and said, “Sold again!” and tried to sleep. My loud, -clear-cut sentences hammered into his brain, and would not allow him -even that consolation. - -That first audience in the Carnegie Hall was immensely kind, -extraordinarily generous and long-suffering. They applauded my stories -of British heroism as though it had been their own heroes, laughed at -my attempts to tell Cockney anecdotes, and did not let me know once -that I was boring them excessively. Some spirit of friendship and good -will reached up to me and gave me courage. Only once did they laugh in -the wrong place, and then they couldn’t help themselves. It was when -for the sixth time or more I glanced at my wrist watch and then in a -sudden panic that it had stopped and that I had spoken an hour too -long, put it to my ear! - -The way off the platform was more difficult than the way on. I had come -through one little door, but there were six of them exactly the same. -At the conclusion of my speech, I bowed, walked rapidly to one of the -doors, and found it would not budge! I returned again and bowed to the -audience before trying another door. No, by heaven it wouldn’t open! -Again I returned and bowed, and made another shot for a swing door. -At the fourth try I went through.... That experience of doors that -wouldn’t open became a nightmare of mine in American sleeping cars when -I suffocated from overheated pipes. - -I have lectured a hundred times since then, made large numbers of -speeches (sometimes as many as five a day) in American cities, faced -every kind of audience from New York to San Francisco and across the -Canadian border, in Montreal, Toronto, Winnipeg, Vancouver, and never -conquered my nervousness, so that, if I am called upon for a speech at -a public dinner in England, now, I suffer all the pangs of stage fright -until I am well under way. But at least my experiences in the United -States helped me to hide behind a calm and tranquil mask, and not to -give myself away so utterly as that first time in Carnegie Hall. - -It was on my second visit, and at my opening lecture in the same great -hall, that I obtained--by accident--the most wonderful ovation which -will ever come to me in this life. It was my night out, as it were, -most memorable, most astonishing, most glorious. For it _is_ a glorious -sensation, whatever the cynic may say, to be lifted up on waves of -enthusiasm, to have a great audience of intelligent people cheering one -wildly, as though one’s words were magic. - -It was none of my doing. My words were poor commonplace stuff, but I -stood for something which the finest audience in New York liked with -all their hearts that night--England, liberty, fair play--and against -something which that audience hated, disloyalty to the United States, -discourtesy to England, foul play. - -It was the Sinn Feiners who did it. A friend of Ireland, and advocate -of Dominion Home Rule, I was one of the last men they should have -attacked. But because I was an Englishman who dared to lecture before -an American audience, they were determined to wreck my meeting, and -make a savage demonstration. I was utterly unaware of this plot. I was -not speaking on the subject of Ireland. I was talking about Austria, -and was trying to tell an anecdote about an Austrian doctor--I never -told it!--when from the middle gallery of the Carnegie Hall which was -densely packed from floor to ceiling, there came a hoarse question in a -stentorian voice with an Irish accent: “_Why don’t you take the marbles -out of your mouth?_” Rather staggered, and believing this to be a -criticism of my vocal delivery and “English accent,” I raised my voice, -but it was instantly overwhelmed by an uproar of shouts, catcalls, -whistlings, derisive laughter, abuse, and a wild wailing of women’s -voices rising to a shriek. - -For a few moments I could not guess what all the trouble was about. I -stood there, alone and motionless, on the platform, suddenly divorced -from the audience, which I watched with a sense of profound curiosity. -All sorts of strange things were happening. Men were going at each -other with fists in the gallery, where there was a seething tumult. -In the stalls I was aware of a very fat man in evening dress wedged -tightly in his seat and bawling out something from an apoplectic face. -Two other men tried to pull him out of his chair. In scattered groups -in the stalls were ladies who seemed to be screaming at me. Other -ladies seemed to be arguing with them, hushing them down. One lady -struck another over the head with a fan. People were darting about the -floor or watching the scrimmage up above. From the front row of the -stalls friendly faces were staring up at me and giving me good counsel -which I could not hear. - -Over and over again I tried to speak above the tumult. I carried on -about that Austrian doctor, and then abandoned him for another line -of thought. I stuck it out for something like half an hour before -there was comparative silence--the police had come in and dragged out -the most turbulent demonstrators--and then I continued my speech, -interrupted frequently, but not overwhelmed. Everything I said was -applauded tremendously. Some reference I made to England’s place in -the world brought the audience to its feet, cheering and cheering, -waving handkerchiefs and fans, and when I finished, there was a surge -up to the platform, and thousands of hands grasped mine, and generous, -excited, splendid things were said which set my heart on fire. - -As I have said, it was not my doing, and it was not any eloquence of -mine which stirred this enthusiasm. But that audience rose up to me -because they were passionate to show how utterly they repudiated the -things that had been said against England, how fiercely angry they were -that a friendly visitor to the United States should be howled down like -this in the heart of New York. Again it was my luck, and I was glad of -it. - -It was not the last time I had to face hostile groups. I decided -to give a lecture on the Irish situation in which I would tell the -straight truth, fair to Ireland, fair to England. The Sinn Feiners -rallied up again. The fairer I was to Ireland, the madder they became, -while the other part of the audience cheered and cheered. In the midst -of the commotion, a tall black figure jumped on to the platform. -“Hullo!” I thought. “Here I die!” But it was a Catholic priest, Father -Duffy, a famous chaplain of the American Army, who announced himself as -an Irish Republican, but pleaded that I should have a fair hearing. -They just howled at him. However, by patience and endurance I broke -through the storm and said most of what I wanted to say. - -The next morning I was rung up on the telephone by an emotional -lady. She had a great scheme, for which she desired my approval and -collaboration. She had arranged to raise a bodyguard of stalwart -society girls who would march to the hall with me, on the evening of -my next lecture, and in heroic combat put to flight the Irish girls -who were to parade with banners and insulting placards.... I utterly -refused to approve of the suggestion. - -My lecture agent, Mr. Lee Keedick, enjoyed those “Sinn Fein tea -parties,” as they were called, with such enormous gusto, that there -were some friendly souls who suggested that he had incited them for -publicity purposes! But he missed the best, or the worst. In Chicago, -on St. Patrick’s Eve, I was three-quarters of an hour before I could -utter a single sentence. It was what the press called next morning -a “near riot” and there were some Irish-American soldiers there, in -uniform, who fought like tigers before they were ejected by the police. - -For the first time in my life I had a police bodyguard wherever I went -in Chicago. Two detectives insisted on driving in my taxicab, and they -were both Irishmen, but, as one explained in a friendly manner, “It’s -not your life we’re troubling about, Boss. It’s our reputation!” - -Boston, from Mr. Keedick’s point of view, was a disappointment. A great -row was expected there, being the stronghold of the Sinn Fein cause, -and when I appeared, behind the stage, there was a large force of -police stripped for action. The police inspector came to my dressing -room, and demanded permission to precede me on the stage and announce -to the audience that if there was any demonstration he would put his -men on to them. I refused to give that permission. It seemed to me the -wrong kind of introduction for an Englishman to an American audience. -As a matter of fact, they behaved like lambs, in the best tradition of -Boston, and I was quite disconcerted by their silence, having become -used to the other kind of thing which I found exhilarating. - -Stranger things happen to an English lecturer in the United States -than in any other country. At least they happened to me. I shall never -forget, for instance, how in the middle of a speech to the City Club of -New York, I was thrust into a taxicab, hurried off to the 44th Street -theater, received with a tremendous explosion (a flashlight photo!) in -the dressing room of Al Jolson, the funny man, thrust into the middle -of a harem scene (scores of beautiful maidens) and told to make a -speech on behalf of wounded soldiers while the audience raffled for an -original letter from Lloyd George to the American nation. - -Surprised by my rapid transmigration from the City Club, and by my -presence in an Oriental harem, very hot, rather flustered, and not -knowing what to do with my hands, I kept screwing up a bit of paper -which had been given to me at the wings, and by the time I had finished -my three-minutes’ speech it was a bit of wet, mushy pulp. When I left -the stage, a white-faced man in the wings who had been making frantic -signs to me, informed me coldly that I had utterly destroyed Lloyd -George’s letter to the American nation which had just been raffled for -many hundreds of dollars.... After that I went back to finish my speech -at the City Club. - - - - -XXVI - - -When I first visited the United States in 1919, the whole nation -was seething with a conflict of opinion between pro-Wilsonites and -anti-Wilsonites. - -It was not a mere academic controversy which people could discuss -hotly but without passion. It divided families. It caused quarrels -among lifelong friends. The mere mention of the name of Wilson spoilt -the amenities of any dinner party and transformed it into a political -meeting. - -In my first article for _The New York Times_, recording my impressions -of America, I slipped out the phrase that “I was all for Wilson.” I -received, without exaggeration, hundreds of letters from all parts of -the United States, “putting me wise” to the thousand and one reasons -why Wilson’s doings in Paris would be utterly repudiated by the Senate -and people. He had violated the Constitution. He had acted without -authority. He had tried to commit the United States to his scheme -of the League of Nations against their convictions and consent. On -the other hand, there were many people who still regarded him as the -greatest leader in the world and the noblest idealist. - -Ignorant, like most Englishmen, of the parties and personalities of -American politics, at that time, I kept my ears open to all this, but -couldn’t avoid falling into pitfalls. I made a delightful “gaffe,” as -the French would say, by turning to one gentleman in the Union Club -before he acted as my chairman to the lecture I was giving there, and -asked him to tell me something of Wilson’s character and history. -It was Mr. Charles Hughes, ex-governor of New York, and defeated -candidate for the Presidency against Wilson himself. - -It was the last question which I ought to have asked, as people -explained to me later. But I shall never forget the fine and thoughtful -way in which Mr. Hughes answered my question and the subtlety with -which he analyzed Wilson’s character, without a touch of personal -animosity or a trace of meanness. I was aware that I was in the -presence of a great intellect, and a great gentleman. - -I had the opportunity of talking to Mr. Hughes in each of my three -visits, and when he was Secretary of Foreign Affairs in Washington, and -each time I was more impressed with the conviction that he was likely -to become one of the greatest statesmen of the world, and, unlike many -great statesmen, had a fine and delicate sense of honor, and a desire -for the well-being, not only of the United States but of the human race. - -Between my first and second visits Wilson’s tragedy had happened, and -the United States had refused to enter the League of Nations. The -Republican party had swept the country, inspired by general disgust and -disillusionment with the Peace of Versailles, by a tidal wave of public -opinion against any administration which would involve the United -States in the jungle of Europe’s racial passions, and by a general -desire to be rid of a government associated with all the restrictions, -orders, annoyances, petty injustice, extravagance, and fever of the War -régime. As a friend of mine said, the question put to the electors was -not “Are you in favor of the League of Nations?” but “Are you sick and -tired of the present administration?” And the answer was, “By God, we -are!” - -President Harding reigned in place of President Wilson. Owing to the -kindness of a brilliant American journalist named Lowell Mellett -who had acted for a time as war correspondent on the Western front, -and who seemed to have the liberty of the White House, the Senate, -Congress, and every office, drawing-room, and assembly at Washington, I -was received by the President, and had a little conversation with him -which ended in a message to the British people through _The Review of -Reviews_, of which I had become editor. It was a message of affection -and esteem for the nation which, he said, all Americans of the old -stock regarded still as the Mother Country--a generous and almost -dangerous thing to be said by a President of the United States. - -A tall, heavy, handsome man, with white hair and ruddy face, the new -President seemed to me kind-hearted, honest and well-meaning, without -any great gifts of genius or leadership, and a little timid of the -enormous responsibility that had come to him. A year later I saw him -again, and had the honor of introducing my son Tony. He was surprised -that I had a son of that height and age, and it reminded him instantly -of an anecdote referring to Chief Justice White and a little lawyer who -introduced a tall, husky son to him. “Ah,” said the Chief Justice, “a -block of the old chip, I see!” - -It was due to my friend Mellett again that I had the opportunity, and -very extraordinary honor, for a foreign journalist, of giving evidence -before the House Committee on Naval Disarmament. It was a Committee -appointed to report on the possibility of calling the Washington -Conference. I was summoned to give evidence in the House of Congress -without any time to prepare notes or a speech, and when I took my -place like a mouse in a hole in the center of a horseshoe of raised -seats occupied by about twenty-five members of the Committee, I was in -a state of high tension which I masked by a supreme effort of nerve -control. For I was, to some extent, speaking not only on behalf of -Great Britain, and taking upon myself the responsibility of expressing -the views of my own people, but on behalf of all idealists in all -nations who looked to the United States for leadership in the way -of international peace. I knew that I must be right in my facts and -figures, that I must say nothing that could give offense to the United -States, and nothing that would seem like disloyalty to England, while -telling the truth, as far as I knew it, without reserve, regarding -England’s naval and military burdens, the dangers existing in Europe, -and the sentiment of the British people. - -After a preliminary statement lasting ten minutes or so, to which the -Committee listened in absolute silence, I was closely and shrewdly -cross-examined by various members, and had to answer very difficult and -searching questions. It was one of my lucky mornings. I came through -the ordeal better than I could have hoped. I was warmly congratulated -afterward by members of the British Embassy who told me I had said -the right things, and I honestly believe I did a tiny bit of good -to England and the world that day. _The New York Times_ and other -papers published my address verbatim and it went on to the records of -Congress. Anyhow, it did no harm, and I was thankful enough for that. - -My lectures on the second visit had nothing to do with the War, except -in its effects, and I spoke entirely on the subject of European -conditions, always with a strong plea to the United States to come -in boldly and throw her moral and economic influence on the side of -international peace and reconstruction. From the very first I took the -line, which I held with absolute conviction, that Germany would be -unable, after the exhaustion of war, to pay the enormous indemnities -demanded by the Peace of Versailles, and that if Germany were thrust -into the mire and went the way of Austria, Europe would not recover -from financial ruin. At the same time I pointed out the rights and -justice of France, and gave her view fairly and generously, as I was -bound to do, because of my illimitable admiration of French heroism, -my enormous pity for French sacrifice, my certain knowledge of -French danger. My argument was for economic co-operation between the -peoples of Europe, as the only means of saving that civilization, with -demobilization of hatreds as well as armies, and a new brotherhood of -peoples after the agony and folly of the war. - -I risked my popularity with the American people in making speeches -like that. I could have got easy applause by calling upon the old -god of vengeance against the Germans for at that time in the United -States there was less forgiveness than in England for all the evil and -suffering caused by Germany, less tolerance of “pacifists,” as much -brutality in the average mob. But though I aroused some suspicion, some -hostility, on the whole American audiences listened to my argument with -wonderful enthusiasm and generosity. - -I saw a distinct change of opinion after my first visit (I am not -pretending that I had anything to do with it), in favor of closer -friendship with Great Britain, and economic co-operation with Europe. -In every city to which I went I found at least two or three thousand -people according to the size of my place of lecture, quickly and -ardently responsive to the idea that America and Great Britain, -acting together, might lift the world out of its ruined state and -lead civilization to a higher plane. In city clubs, women’s clubs, -private dinner parties, drawing-room meetings, I found great numbers -of people desperately anxious about the responsibility of the United -States toward European nations, eager to do the right thing though -doubtful what to do, poignantly desirous of getting some lead higher -than that of self-interest (though not conflicting with it), and with -a generous warm-hearted sympathy for the British folk. Doubtless these -groups were insignificant in numbers to the mass of citizens with whom -I never came in touch, among whom there was an old strain of suspicion -and hostility to England, and all sorts of currents of prejudice, -ill will, hatred, even, among Irish, German, and foreign stocks, in -addition to the narrow nationalism, the vulgar selfishness of many -others. That is true, but the people I met, and to whom I lectured, -were the _intelligentsia_, the leaders of social life, and business -life, the wives, mothers, and daughters of the “leading citizens,” the -arbiters and, to some extent, the creators of public opinion. Their -hopes, ideals, visions, must, sooner or later, be reflected in national -tendencies and acts. Only blind observers would now say that the United -States has not revealed in recent acts and influence that broadening of -outlook which I perceived at work below the surface in 1921, and did -something, perhaps--not much--to help, by a simple and truthful report -of facts from this side of the world. - -In the United States I had, strange as it may seem, a certain authority -as an economic expert! This may surprise my intimate friends, and most -of all my wife, who knows that I have never been able to count my -change, that I have not as much head for figures as a new-born lamb, -and that I have never succeeded in making out a list of expenses for -journalistic work without gross errors which have put me abominably -out of pocket. Yet many of the greatest financiers in the United -States--men like the brothers Warburg, and Mr. Mitchell of the National -City Bank--invited me to address them on the economic situation in -Europe, and agreed with my arguments and conclusions. I remember one -dinner at which I expounded my views on that subject to no less than -sixty of the leading financial experts in New York, afterward being -subjected to a fire of questions which, to my own amazement, I was able -to answer. The truth is, as I quickly perceived, that a few very simple -laws underlie the whole complicated system of international trade -and finance. As long as one held on to those laws, which I did, like -grim death, one could not go wrong in one’s analysis of the European -situation, and all facts and figures adjusted themselves to these -elementary principles. - -Money, for example, is only a symbol for the reality of values behind -it--in grain, cattle, mineral wealth, labor and credit. - -When paper money is issued in advance of a nation’s real values, it is -merely a promissory note on future industry and production. - -France, Germany, and most European nations were issuing vast quantities -of these promissory notes which were not supported, for the most part, -by actual wealth. - -The prosperity of a country like Germany increased the prosperity of -all other countries. Its poverty would lead to less prosperity in all -other countries. - -Commercial prosperity depends upon the interchange of goods between one -country and another, and not upon the possession of money tokens. And -so on. - -By keeping these facts firmly in my mind, I was able to keep a straight -line of common sense in the wild labyrinth of our European problems. -But I had also seen the actual life and conditions of many countries -of Europe, and could tell what I had seen in a simple, straight way -to the business men of the United States. It was what they wanted to -know, beyond all other things, and I think they believed my accounts -more than those of more important men, because I was not a Government -official, or propagandist, but a simple reporter, without an ax to -grind, and an eyewitness of the conditions I described. - -Among the men who asked me to tell them a few things they wanted -to know, or the things they knew (better than I did) but wanted to -discuss, was Mr. Herbert Hoover, for whom I have the deepest admiration -and respect, like all who have met him. He came into my room at the -Lotus Club one day, unannounced except for a tap at the door by his -friend and assistant, Barr Baker. I had just returned from a journey, -and my room was littered with shirts, socks, collars, and the contents -of my bags. He paid no heed to all that but sat back in an arm chair -and after some questions, talked gravely of world affairs. I need not -record here that conversation I had with him--the gist of it is in my -book of American impressions, “People of Destiny,” but I was glad and -proud to sit in the presence of a man--so simple, so frank, so utterly -truthful--who organized the greatest work of rescue for suffering -humanity ever achieved in the history of the world--the American -Relief Administration. But for that work, many millions of men, women, -and children in the nations most stricken by war would have died of -starvation, and Europe would have been swept from end to end by the -scourge of pestilence which follows famine. - -I seem to have been bragging a little in what I have lately written, -making myself out to be an important person, with unusual gifts. That -is not my intention, or my idea. The fact is that the people of the -United States give any visitor who arrives with decent credentials a -sense of importance, and elevate him for a while above his usual state -of insignificance. They herald him with an exaggeration of his virtues, -his achievements, his reputation. Any goose is made to believe himself -a stately swan, by the warmth of courtesy shown toward him, by the -boosting of his publicity agent, and by the genuine desire of American -citizens to make a guest “feel good” with himself. - -This has a strange and exhilarating effect upon the visitor. It gives -him self-confidence. It actually does develop virtues in him. His -goose quills actually change into something like swansdown, and his -neck distinctly elongates. There is something in the very atmosphere -of New York--electric, sparkling, a little intoxicating--which gives -a man courage, makes him feel bigger, and not only feel bigger, but -_be_ bigger! This is no fantasy, but actual fact. In the United States -I was a more distinguished person than ever I could be in England. I -spoke more boldly than ever I could in England. I was rather a brave -fellow for those few weeks each year, because so many people believed -in my quality of character, in my intelligence, in my powers of -truth-telling, whereas in England no one believes in anybody. - -So I do not boast or preen myself at all when I write about the -wonderful times I have had in the United States. It happens to -everybody who does not go out of his way (or hers) as some do, -to insult a great-hearted people, to put on “side” in American -drawing-rooms, to say with an air of superiority “We don’t do that in -England, you know!” - -I visited many American colleges, and with solemn ceremony was -initiated into the sacred brotherhood of a Greek letter society which -is the highest honor that can be given to a foreign visitor by the -youth of America. - -In Canada--at Winnipeg--I was made a Veteran of the Great War by a -gathering of old soldiers. - -At Salt Lake City I lectured to 6,000 Mormons--most moral and admirable -people--in their Tabernacle, and was received on the platform by a -Hallelujah Chorus from sixty Mormon maidens. - -In Detroit, where I began my first speech of the day at 9.30 in the -morning, I spoke down a funnel on the subject of the Russian Famine, -which was “broadcast” to millions of people late that night. - -I traveled thousands of miles, and in every smoking carriage talked -with groups of men who told me thousands of anecdotes and put me wise -to every aspect of American life from the inside. - -I was entertained at luncheon, dinner, and supper by the “leading -citizens” of scores of cities, and made friends with numbers of -charming, courteous, cultured people. - -I was interviewed by battalions of reporters who received me as a -brother of their craft, and never once let me down by putting into my -mouth words I did not wish to say. They were mostly young college men -and, though I hate to say it, a keener, better-educated crowd, on the -whole, than the average of their kind in English journalism. - -I will record only one more of the wonderful things that happened to me -as a representative of English journalism in New York. - -On the eve of my departure, after my second visit, a dinner was given -in my honor at the Biltmore. It was organized by Mrs. MacVickar, who -has the organizing genius of a lady Napoleon, and a committee of -ladies, and a thousand people were there. They included all the most -distinguished people in New York, many of the most distinguished in -America, and they were there to testify their friendship to England. -They were there also to express their friendship, if I may dare say so, -to me, as a man who had tried to serve England, and America, too, in -speaking, and in writing, the simple truth. They wrote all their names -in a book that was given to me at the dinner, and I keep it as a great -treasure, holding the token of a nation’s kindness. - -What added a little sauce piquante to the proceedings was the delivery -from time to time during the dinner of notes from Sinn Feins parading -outside the hotel. The first message I read was not flattering. “You -are a dirty English rat. You ought to be deported.” Another informed -me that I was a paid agent of the British Government. Another was -a general indictment informing all American citizens that it was a -disgrace to dine with me, and an act of treachery to their own nation. -Another little missive described me as a typical blackguard in a nation -of cutthroats. So they followed each other to the high table, where I -was the guest of honor.... - -I had a great time in the United States on each of my three visits, but -notwithstanding all I have said, I shall never make another lecture -tour in that country. The fatigue of it demands the physique of an -Arctic explorer combined with that of an African lion tamer. Several -times I nearly succumbed to tinned tomato soup. Twice did I lose my -voice in a wind forty below zero, and regain it by doses of medicine -which destroyed my digestive organs. Nightly was I roasted alive in -sleeping berths. Daily did my head swell to unusual proportions, -not in conceit, but in a central heating system which is a terror -to Englishmen. Visibly did I wither away as I traveled from city to -city, received by deputations of leading citizens on arrival, after -a sleep-disturbed night, with the duty ahead of keeping bright and -intelligent through a long day’s programme, saying the right thing to -the gracious ladies who entertained me at lunch, the bright thing to -the City Club which entertained me to dinner, the true thing to all -the questions asked about Europe, England, Lloyd George, Prohibition, -Mrs. Asquith, the American flapper, Bolshevism, France, and the -biological necessity of war, to business men, professors, journalists, -poets, financiers, bishops, society leaders in Kansas City, or Grand -Rapids, the President of the Mormon church, the editors of the local -newspapers, the organizers of my lecture that evening, and the unknown -visitors who called on me at the hotel all through the day, and every -day. - -One can’t keep that sort of thing up. It’s wearing.... - -I remember that in the Copley Plaza Hotel at Boston, a little old -gentleman carrying a black bag tapped at my door and introduced himself -by the name of Doctor Gibbs. He said that his hobby in life was to -search out Gibbs in the United States, and he found thousands! He -presented me with a copy of the Gibbs Family Bulletin, and opening his -black bag produced a photograph of his great-grandfather. - -It was my son Tony who called my attention to the fact that I was -amazingly like that venerable man, who was toothless (he lived before -the era of American dentistry) and with hair that had worn thin as -the sere and yellow leaf. I decided that I should become exactly like -him, “sans hair, sans teeth,” if I continued this career as an English -lecturer in America. In order to avoid premature old age, I made a -resolve (which I shall probably break) not to make another lecture tour -in the United States. - -But of all my journalistic adventures, I count these American -experiences as my most splendid time, and for the American people I -have a deep gratitude and affection. I can only try to repay their -kindness by using my pen whenever possible to increase the friendship -between our countries, to kill prejudice and slander, and to advocate -that unwritten alliance between our two peoples which I believe will -one day secure the peace of the world. - - -THE END - - - - -_New Books for Boys_ - - -JIM SPURLING MILLMAN By Albert W. Tolman - -The second in Mr. Tolman’s splendid series which began with _Jim -Spurling, Fisherman_. Jim is now a college freshman; with a group -of college cronies he undertakes to make a little money during the -summer, running a small sawmill in the Maine woods. How these fellows -meet the unscrupulous scheming of their competitors with ingenuity and -rough-and-tumble when necessary, makes a story with thrills and a lot -of fascinating information about the romantic and technical side of -sawmill life. - - -BOLIVAR BROWN By Bide Dudley - -The story is laid in Missouri, the land of Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn, -and contains every element guaranteed to please American boys and -girls--from the secret cave and mysterious stranger to the treasure. -Bolivar and Skeets go through the same vicissitudes lovingly inflicted -by fond parents, on boys everywhere--suffered by Bide Dudley, himself. -In fact, speaking of Bolivar, Mr. Dudley says, “I was that boy.” - - -CATTY ATKINS, SAILORMAN By Clarence Budington Kelland - -Catty and his boon companion, Wee-wee Moore, go adventuring on the -sea. Mr. Topper invites them to go with him on a yachting trip. Catty -notices that they are followed by a mysterious black yacht. A search -for buried treasure and a fake map made by Catty figure importantly in -this exciting story of the boys’ sea trip. - - -THE BOY EXPLORERS IN DARKEST NEW GUINEA By Warren H. Miller - -Amazing true experiences of the boy explorers, Nicky and Dwight. This -story of their adventures with hostile natives while diving, hunting, -shooting, and digging for what are some of the most valuable specimens -that have ever come out of that wild country, is full of fight and -daring and gives a vivid account of the native life and picturesque -country. - - -THE KIDNAPPED CAMPERS ON THE ROAD By Flavia A. C. Canfield - -Here again are Archie and Edward, whose adventures you enjoyed in -_The Kidnapped Campers_. This is the story of their work and play and -thrilling experience as they travel west in Uncle Weary’s big camping -van. - - -HARPER & BROTHERS Established 1817 NEW YORK - - - - -_New Books for Girls_ - - -PHILIPPA’S FORTUNE By Margarita Spalding Gerry - -Not since Jean Webster’s _Patty_ has there been so charming a heroine -as Philippa. She is the gift of the loved novelist, Margarita Spalding -Gerry, to growing girls and boys of to-day. _Philippa’s Fortune_ is the -first of a new series. You’ll remember Philippa and look forward to -meeting her again, in the many stories to follow about this very modern -girl, and her experiences and adventures at home and at school. - - -ALICE’S ADVENTURES IN WONDERLAND Peter Newell Edition - -Of course, you want this universally loved story for your children, and -you want it in the best and most sympathetic edition. This new edition -contains forty illustrations in black-and-white and a full-color cover -insert, wrapper, and frontispiece by Peter Newell. A critic of this -edition writes: “It must have been destined from the beginning that Mr. -Newell should illustrate Alice. It is matter for general felicitation -that so suitable a union has been accomplished at last.” - - -THE KIDNAPPED CAMPERS ON THE ROAD By Flavia A. C. Canfield - -Here again are Archie and Edward, whose adventures so many children -have enjoyed in _The Kidnapped Campers_. Once more the two boys spend -their vacation with Uncle Weary. In this story of their work and play -and thrilling experience as they travel West in Uncle Weary’s big -camping van, the author has successfully portrayed two normal, happy -boys, whose outdoor training is the best preparation for a useful -manhood. - - -DEEDS OF HEROISM AND BRAVERY Edited by Elwyn A. Barron - -Amazing, true tales of the Great War, tales of men like Lufbery, -Guynemer, Rickenbacker, Luke, and Richthofen; of women like Edith -Cavell; tales of others whose fine deeds are recorded only in this -volume and who have passed the test of bravery. Eight full-color -and over one hundred and fifty black-and-white illustrations. With -full-color wrapper, cover insert, and frontispiece. - - -HARPER & BROTHERS Established 1817 NEW YORK - - - - -+-------------------------------------------------+ -|Transcriber’s note: | -| | -|Obvious typographic errors have been corrected. | -| | -+-------------------------------------------------+ - - - -***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ADVENTURES IN JOURNALISM*** - - -******* This file should be named 65577-0.txt or 65577-0.zip ******* - - -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: -http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/6/5/5/7/65577 - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it -under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this -eBook or online at <a -href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you are not -located in the United States, you'll have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this ebook.</p> -<p>Title: Adventures in Journalism</p> -<p>Author: Philip Gibbs</p> -<p>Release Date: June 9, 2021 [eBook #65577]</p> -<p>Language: English</p> -<p>Character set encoding: UTF-8</p> -<p>***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ADVENTURES IN JOURNALISM***</p> -<p> </p> -<h4 class="pgx" title="">E-text prepared by Tim Lindell, Martin Pettit,<br /> - and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team<br /> - (https://www.pgdp.net)<br /> - from page images generously made available by<br /> - Internet Archive<br /> - (https://archive.org)</h4> -<p> </p> -<table border="0" style="background-color: #ccccff;margin: 0 auto;" cellpadding="10"> - <tr> - <td valign="top"> - Note: - </td> - <td> - Images of the original pages are available through - Internet Archive. See - https://archive.org/details/adventuresinjour00gibb - </td> - </tr> -</table> -<p> </p> -<hr class="pgx" /> -<p> </p> -<p> </p> -<p> </p> - -<div class="center"><img src="images/front.jpg" alt="front cover" /></div> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[Pg 1]</a></span></p> - -<h1>ADVENTURES <br />IN JOURNALISM</h1> - -<div class="center"><img src="images/dec.jpg" alt="decoration" /></div> - -<hr /> - -<div class="center"><img src="images/title.jpg" alt="title page" /></div> - -<hr /> - -<p class="bold2">ADVENTURES<br />IN JOURNALISM</p> - -<p class="bold space-above"><i>By</i></p> - -<p class="bold2">Philip Gibbs</p> - -<p class="bold"><i>Author of</i><br /> -“NOW IT CAN BE TOLD,” “MORE THAT<br />MUST BE TOLD,” Etc.</p> - -<div class="center space-above"><img src="images/logo.jpg" alt="Logo" /></div> - -<p class="bold space-above">HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS<br />NEW YORK AND LONDON</p> - -<hr /> - -<p class="center">ADVENTURES IN JOURNALISM</p> - -<hr class="smler" /> - -<p class="center">Copyright, 1923<br />By Harper & Brothers<br />Printed in the U.S.A.</p> - -<hr class="smler" /> - -<p class="center"><i>First Edition</i></p> - -<hr /> - -<p class="bold2">ADVENTURES<br />IN JOURNALISM</p> - -<hr /> - -<h2><span>CONTENTS</span></h2> - -<table summary="CONTENTS"> - <tr> - <td></td> - <td><span class="smaller">PAGE</span></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left">CHAPTER I</td> - <td><a href="#Page_1">1</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left">CHAPTER II</td> - <td><a href="#Page_14">14</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left">CHAPTER III</td> - <td><a href="#Page_27">27</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left">CHAPTER IV</td> - <td><a href="#Page_39">39</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left">CHAPTER V</td> - <td><a href="#Page_56">56</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left">CHAPTER VI</td> - <td><a href="#Page_69">69</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left">CHAPTER VII</td> - <td><a href="#Page_84">84</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left">CHAPTER VIII</td> - <td><a href="#Page_95">95</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left">CHAPTER IX</td> - <td><a href="#Page_109">109</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left">CHAPTER X</td> - <td><a href="#Page_121">121</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left">CHAPTER XI</td> - <td><a href="#Page_137">137</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left">CHAPTER XII</td> - <td><a href="#Page_151">151</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left">CHAPTER XIII</td> - <td><a href="#Page_163">163</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left">CHAPTER XIV</td> - <td><a href="#Page_179">179</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left">CHAPTER XV</td> - <td><a href="#Page_190">190</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left">CHAPTER XVI</td> - <td><a href="#Page_206">206</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left">CHAPTER XVII</td> - <td><a href="#Page_219">219</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left">CHAPTER XVIII</td> - <td><a href="#Page_231">231</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left">CHAPTER XIX</td> - <td><a href="#Page_247">247</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left">CHAPTER XX</td> - <td><a href="#Page_260">260</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left">CHAPTER XXI</td> - <td><a href="#Page_273">273</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left">CHAPTER XXII</td> - <td><a href="#Page_287">287</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left">CHAPTER XXIII</td> - <td><a href="#Page_306">306</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left">CHAPTER XXIV</td> - <td><a href="#Page_320">320</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left">CHAPTER XXV</td> - <td><a href="#Page_341">341</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left">CHAPTER XXVI</td> - <td><a href="#Page_352">352</a></td> - </tr> -</table> - -<hr /> - -<p class="bold2">Adventures in Journalism</p> - -<h2>I</h2> - -<p>The adventure of journalism which has been mine—as editor, reporter, -and war correspondent—is never a life of easy toil and seldom one of -rich rewards. I would not recommend it to youth as a primrose path, nor -to anyone who wishes to play for safety in possession of an assured -income, regular hours, and happy home life.</p> - -<p>It is of uncertain tenure, because no man may hold on to his job if -he weakens under the nervous strain, or quarrels on a point of honor -with the proprietor who pays him or with the editor who sets his task. -Even the most successful journalist—if he is on the writing side of -a newspaper—can rarely bank on past achievements, however long and -brilliant, but must forever jerk his brain and keep his curiosity -untired.</p> - -<p>As nobody, according to the proverb, has ever seen a dead donkey, so -nobody has ever seen a retired reporter living on the proceeds of his -past toil, like business men in other adventures of life. He must go on -writing and recording, getting news until the pen drops from his hand, -or the little bell tinkles for the last time on his typewriter, and -his head falls over an unfinished sentence.... Well, I hope that will -happen to me, but some people look forward to an easier old age.</p> - -<p>I have known the humiliation of journalism, its insecurity, its -never-ending tax upon the mind and heart, its<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[Pg 2]</a></span> squalor, its fever, -its soul-destroying machinery for those who are not proof against its -cruelties. Hundreds of times, as a young reporter, I was stretched to -the last pull of nervous energy on some “story” which was wiped out for -more important news. Often I went without food and sleep, suffered in -health of body and mind, girded myself to audacities from which, as a -timid soul, I shrank, in order to get a “scoop”—which failed.</p> - -<p>The young reporter has to steel his heart to these disappointments. -He must not agonize too much if, after a day and night of intense and -nervous effort, he finds no line of his work in the paper, or sees -his choicest prose hacked and mangled by impatient subeditors, or his -truth-telling twisted into falsity.</p> - -<p>He is the slave of the machine. Home life is not for him, as for other -men. He may have taken unto himself a wife—poor girl!—but though she -serves his little dinner all piping hot, he has to leave the love feast -for the bleak streets, if the voice of the news editor calls down the -telephone.</p> - -<p>So, at least, it was in my young days as a reporter on London -newspapers, and many a time in those days I cursed the fate which had -taken me to Fleet Street as a slave of the press.</p> - -<p>Several times I escaped; taking my courage in both hands—and it -needed courage, remembering a wife and babe—I broke with the spell of -journalism and retired into quieter fields of literary life.</p> - -<p>But always I went back! The lure of the adventure was too strong. The -thrill of chasing the new “story,” the interest of getting into the -middle of life, sometimes behind the scenes of history, the excitement -of recording sensational acts in the melodrama of reality, the meetings -with heroes, rogues, and oddities, the front seats at the peep show of -life, the comedy, the change, the comradeship, the rivalry, the test -of one’s own quality of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</a></span> character and vision, drew me back to Fleet -Street as a strong magnet.</p> - -<p>It was, after all, a great game! It is still one of the best games in -the world for any young man with quick eyes, a sense of humor, some -touch of quality in his use of words, and curiosity in his soul for -the truth and pageant of our human drama, provided he keeps his soul -unsullied from the dirt.</p> - -<p>Looking back on my career as a journalist, I know that I would not -change for any other. Fleet Street, which I called in a novel <i>The -Street of Adventure</i>, is still my home, and to its pavement my feet -turn again from whatever part of the world I return.</p> - -<p>When I first entered the street, twenty years ago alas! the social -status of press men was much lower than at present, when the pendulum -has swung the other way, so that newspaper proprietors wear coronets, -the purlieus of Fleet Street are infested with barons and baronets, -and even reporters have been knighted by the King. In my early days -a journalist did not often get nearer to a Cabinet Minister than the -hall porter of his office. It was partly his own fault, or at least, -the fault of those who paid him miserably, because the old-time -reporter—before Northcliffe, who was then Harmsworth, revised his -salary and his status—was often an ill-dressed fellow, conscious of -his own social inferiority, cringing in his manner to the great, and -content to slink round to the back doors of life, rather than boldly -assault the front-door knocker. Having a good conceit of myself and a -sensitive pride, I received many hard knocks and humiliations which, no -doubt, were good for my soul.</p> - -<p>I resented the insolence of society women whom I was sent to interview. -Even now I remember with humiliation a certain Duchess who demanded -that, in return for a ticket to her theatrical entertainment, I should -submit my “copy” to her before sending it to the paper. Weakly,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[Pg 4]</a></span> I -agreed, for my annoyance was extreme when an insolent footman demanded -my article and carried it on a silver salver, at some distance from -his liveried body, lest he should be contaminated by so vile a thing, -to Her Grace and her fair daughters in an adjoining room. I heard them -reading it, and their mocking laughter.... I raged at the haughty -arrogance of young government officials who treated me as “one of those -damned fellows on the press.” I laughed bitterly and savagely at a -certain Mayor of Bournemouth who revealed in one simple sentence (which -he thought was kind) the attitude of public opinion toward the press -which it despised—and feared.</p> - -<p>“You know,” he told me in a moment of candor, “I always treat -journalists as though they were gentlemen.”</p> - -<p>For some time I disliked all mayors because of that confession, and a -year or two later, when conditions were changing, I was able to take a -joyous revenge from one of them, who was the Mayor of Limerick. He did -not even treat journalists as though they were gentlemen. He treated -them as though they were ruffians who ought to be thrust into the outer -darkness.</p> - -<p>King Edward was making a Royal Progress through Ireland—it was before -the days of Sinn Fein—and, with a number of other correspondents, some -of whom are now famous men, it was my duty to await and describe his -arrival at Limerick and report his speech in answer to the address.</p> - -<p>Seeing us standing in a group, the Mayor demanded to know why we dared -to stand on the platform where the King was about to arrive, when -strict orders had been given that none but the Mayor and Corporation, -and the Guard of Honor, were permitted on that space. “Get outside the -station!” shouted the Mayor of Limerick, “or I’ll put my police on to -ye!”</p> - -<p>Explanations were useless. Protests did not move the Mayor. To avoid an -unpleasant scene, we retired <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</a></span>outside the station, indignantly. But I -was resolved to get on that platform and defeat the Mayor at all costs. -I noticed the appearance of an officer in cocked hat, plumes, and full -uniform, whom I knew to be General Pole-Carew, commanding the troops -in Ireland, and in charge of the royal journey. I accosted him boldly, -told him the painful situation of the correspondents who were there -to describe the King’s tour and record his speeches. He was courteous -and kind. Indeed, he did a wonderful and fearful thing. The Mayor and -Corporation were already standing on a red carpet enclosed by brass -railings, immediately opposite the halting place of the King’s train. -General Pole-Carew gave the Mayor a tremendous dressing down which -made him grow first purple and then pale, and ordered him, with his -red-gowned satellites, to clear out of that space to the far end of -the platform. General Pole-Carew then led the newspaper men to the red -carpet enclosed by brass railings. It was to us that King Edward read -out his reply to the address which was handed to him, while the Mayor -and Corporation glowered sulkily.</p> - -<p>Unduly elated by this victory, perhaps, one of my colleagues who had -been a skipper on seagoing tramps before adopting the more hazardous -profession of the press, resented, a few days later, being “cooped -up” in the press box at Punchestown races which King Edward was to -attend in semi-state. Nothing would content his soul but a place on -the Royal Stand. I accompanied him to see the fun, but regretted my -temerity when, without challenge, we stood, surrounded by princes and -peers of Ireland, at the top of the gangway up which the King was to -come. I think they put down my friend the skipper as the King’s private -detective. He wore a blue reefer coat and a bowler hat with a curly -brim. By good luck I was in a tall hat and morning suit, like the rest -of the company. Presently the King came, in a little pageant of state -carriages with outriders in scarlet and gold, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</a></span> then, with his -gentlemen, he ascended the gangway, shaking hands with all who were -assembled on the stairs. The skipper, who was a great patriot, and -loved King Edward as a “regular fellow,” betrayed himself by the warmth -of his greeting. Grasping the King’s hand in a sailorman’s grip, he -shook it long and ardently, and expressed the hope that His Majesty was -quite well.</p> - -<p>King Edward was startled by this unconventional welcome, and a few -moments later, after some whispered words, one of his equerries touched -the skipper on the shoulder and requested him politely to seek some -other place. I basely abandoned my colleague, and betrayed no kind of -acquaintance with him, but held to the advantage of my tall hat, and -spent an interesting morning listening to King Edward’s conversation -with the Irish gentry. Prince Arthur of Connaught was there, and I -remember that King Edward clapped him on the back and chaffed him -because he had not yet found a wife. “It’s time you got married, young -fellow,” said his illustrious uncle.</p> - -<p>That memory brings me to the importance of clothes in the career of -a journalist. It was Lord Northcliffe, then Alfred Harmsworth, who -gave me good advice on the subject at the outset of my journalistic -experience.</p> - -<p>“Always dress well,” he said, “and never spoil the picture by being in -the wrong costume. I like the appearance of my young men to be a credit -to the profession. It is very important.”</p> - -<p>That advice, excellent in its way, was sometimes difficult to follow, -owing to the rush and scurry of a reporter’s life. It is difficult to -be correctly attired for a funeral in the morning and for a wedding in -the afternoon, at least so far as the color of one’s tie.</p> - -<p>I remember being jerked off to a shipwreck on the Cornish coast in a -tall hat and frock coat which startled the simple fishermen who were -rescuing ladies on a life line. </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</a></span></p> - -<p>A colleague of mine who specialized in dramatic criticism was suddenly -ordered to write a bright article about a garden party at Buckingham -Palace. Unfortunately he had come down to the office that morning in a -blue serge suit and straw hat, which is not the costume worn on such -occasions. One of the King’s gentlemen, more concerned, I am sure, than -the King, at this breach of etiquette, requested him to conceal himself -behind a tree.</p> - -<p>The absence of evening dress clothes, owing to a hurried journey, has -often been a cause of embarrassment to myself and others, with the risk -of losing important news for lack of this livery.</p> - -<p>So it was when I was invited to attend a banquet given to Doctor Cook -in Copenhagen, when he made his claim of having discovered the North -Pole. For reasons which I shall tell later in these memories, it was -of great importance to me to be present at that dinner, where Doctor -Cook was expected to tell the story of his amazing journey. But I -had traveled across Europe with a razor and a toothbrush, and had -no evening clothes. For a shilling translated into Danish money, I -borrowed the dress suit of an obliging young waiter. He was a taller -man than I, and the sleeves of his coat fell almost to my wrists, and -the trousers bagged horribly below the knees. His waistcoat was also -rather grease-stained by the accidents inevitable to his honorable -avocation. In this attire I proceeded self-consciously to the Tivoli -Palace where the banquet was held. I had to ascend a tall flight of -marble steps, and, being late, I was alone and conspicuous.</p> - -<p>Feeling like Hop-o’-my-Thumb in the giant’s clothes, I pulled myself -together, hitched up my waiter’s trousers, and advanced up the marble -stairs. Suddenly I was aware of a fantastic happening. I found myself, -as the fairy tales say, receiving a salute from a guard of honor. -Swords flashed from their scabbards and my fevered vision was conscious -of a double line of figures dressed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</a></span> in the scarlet coats and buckskin -breeches of the English Life Guards.</p> - -<p>“This,” I said to myself, “is what comes to a man who hires a waiter’s -clothes. I have undoubtedly gone crazy. There are no English Life -Guards in Copenhagen. But there is certainly a missing button at the -back of my trousers.”</p> - -<p>It was the chorus of the Tivoli Music Hall which was providing the -Guard of Honor, and they were tall and lovely ladies.</p> - -<p>I was caught napping again, not very long ago, when the King of the -Belgians granted my request for a special interview. An official of the -British Embassy, who conveyed that acceptance to me, also advised me -that I must wear a frock coat and top hat when I visited the Palace, -for that appointment which, he said, was at four o’clock. I had come -to Brussels without a frock coat—and indeed I had not worn that -detestable garment for years—and without a top hat. I decided to buy -or hire them in Brussels.</p> - -<p>It was Saturday morning, and I spent several hours searching for -ready-made frock coats. Ultimately I hired one which had certainly been -made for a Belgian burgomaster of considerable circumference—and I am -a lean man, and little. I also acquired a top hat which was of a style -favored by London cabbies forty years ago, low in the crown and broad -and curly in the brim. I carried these parcels back, hoping that by -holding my hat in the presence of Majesty, and altering the buttons on -the frock coat, I might maintain a dignified appearance.</p> - -<p>I did not make a public appearance in that costume however, as I missed -the hour for the interview owing to a mistake of the British Embassy.</p> - -<p>As a young man, before serious things like wars and revolutions, -plagues and famines entered into my sphere of work, I spent most of my -days on <i>The Daily Mail</i>, <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</a></span><i>The Daily Chronicle</i>, and other papers, -chasing the “stunt” story, which was then a new thing in English -journalism, having crossed the water from the United States and excited -the imagination of such pioneers as Harmsworth and Pearson. The old -dullness and dignity of the English Press had been rudely challenged -by this new outlook on life, and by the novel interpretation of the -word “news” by men like Harmsworth himself. Formerly “news” was -limited in the imagination of English editors to verbatim reports of -political speeches, the daily record of police courts, and the hard -facts of contemporary history, recorded in humdrum style. Harmsworth -changed all that. “News,” to him, meant anything which had a touch of -human interest for the great mass of folk, any happening or idea which -affected the life, clothes, customs, food, health, and amusements of -middle-class England. Under his direction, <i>The Daily Mail</i>, closely -imitated by many others, regarded life as a variety show. No “turn” -must be long or dull. Whether it dealt with tragedy or comedy, high -politics or other kinds of crime, it was admitted, not because of its -importance to the nation or the world, but because it made a good -“story” for the breakfast table.</p> - -<p>In pursuit of that ideal—not very high, but not a bad school for -those in search of human knowledge—I became one of that band of -colleagues and rivals who were sent here, there, and everywhere on -the latest “story.” It led us into queer places, often on foolish and -futile missions. It brought us in touch with strange people, both high -and low in the social world. It was my privilege to meet kings and -princes, murderers and thieves, politicians and publicans, saints and -sinners, along the roads of life in many countries. As far as kings -are concerned, I cannot boast that familiarity once claimed by Oscar -Browning who, when he showed the ex-Kaiser over Cambridge, asserted to -the undergraduates who questioned him <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</a></span>afterward that “He is one of the -nicest emperors I have ever met.”</p> - -<p>With rogues and vagabonds I confess I have had a more extensive -acquaintance. The amusement of the game of finding a “story” was the -unexpectedness of the situation in which one sometimes found oneself, -and the personal experience which did not appear in print. As a trivial -instance, I remember how I went to inquire into a ghost story and -became, surprisingly, the ghost.</p> - -<p>Down in the West of England there was, and still is, a great house so -horribly haunted (according to local tales) that the family to which -it has belonged for centuries abandoned its ancient splendor and lived -near by in a modern villa. Interest was aroused when a young chemist -claimed that he had actually taken a photograph of one of the ghosts -during a night he had spent alone in the old house. I obtained a copy -of this photograph, which was certainly a good “fake,” and I was asked -to spend a night in the house myself with an Irish photographer who -might have equal luck with some other spirit.</p> - -<p>Together we traveled down to the haunted house, which we found to be an -old Elizabethan mansion surrounded by trees, and next to a graveyard. -It was dark when we arrived, with the intention of making a burglarious -entry. Before ten minutes had passed the Irish photographer was saying -his prayers, and I had a cold chill down my spine at the sighing of -the wind through the trees, the hooting of an owl, and the little -squeaks of the bats that flitted under the eaves. With false courage we -endeavored to make our way into the house. Every window was shuttered, -every door bolted, and we could find no way of entry into a building -that rambled away with many odd nooks and corners. At last I found a -door which seemed to yield.</p> - -<p>“Stand back!” I said to the Irish photographer. I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</a></span> took a run and -hurled my shoulder against the door. It gave, and I was precipitated -into a room—not, as I found afterward, part of the Elizabethan -mansion, but a neighboring farmhouse, where the farmer and his family -were seated at an evening meal. Their shrieks and yells were piercing, -and they believed that the ghosts next door were invading them.... I -and the photographer fled without further explanation.</p> - -<p>On another day I went down into the country to interview a dear old -clergyman, who had reached his hundredth year, and had been at school -with the famous Doctor Arnold of Rugby. The old gentleman was stone -deaf and for some time could not make out the object of my visit. -At last it seemed to dawn on him. “Ah, yes!” he said. “You are the -gentleman who is coming to sing at our concert to-night. How very kind -of you to come all the way from London!” Vainly I endeavored to explain -that I had come to interview him for a London paper. Presently he took -me by the arm, and led me into his drawing-room, where a charming old -lady was sitting by the fire knitting.</p> - -<p>“My dear,” said the centenarian parson, “this gentleman has come all -the way from London to sing at our concert to-night.”</p> - -<p>I explained to her gently that it was not so, but she was also deaf, -and could only hear her husband when she used her ear trumpet.</p> - -<p>“How very kind of you to come all this way!” she said graciously.</p> - -<p>Presently another old gentleman appeared on the scene and I was -presented to him as the young gentleman who had come down from London -to sing at the concert.</p> - -<p>“Pardon me,” I said; “it’s all a mistake. I’m a newspaper reporter.”</p> - -<p>But the second old gentleman ignored my explanation. He had only caught -the word “concert.” </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</a></span></p> - -<p>“Delighted to meet you!” he said. “We are all looking forward to your -singing to-night!”</p> - -<p>I slunk out of the house later, and drove back fifteen miles to the -station. On the way I passed an old horse cab conveying a young man in -the opposite direction. I felt certain that he actually was the young -gentleman who was going to sing at the concert that night.</p> - -<p>On another occasion I had the unfortunate experience of being taken for -Mr. Winston Churchill. It was his luck and not mine, because it was at -a time when a great number of Irishmen were lusting for his blood. I am -no more like Mr. Churchill than I am like Lloyd George, except that we -are both clean shaven and both happened to be driving in a blue car. It -was on a day when there was trouble in Belfast (that city of peace!) -and the Orangemen had sworn to prevent Churchill from speaking to the -Catholic community on the Celtic Football Ground. They lined up for -him thousands strong outside the railway station where he was due to -arrive, and their pockets were loaded with “kidney” stones, and iron -nuts from the shipyards. Churchill is a brave man, and faced them with -such pluck that they did not attempt to injure him at that moment of -his arrival, though afterwards they attacked his car in Royal Avenue -and would have overturned it but for a charge of mounted police. He -made his speech to the Catholic Irish and slipped out of Belfast by -a different station. The mobs of Orangemen were awaiting his return -in a blue car to a hotel in Royal Avenue, and it was my car, and my -clean-shaven face under a bowler hat which went back to that hotel -and caused a slight mistake among them. I was suddenly aware of ten -thousand men yelling at me fiercely and threatening to tear me limb -from limb. The police made a rush, and I and my companion escaped with -only torn collars and the loss of dignity after a wild scrimmage on the -steps of the hotel. For hours the mob waited<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</a></span> outside for Mr. Winston -Churchill to depart, and I did not venture forth until the news of his -going spread among them.</p> - -<p>Such incidents are not enjoyable at the time. But a newspaper man with -a sense of humor takes them as part of his day’s work, and however -trivial they may be, bides his time for big events of history in which, -after his apprenticeship, he may find his chance as a chronicler of -things that matter.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</a></span></p> - -<h2>II</h2> - -<p>It is one of the little ironies of a reporter’s life that he finds -himself at times in the company of those who sit in the seats of the -mighty and those who possess the power of worldly wealth, when he, poor -lad, is wondering whether his next article will pay for his week’s -rent, and jingles a few pieces of silver in a threadbare pocket.</p> - -<p>It is true that most newspaper offices are liberal in the matter of -expenses, so that while a “story” is in progress the newspaper man is -able to put up at the best hotels, to hire motor cars with the ease -of a millionaire, and to live so much like a lord that hall porters, -Ministers of State, private detectives, and women of exalted rank are -willing to treat him as such, if he plays the part well, and conceals -his miserable identity. But there is always the feeling, to a sensitive -fellow on the bottom rung of the journalistic ladder, that he is only a -looker-on of life, a play actor watching from the wings, even a kind of -Christopher Sly, belonging to the gutter but dressed up by some freak -of fate, and invited to the banquet of the great.</p> - -<p>The young newspaper man, if he is wise, and proud, with a sense of -the dignity of his own profession, overcomes this foolish sense of -inferiority by the noble thought that he may be (and probably is) of -more importance to the world than people of luxury and exalted rank, -and that, indeed, it is only by his words that many of them live -at all. Unless he writes about them they do not exist. He is their -critic, their judge, to some extent their creator. He it is who—as a -man of letters—makes them famous or infamous, who gives the laurels -of history to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</a></span> the man of action—for there is no Ulysses without -Homer—and who moves through the pageant of life as a modern Froissart, -painting the word pictures of courts and camps, revealing what happens -behind the scenes, giving the immortality of his words to little people -he meets upon the way, or to kings and heroes. That point of view, -with its youthful egotism, has been comforting to many young gentlemen -who have taken rude knocks to their sensibility because of their -profession; and there is some truth in it.</p> - -<p>As a descriptive writer on London newspapers, I had that advantage of -being poor among the rich, and lowly among the exalted. Among other -experiences which fell to my lot was that of being a chronicler of -royal processions, ceremonies, marriages, coronations, funerals, and -other events in the lives of kings and princes.</p> - -<p>I was once a literary attendant at the birth of a Princess, and look -back to that event with particular gratitude because it gave me -considerable acquaintance with the masterpieces of Dutch art and the -beauties of Dutch cities. I also learned to read Dutch with fair ease, -owing to the long delay in the arrival of Queen Wilhelmina’s daughter.</p> - -<p>For some reason, at a time before the Great War had given a new -proportion to world events, this expectation of an heir to the Dutch -throne was considered of enormous political importance, as the next of -kin was a German prince. Correspondents and secret agents came from all -parts of Europe to the little old city of the Hague, and I had among my -brothers of the pen two of the best-known journalists in Europe, one of -whom was Ludovic Nodeau of <i>Le Journal</i> and the other Hamilton Fyfe of -<i>The Daily Mail</i>.</p> - -<p>Every night in the old white palace of the Hague we three, and six -others of various nationalities, were entertained to a banquet in -the rooms of the Queen’s <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</a></span>Chamberlain, the Junkheer van Heen, who -had placed his rooms at our disposal. Flunkeys in royal livery, with -powdered wigs and silk stockings, conducted us with candles to a -well-spread table, and always the Queen’s Chamberlain announced to us -solemnly in six languages, “Gentlemen, the happy event will take place -to-morrow!”</p> - -<p>To-morrow came, and a month of to-morrows, but no heir to the throne of -Holland. Three times, owing to false rumors, the Dutch Army came into -the streets and drank not wisely but too well to a new-born Prince who -had not come!</p> - -<p>Ludovic Nodeau, Hamilton Fyfe, and I explored Holland, learned Dutch, -and saw the lime tree outside the palace become heavy with foliage, -though it was bare at our coming.</p> - -<p>The correspondent of <i>The Times</i> had a particular responsibility -because he had promised to telephone to the British Ambassador, who, -in his turn, was to telegraph to King Edward, at any time of the day -or night that the event might happen. But the correspondent of <i>The -Times</i>, who was a very young man, and “fed up” with all this baby -stuff, absented himself from the banquet one night. In the early -hours of the morning, when he was asleep at his hotel, the Queen’s -Chamberlain appeared, with tears running down his cheeks, and announced -in six languages that a Princess had been born.</p> - -<p>It was Hamilton Fyfe and I who gave the news to the Dutch people. As we -ran down the street to the post office men and women came out on the -balconies in their night attire and shouted for news.</p> - -<p>“Princess! Princess!” we cried. An hour later the Hague was thronged -with joyous, dancing people. That morning the Ministers of State linked -hands and danced with the people down the main avenue—as though Lloyd -George and his fellow ministers had performed a fox-trot in Whitehall. -With quaint old-world customs, <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</a></span>heralds and trumpeters announced the -glad tidings, already known, and driving in a horse cab to watch I had -a fight with a Dutch photographer who tried to take possession of my -vehicle. That night the Dutch Army rejoiced again, boisterously.</p> - -<p>Although I cannot boast of familiarity with emperors, like Oscar -Browning, and have been more in the position of the cat who can look -at a king, according to the proverb, I can claim to have heard one -crowned head utter an epigram on the spur of the moment. It was in the -war between Bulgaria and Turkey in 1912, and I was standing on the -bridge over the Maritza River at Mustapha Pasha (now the new boundary -of the Turks in Europe) when Ferdinand of Bulgaria arrived with his -staff. Because of the climate, which was cold there, I was wearing the -fur cap of a Bulgarian peasant, a sheepskin coat, and leggings, and -believed myself to be thoroughly disguised as a Bulgar. But the King—a -tall, fat old man with long nose and little shifty eyes, like a rogue -elephant—“spotted” me at once as an Englishman, and, calling me up to -him, chatted very civilly in my own language, which he spoke without -an accent. At that moment there arrived the usual character who always -does appear at the psychological moment in any part of the world’s -drama—a photographer of <i>The Daily Mail</i>. Ferdinand of Bulgaria had -a particular hatred and dread of cameramen, believing that he might -be assassinated by some enemy pretending to “snap” him. He raised his -stick to strike the man down and was only reassured when I told him -that he was a harmless Englishman, trying to carry out his profession -as a press photographer.</p> - -<p>“Photography is not a profession,” said the King. “It’s a damned -disease.”</p> - -<p>One of the pleasantest jobs in pre-war days was a royal luncheon at -the Guildhall, when the Lord Mayor of London and his Aldermen used -to give the welcome of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</a></span> City to foreign potentates visiting the -Royal Family. The scene under the timbered roof of the Guildhall was -splendid, with great officers of the Army and Navy in full uniform, -Ministers of State in court dress, Indian princes in colored turbans, -foreign ambassadors glittering with stars and ribbons, the Lord Mayor -and Aldermen in scarlet gowns trimmed with fur, and the royal Guest -and his gentlemen in ceremonial uniforms. In the courtyard ancient -coaches, all gilt and glass, with coachmen and footmen in white wigs -and stockings, and liveries of scarlet and gold, brought back memories -of Queen Anne’s London and the pictures of Cinderella going to the -ball. The gigantic and grotesque figures of Gog and Magog, carved in -wood, grinned down upon the company as they have done through centuries -of feasts, and at the other end of the hall, mounted in a high pulpit, -a white-capped cook carved the Roast Beef of Old England, while music -discoursed in the minstrels’ gallery.</p> - -<p>Our souls were warmed by 1815 port, only brought out for these royal -banquets, and we sat in the midst of the illustrious and in the -presence of princes, with a conviction that in no other city on earth -could there be such a good setting for a good meal. There I have -feasted with the ex-Kaiser, the Kings of Portugal, Italy, and Spain, -several Presidents of the French Republic, and the King and Queen of -England. I remember the 1815 port more than the speeches of the kings.</p> - -<p>I also remember on one occasion at the Guildhall that it was a -brother journalist who seemed to be the most popular person at the -party. Admirals of the Fleet clapped him on the back and said “Hullo, -Charlie!” Generals and officers beamed upon the little man and uttered -the same words of surprise and affection. Diplomats and foreign -correspondents who had met “dear old Charlie” in South Africa, Japan, -Egypt, and the Balkans, and drunk wine with him in all the capitals of -Europe, greeted<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</a></span> him when they passed as though they remembered rich -jests in his company. It was Charles Hands of <i>The Daily Mail</i>, war -correspondent, knight-errant of the pen, ironical commentator on life’s -puppet show, and good companion on any adventure.</p> - -<p>I once spent an afternoon with the King of Spain and his grandees, -though I had no right at all to be in their company. It was at the -marriage of a prince of the House of Bourbon with a white-faced lady -who had descended from the Kings of France in the old <i>régime</i>. This -ceremony was to take place in an old English house at Evesham, in the -orchard of England, which belonged to the Duke of Orleans, by right of -blood heir to the throne of France, as might be seen by the symbol of -the <i>fleur-de-lis</i> carved on every panel and imprinted on every cup and -saucer in his home of exile, where he kept up a royal state and looked -the part, being a very handsome man and exceedingly like Henri IV, his -great ancestor.</p> - -<p>The Duke of Orleans could not abide journalists, and strict orders were -given that none should be admitted before the wedding in a pasteboard -chapel, still being tacked up and painted to represent a royal and -ancient chapel on the eve of the ceremony.</p> - -<p>For fear of anarchists and journalists a considerable body of police -and detectives had been engaged to hold three miles of road to Wood -Norton and guard the gates. But I was under instructions to describe -the preparations and the arrival of all the princes and princesses of -the Bourbon blood who were assembling from many countries of Europe. -With this innocent purpose, I hired a respectable-looking carriage at -the livery stables of Evesham, and drove out to Wood Norton. As it -happened, I fell into line with a number of other carriages containing -the King and Queen of Spain and other members of the family gathering. -Police and detectives accepted my<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</a></span> carriage as part of the procession, -and I drove unchallenged through the great gilded gates under the Crown -of France.</p> - -<p>I was received with great deference by the Duke’s major domo, who -obviously regarded me as a Bourbon, and with the King and Queen of -Spain and a group of ladies and gentlemen, I inspected the pasteboard -chapel, the wedding presents, the floral decorations of the banqueting -chamber, and the Duke’s stables. The King of Spain was very merry -and bright, and believing, no doubt, that I was one of the Duke’s -gentlemen, addressed various remarks to me in a courteous way. I drove -back in the dark, saluted by all the policemen on the way, and wrote a -description of what I had seen, to the great surprise of my friends and -rivals.</p> - -<p>Next day I attended the wedding, and saw the strange assembly of the -old Blood Royal of France and Spain and Austria. One of the Bourbon -princes came from some distant part of the Slav world, and, in a heavy -fur coat reaching to his heels, a fur cap drawn over his ears, a gold -chain round his neck, and rings, not only on all his fingers, but on -his thumbs as well, looked like a bear who had robbed the jewelers’ -shops in Bond Street. At the wedding banquet one of the foreign -noblemen drank too deeply of the flowing cup, and, upon entering his -carriage afterward, danced a kind of <i>pas seul</i> and hummed a little -ballad of the Paris boulevards, to the scandal of the footmen and the -undisguised amusement of King Alfonso.</p> - -<p>I made another uninvited appearance among royalty, and to this day -blush at the remembrance of my audacity, which was unnecessary and -unpardonable. It was when King George and Queen Mary opened the -Exhibition at the White City at Shepherd’s Bush, London.</p> - -<p>They had made a preliminary inspection of the place, on a filthy day -when the exhibition grounds were like<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</a></span> the bogs of Flanders, and when -the King, with very pardonable irritation, uttered the word “Damn!” -when he stepped into a puddle which splashed all over his uniform. -“Hush, George!” said the Queen. “Wait till we get home!”</p> - -<p>On the day of the opening, vast crowds had assembled in the grounds, -but were not allowed to enter the exhibition buildings until the royal -party had passed through. The press were kept back by a rope at the -entrance way, in a position from which they could see just nothing -at all. I was peeved at this lack of consideration for professional -observers, and when the royal party entered and a cordon of police -wheeled across the great hall to prevent the crowd from following, I -stepped over the rope and joined the royal procession. As it happened, -the police movement had cut off one of the party—a French Minister of -State who, knowing no word of English, made futile endeavors to explain -his misfortune, and received in reply a policeman’s elbow in his chest -and the shout of “Get back there!”</p> - -<p>I took his place. The King’s detective had counted his chickens and -was satisfied that I was one of them. As I was in a new silk hat and -tail coat, I looked as distinguished as a French Minister, or at least -did not arouse suspicion. The only member of the party who noticed my -step across the rope was Sir Edward Grey. He did not give me away, but -smiled at my cool cheek with the suspicion of a wink. As a matter of -fact, I was not so cool as I looked. I was in an awkward situation, -because all the royal party and their company were busily engaged in -conversation, with the exception of Queen Alexandra who, being deaf, -lingered behind to study the show cases instead of conversing. Having -no one to talk to, I naturally lingered behind also, and thus attracted -the kindly notice of the Queen Mother, who made friendly remarks about -the exhibition, not hearing my hesitating answers. For<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</a></span> the first time -I saw a royal reception by great crowds from the point of view of -royalty instead of the crowd—a white sea of faces, indistinguishable -individually, but one big, staring, thousand-eyed face, shouting and -waving all its pocket handkerchiefs, while bands played “God save the -King” and cameras snapped and cinema operators turned their handles. -When I returned to my office I found the news editor startled by -many photographs of his correspondent walking solemnly beside Queen -Alexandra.... The French Minister made a formal protest about his ill -treatment.</p> - -<p>King Edward was not friendly to press correspondents, especially if -they tried to peep behind the scenes, but many times I used to go -down to Windsor, sometimes to his garden parties, and often when the -German Emperor or some other sovereign was a guest at the castle. I am -sure there was more merriment in the Castle Inn where the journalists -gathered than within the great old walls of the castle itself, where, -curiously enough, my own father was born.</p> - -<p>These royal visits were generally in the autumn, and the amusement -of the day was a <i>battue</i> of game in Windsor Forest, in which the -Prince of Wales, now King George, was always the best shot. The German -Emperor was often one of the guns, but seemed to find no pleasure in -that “sport”—which was a massacre of birds, and preserved an immense -dignity which never relaxed. Little King Manuel, then of Portugal, -shivered with cold in the dank mists of the English climate, and only -King Alfonso seemed to enjoy himself, as he does in most affairs of -life.</p> - -<p>Another journey to be made once a year by a little band of descriptive -writers—we were mostly always the same group—was when King Edward -paid his yearly visit to the Duke of Devonshire in his great mansion -at Chatsworth, in the heart of Derbyshire. Always there<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</a></span> was a -torchlight procession up the hills from the station to the house, and -the old walls of Chatsworth were illumined by fireworks which turned -its fountains into fairy cascades, and the great, grim, ugly mansion -into an enchanter’s palace. Private theatricals were provided for the -entertainment of the King—Princess Henry of Pless and Mrs. Willie -James being the star turns. The performances struck me as being on the -vulgar side of comedy, but King Edward’s love of a good laugh was a -reasonable excuse, and surely a king, more than most men, gains more -wisdom from the vulgar humor of people than from the solemnities of -state.</p> - -<p>I used to be billeted in a cottage at Eversley near Chatsworth, while -other members of the press put up at an old hotel kept by an old -lady who had more dignity even than the Duchess. She insisted upon -everybody going to bed, or turning out, at eleven o’clock, and this was -a grievance to a young journalist named Holt White, then of <i>The Daily -Mail</i>, who was neck and neck with me in a series of chess games. One -night when we were all square on our games and walking back together -to the cottage at Eversley, he said: “We must have that decisive game. -Let’s go back and get the chess things.”</p> - -<p>I agreed, but when we returned to the hotel, we found it in darkness -and both bolted and barred. By means of a clasp knife, Holt White made -a burglarious entry into the drawing-room, but unfortunately put his -foot on a table laden with porcelain ornaments, and overturned it with -an appalling crash. We fled. Dogs barked, bells rang, and the dignified -old lady who kept the hotel put her head out of the window and screamed -“Thief!” This attempted burglary was the talk of the breakfast table -next morning at the Devonshire Arms, and was only eclipsed in interest -by a “scoop” of Holt White’s, who startled the readers of <i>The Daily -Mail</i> by the awful <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</a></span>announcement that the Duke had cut his whiskers, -historic in the political caricatures of England.</p> - -<p>I had the honor of acting as one of a bodyguard, in a very literal -sense, to King Edward on the day he won the Derby. When Minoru won, -a hundred thousand men broke all barricades and made a wild rush -toward the Royal Stand, cheering with immense enthusiasm. According to -custom, the winner had to lead in his horse, and without hesitation -King Edward left the safety of his stand to come on to the course amid -the seething, surging, stampeding mass of roughs. The Prince of Wales, -now King George, looked very nervous, for his father’s sake, and King -Edward, though outwardly calm, was obviously moved to great emotion. I -heard his quick little panting breaths. He was in real danger, because -of the enormous pressure of the foremost mob, being pushed from behind -by the tidal wave of excited humanity. The King’s detective shouted and -used his fists to keep the people back, as involuntarily they jostled -the King. The correspondents, photographers, and others linked arms and -succeeded in keeping a little air space about the King until he had led -his horse safely inside.</p> - -<p>By a curious freak of chance, I and a young colleague on the same -paper—<i>The Daily Chronicle</i>—were the first people in the world, -outside Buckingham Palace, to hear of the death of King Edward.</p> - -<p>The official bulletins were grave, but not hopeless, and the last -issued on the night of his death was more cheerful. All day I had been -outside the Palace, writing in the rain under an umbrella, a long -description of the amazing scenes which showed the depths of emotion -stirred in the hearts of all classes by the thought that Edward VII was -passing from England.</p> - -<p>I believe now that beyond the hold he had on the minds of great numbers -of the people because of his human qualities and the tradition of his -statesmanship and “tact,”<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</a></span> there was an intuitive sense in the nation -that after his death the peace of Europe would be gravely disturbed -by some world war. I remember that thought was expressed to me by -a man in the crowd who said: “After Edward—Armageddon!” It was a -great, everchanging crowd made up of every condition of men and women -in London—duchesses and great ladies, peers and costers, actresses, -beggars, workingwomen, foreigners, politicians, parsons, shop girls, -laborers, and men of leisure, all waiting and watching for the next -bulletin. At eight o’clock, or thereabouts, I went into the Palace with -other press men, and Lord Knollys assured us that the King was expected -to pass a good night, and that no further bulletin would be issued -until the following morning.</p> - -<p>With that good news I went back to the office and prepared to go home, -but the news editor said, as news editors do, “Sorry, but you’ll have -to spend the night at the Palace—in case of anything happening.”</p> - -<p>I was tired out, and hungry. I protested, but in vain. The only -concession to me was that I should take a colleague, named Eddy, to -share the vigil outside the Palace.</p> - -<p>Eddy protested, but without more avail. Together we dined, and then -decided to hire a four-wheeled cab, drive into the palace yard, and go -to sleep as comfortably as possible. This idea proceeded according to -plan. By favor of the police, our old cab was the only vehicle allowed -inside the courtyard of the Palace, though outside was parked an -immense concourse of automobiles in which great folk were spending the -night.</p> - -<p>Eddy unlaced his boots, and prepared to sleep. I paced the courtyard, -smoking the last cigarette, and watching the strange picture outside.</p> - -<p>Suddenly a royal carriage came very quietly from the inner courtyard -and passed me where I stood. The lights from a high lamp-post flashed -inside the carriage, and I saw the faces of those who had been the -Prince of Wales<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</a></span> and Princess Mary. They were dead white, and their -eyes were wet and shining.</p> - -<p>I ran to the four-wheeled cab.</p> - -<p>“Eddy!” I said, “I believe the King is dead!”</p> - -<p>Together we hurried to the equerries’ entrance of the Palace and went -inside through the open door.</p> - -<p>I spoke to one of the King’s gentlemen, standing with his back to the -fire, talking to an old man whom I knew to be the Belgian Minister.</p> - -<p>“How is the King?” I asked.</p> - -<p>He looked up at the clock, with a queer emotional smile which was not -of mirth, but very sad.</p> - -<p>“Sir,” he said, in a broken voice, “King Edward died two minutes ago.”</p> - -<p>The news was confirmed by another official. Eddy and I hurried out of -the Palace and ran out of the courtyard. From the Buckingham Palace -Hotel I telephoned the news to <i>The Daily Chronicle</i> office.... The -official bulletin was not posted at the gate until an hour later, but -when I went home that night I held a copy of my paper which had caught -the country editions, with the Life and Death of King Edward VII.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</a></span></p> - -<h2>III</h2> - -<p>On the day following the death of King Edward, I obtained permission -to see him lying in his death chamber. The little room had crimson -hangings, and bright sunlight streamed through the windows upon the bed -where the King lay with a look of dignity and peace. I was profoundly -moved by the sight of the dead King who had been so vital, so full of -human stuff, so friendly and helpful in all affairs of state, and with -all conditions of men who came within his ken.</p> - -<p>In spite of the severe discipline of his youth in the austere tradition -of Queen Victoria—perhaps because of that—he had broken the gloomy -spell of the Victorian Court, with its Puritanical narrowing influence -on the social life of the people, and had restored a happier and more -liberal spirit. Truly or not, he had had, as a young Prince of Wales, -the reputation of being very much of a “rip,” and certain scandals -among his private friends, with which his name was connected, had made -many tongues wag. But he had long lived all that down when, in advanced -middle age, he came to the throne, and no one brought up against him -the heady indiscretions of youth.</p> - -<p>He had played the game of kingship well and truly, with a desire for -his people’s peace and welfare, and had given a new glamour to the -Crown which had become rather dulled and cobwebbed during the long -widowhood of the old Queen. In popular imagination he was the author of -the Entente Cordiale with France, which seemed to be the sole guarantee -of the peace of Europe against the growing menace of Germany, though -now we know<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</a></span> that it had other results. Anyhow, Edward VII, by some -quality of character which was not based on exalted idealism but was -perhaps woven with the genial wisdom of a man who had seen life in all -its comedy and illusion, and had mellowed to it, stood high in the -imagination of the world, and in the affection of his people. Now he -lay with his scepter at his feet, asleep with all the ghosts of history.</p> - -<p>His death chamber was disturbed by what seemed to me an outrageous -invasion of vulgarity. In life King Edward had resented the click of -the camera wherever he walked, but in death the cameramen had their -will of him. A dozen or more of them surrounded his bed, snapping him -at all angles, arranging the curtains for new effects of lights, fixing -their lenses close to his dead face. There was something ghoulish in -this photographic orgy about his deathbed.</p> - -<p>The body of King Edward was removed to Westminster Hall, whose timbered -roof has weathered seven centuries of English history, and there he -lay in state, with four guardsmen, motionless, with reversed arms -and heads bent, day and night, for nearly a week. That week was a -revelation of the strange depths of emotion stirred among the people -by his personality and passing. They were permitted to see him for the -last time, and, without exaggeration, millions of people must have -fallen into line for this glimpse of the dead King, to pay their last -homage. From early morning until late night, unceasingly, there were -queues of men and women of all ranks and classes, stretching away from -Westminster Hall across the bridges, moving slowly forward. There was -no preference for rank. Peers of the realm and ladies of quality fell -into line with laboring men and women, slum folk, city folk, sporting -touts, actors, women of Suburbia, ragamuffin boys, coster girls, and -all manner of men who make up English life. History does not record<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</a></span> -any such demonstration of popular homage, except one other, afterward, -when the English people passed in hundreds of thousands before the -grave of the Unknown Soldier in Westminster Abbey.</p> - -<p>I saw George V proclaimed King by Garter King-at-Arms and his -heralds in their emblazoned tabards, from the wall of St. James’s -Palace. Looking over the wall opposite, which enclosed the garden of -Marlborough House, was the young Prince of Wales with his brothers and -sister. That boy little guessed then that this was the beginning of a -new chapter of history which would make him a captain in the greatest -war of the world, where he would walk in the midst of death and see the -flower of English youth cut down at his side.</p> - -<p>At Windsor, in St. George’s Chapel, I saw the burial of King Edward. -His body was drawn to the Castle on a gun carriage by bluejackets, -and the music of Chopin’s Funeral March, that ecstasy of the spirit -triumphing over death, preceded him up the castle hill. Against the -gray old walls floral tributes were laid in masses from all the -people, and their scent was rich and strong in the air. On the castle -slopes where sunlight lay, spring flowers were blooming, as though -to welcome this home-coming of the King. Kings and princes from all -nations, in brilliant uniforms, crowded into St. George’s Chapel, and -it was a foreign King and Emperor who sorted them out, put them into -their right places, acted as Master of the Ceremony, and led forward -Queen Alexandra, as though he were the chief mourner, and not King -George. It was the German Kaiser. The Kings of Spain and Portugal -wept unaffectedly, like two schoolboys who had lost their father, and -indeed, this burial of King Edward in the lovely chapel where so many -of his family lie sleeping was strangely affecting, because it seemed -like the passing of some historic era, and was so, though we did not -know it then, certainly. </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</a></span></p> - -<p>The task fell to me of describing the coronation of the new King in -Westminster Abbey, and of all the great scenes of which I have been -an eyewitness, this remains in my memory as the most splendid and -impressive. As a lover of history, that old Abbey, which has stood as -the symbol of English faith and rule since Norman days, is to me always -a haunted place, filled with a myriad ghosts of the old vital past. -And the coronation of an English king, in its ancient ritual, blots -out modernity, and takes one back to the root sentiment of the race -which is our blood and heritage. One may, in philosophical moments, -think kingship an outworn institution, and jeer at all its pomp and -pageantry. One’s democratic soul may thrust all its ritual into the -lumber room of antique furniture, but something of the old romance -of its meaning, something of its warmth and color in the tapestry of -English history, something of that code of chivalry and knighthood by -which the King was dedicated to the service of his peoples, stirs in -the most prosaic mind alive when a king is crowned again in the Abbey -Church of Westminster.</p> - -<p>The ceremony is, indeed, the old ritual of knighthood, ending with the -crowning act. The arms and emblems of kingship are laid upon the altar, -as when a knight kept vigil. He is stripped of his outer garments, -and stands before the people, bare of all the apparel which hides his -simplicity, as a common man.</p> - -<p>There was a dramatic moment when this unclothing happened to King -George. The Lord Chamberlain could not untie the bows and knots of his -cloak and surcoat, and the ceremony was held up by an awkward pause. -But he was a man of action, and pulling out a clasp knife from his -pocket, slashed at the ribbons till they were cut....</p> - -<p>Looking down the great nave from a gallery above, I saw the long purple -robes of the peers and peeresses, the rows of coronets, the little -pages, like fairy-tale princes,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</a></span> on the steps of the sanctuary, the -Prince of Wales himself like a Childe Harold, in silk doublet and -breeches, the Archbishop and Bishops, Kings-at-Arms, and officers of -state, busy about the person of the King who was helpless in their -hands as a victim of sacrifice, clothing him, anointing him, crowning -him, before the act of homage in which all the Lords of England moved -forward in their turn to swear fealty to their liege, who, in his turn, -had sworn to uphold the laws and liberties of England. A cynic might -scoff. But no man with an artist’s eye, and no man with Chaucer and -Shakespeare in his heart, could fail to see the beauty of this mediæval -picture, nor fail to feel the old thrill in that heritage of ancient -customs which belong to the poetry and the heart of England.</p> - -<p>I, at least, was moved by this sentiment, being, in those days, an -incurable romantic, though the war killed some of my romanticism. But -even romance is not proof against the material needs of human flesh, -and as the ceremony went on, hour after hour, I felt the sharp bite -of hunger. We had to be in our places in the Abbey by half-past seven -that morning, and keep them until three in the afternoon. I had come -provided with half a dozen sandwiches, but, with a foolish trust in -hungry human nature, left them for a few minutes while I walked to the -end of the gallery to see another aspect of the picture below. When I -came back, my sandwiches had disappeared. I strongly suspected, without -positive proof, a famous lady novelist who was in the next seat to -mine. It was a deplorable tragedy to me, as after the ceremony I had to -write a whole page for my paper, and there was no time for food.</p> - -<p>Among other royal events which I had to record was King George’s -Coronation Progress through Scotland, which was full of picturesque -scenes and romantic memories. The Scottish people were eager to prove -their loyalty and for hundreds of miles along the roads of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</a></span> Scotland -they gathered in vast cheering crowds, while all the way was guarded by -Highland and Lowland troops of the Regular and Territorial Armies. For -the first time I saw the fighting men of bonnie Scotland, and little -dreamed then that I should see their splendid youth in the ordeal of -battle, year after year, and foreign fields strewn with their bodies, -as often I did, in Flanders and in France.</p> - -<p>There were four or five correspondents, of whom I was one, allowed to -travel with the King. We had one of the royal motor cars, and wherever -the King drove, we followed next to his equerries and officers. It was -an astonishing experience, for we were part of the royal procession -and in the full tide of that immense, clamorous enthusiasm of vast and -endless crowds which awaited the King’s coming. Our eyes tired of the -triumphal arches, floral canopies, flag-covered cities and hamlets, -through which we passed, and of those turbulent waves of human faces -pressing close to our carriage. Our ears wearied of the unceasing din -of cheers, the noise of great multitudes, the skirl of the pipes, the -distressing repetition of “God Save the King” played by innumerable -brass bands, sung for hundreds of miles by the crowds, by masses of -school children, by Scottish maidens of the universities, by old -farmers, standing bareheaded as the King passed. We pitied any man who -had to pass his life in such a way, smiling, saluting, keeping the -agony of weariness out of his eyes by desperate efforts.</p> - -<p>I am bound to say that the correspondents’ car brightened up the -royal procession considerably. One of our party was an Edinburgh -correspondent, who has been made by nature in the image of a celebrated -film actor of great fatness, with a cheery, full-moon face of -benevolent aspect. The appearance of this figure immediately following -the King, and so quick upon the heels of solemnity, had a devastating -effect upon the crowds. They positively<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</a></span> yelled with laughter, -believing that they recognized their “movie” favorite. Highland -soldiers, with their rifles at the “present,” stiff and impassive as -statues, wilted, and grinned from ear to ear. Scottish lassies from the -factories and farms, whose eyes had shone and cheeks flushed at the -sight of the King, had a quick reaction, and shrieked with mirth.</p> - -<p>They could not place the correspondents at all. Some thought we were -“the foreign ambassadors.” Others put us down as private detectives. -But the most astonishing theory as to our place and dignity in the -procession was uttered by an old Scottish farmer at Perth. The King -had halted to receive a loyal address, and the crowd was jammed tight -against our carriage. We could hear the comments of the crowd and the -usual question about our identity. The old farmer gazed at us with his -blue eyes beneath shaggy brows, and plucked his sandy beard.</p> - -<p>“Eh, mon,” he said, seriously, “they maun be the King’s barstards.”</p> - -<p>I laughed from Perth to Stirling Castle, and back again to Edinburgh.</p> - -<p>We dined in old castles, lunched with Scottish regiments, saw the -old-time splendor of Holyrood at night, with old coaches filled with -the beauty of Scottish ladies passing down the High Street where once, -in these old wynds and courtyards, the nobility of Scotland lived -and quarreled and fought, and where now barefoot bairns and ragged -women dwell in paneled rooms in direst poverty. Again and again they -sang old Jacobite songs as the King passed, forgetting his Hanoverian -ancestry, and one sweet song to Bonnie Charlie—“Will ye no come back -again?”—haunts me now, as I write.</p> - -<p>With the King, we saw the great shipbuilding works on the Clyde, where -thousands of riveters gathered round the King, cheering like demons, -and looking rather like demons with their black faces and working -overalls. The<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</a></span> King was admirable in his manner to all of them, and, -though his fatigue must have been great, his good nature enabled him to -hide it. His laughter rang out loudest when he passed under the hulk of -a ship on the stocks and saw scrawled hugely in chalk upon its plates: -“Good old George! We want more Beer!”</p> - -<p>Another great scene of which I was an eyewitness was the King’s -Coronation Review of the British fleet at Spithead. It was a marvelous -pageant of the grim and silent power of the British navy as the royal -yacht passed down the long avenues of battleships and cruisers, -in perfect line, enormous above the water line, terrible in the -potentiality of their great guns. Every navy in the world had sent a -battleship to salute the King-Admiral of the British navy. The Stars -and Stripes, the Rising Sun of Japan, the long coils of the Chinese -Dragon, the tricolor of France, the imperial colors of Germany, were -among the flags, which included those of little nations, with a few -destroyers and light cruisers as their naval strength.</p> - -<p>All the ships were “dressed” and “manned,” with sailors standing on -the yard arms and along the decks, and as the King’s yacht passed each -ship, the royal salute was fired, and the crew cheered lustily in the -echo of the guns. All but one ship, which was the <i>Von der Thann</i> of -Germany. No sound of cheering came from that battleship, but the German -crew maintained absolute silence. Few noticed it at the time, but I -remarked it with uneasy foreboding.</p> - -<p>I also contrasted it later with the greeting given to the Kaiser by -a group of English people at Hamburg, not a year before the war, in -which England and Germany devoted all their strength to each other’s -destruction. I was on a voyage in one of the Castle Line boats, and -we put off at Hamburg to be entertained by the Mayor in his palace of -the Town Hall. The Kaiser was expected, and we lined up to await his -arrival. It was heralded by<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</a></span> the three familiar notes of his motor -horn, and when he appeared there was a loud “Hip, hip, horrah!” from -the English party. The Emperor acknowledged the greeting with a grim -salute. He had no love for England then in his heart, and believed, I -think, in that “<i>unvermeidlicher Krieg</i>”—that “unavoidable war”—which -was already the text of German newspapers, though in England the -warnings of a few men like Lord Roberts seemed to be the foolishness of -old age, and popular imagination refused to believe in a world gone mad -and tearing itself in pieces for no apparent cause.</p> - -<p>When that war happened, I caught a glimpse, now and again, in lulls -between its monstrous battles, of the man I had seen when he went -weeping from the bedside of King Edward; whom I had seen bowing his -head under the burden of the crown which came to him; whom I had -followed in triumphant processions through his peaceful kingdom—peace -seemed so lasting and secure, then—and who had come to visit his youth -of the Empire, dying in heaps in defense of their race and power and -tradition, as they truly believed, and as, indeed, was so, whatever -the wickedness and folly that led to that massacre, on the part of -statesmen of all countries who did not foresee and prevent the world -conflict.</p> - -<p>On his first visit the King was not allowed to get anywhere near -the firing line, but was restricted to base areas and hospitals and -convalescent camps, and distant views of the battlefields. On his -second visit, he insisted upon going far forward, and would not be -deterred by the generals, who, naturally, were intensely anxious for -his safety.</p> - -<p>With another war correspondent—Percival Phillips, I think—I went with -the King over the Vimy Ridge where there was always, at that time, the -chance of meeting a German shell, and to the top of “Whitesheet Hill,” -which was a very warm place indeed a few days after the battle<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</a></span> which -captured it. The Prince of Wales was with his father, and by that time -well hardened to the noise of guns and shell bursts. To the King it was -all new, but he was perfectly at ease and lingered, far too long, as -the generals thought, among the ruins of a convent, reduced to the size -of a slag-heap, on the top of the hill looking over the German lines. -As though they were aware of his visit, the Germans put down a very -stiff dose of five-point-nines on the very spot where the King had been -standing, but a few minutes too late, because he had just descended the -slope of the hill and was examining one of the monster mine craters -which we had blown at the beginning of the battle. He was there for ten -minutes or so, and had hardly moved away before the Germans lengthened -their range and laid down harassing fire around the crater. The King -adjusted his steel hat, and laughed, while the Prince of Wales strolled -about, looking rather bored.</p> - -<p>The Prince did a real job out there, and though, as an officer on the -“Q” side of the Guards, he was not supposed to go into the danger zone, -he was constantly in forward places which were not what the Tommies -called “health resorts.” I met him one day going into Vermelles, which -was a very ugly place indeed, with death on the prowl amid its ruins. -He and a Divisional General left their car on the edge of the ruins -while they walked forward, and, on their return, found that their poor -chauffeur had had his head blown off.</p> - -<p>Another time when the King saw a little of the “real thing” was when -he visited the Guards in their camp behind the lines near Pilkem. -Their headquarters were in an old monastery, and the King and the -officers took tea in the garden, while the band of the Grenadiers -played selections from Gilbert and Sullivan. I remember it was when -they were playing “Dear Little Buttercup” that three German aëroplanes -came overhead, flying very<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</a></span> low. To our imagination they seemed to -be searching for the King, and we expected at any moment they would -unload their bombs upon his tea table and his body. Our anti-aircraft -guns immediately opened fire, and there was a shrieking of three-inch -shells until the blue sky was all dappled with the white puffs of -the “Archies.” The enemy planes circled round, had a good look, and -then flew away without dropping a bomb, much to our relief, for one -good-sized bomb would have made a horrible mess in the Guards’ camp, -and might have killed the King.</p> - -<p>That afternoon I was trapped into a little conspiracy against the King -by the old abbot of the monastery. He was immensely anxious for the -King to sign the visitors’ book, but the officers put the old man off -by various excuses. Feeling sorry for his disappointment, I promised to -say a word to the King’s aide-de-camp, and advised the old gentleman -to intercept the King down the only path he could use on his way out, -carrying the great leather book, and a pen and ink, so that there would -be no escape. This little plot succeeded, to the huge delight of the -abbot, and the monks who afterward gave me their united blessings.</p> - -<p>On the King’s first visit to the army in France, a most unfortunate -accident happened to him, which was very painful and serious. He was -reviewing part of the Air Force on a road out of Béthune, mounted on a -horse which ought to have been proof against all the noise of military -maneuvers. But it was too much for the animal’s nerves when, at the -conclusion of the review, the silent lines of men suddenly broke into -deafening cheers. The horse reared three times, and the King kept his -seat perfectly. But the third time, owing to the greasy mud, the horse -slipped and fell sideways, rolling over the King. Generals dismounted, -and ran to where he lay motionless and a little stunned. They picked -him up and put him<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</a></span> into his motor car, where he sat back feebly, -and with a look of great pain. I happened to be standing on a bank -immediately opposite, and one of the King’s A.D.C.’s, greatly excited, -ran up to me and said: “Tell the men not to cheer!” It was impossible -for me, as a war correspondent, to give any such order, and, indeed, it -was too late, for when the King’s car moved down the road, the other -men, who had not seen the accident, cheered with immense volleys of -enthusiastic noise.</p> - -<p>The King tried to raise his hand to the salute, but had not the -strength. He had been badly strained, suffered acute pain, and that -night was in a high fever. On the following day I saw him taken away -in an ambulance, like an ordinary casualty, and no soldiers in the -little old town of Béthune knew that it was the King of England who was -passing by.</p> - -<p>Before the end of his second visit, the King received the five war -correspondents who had followed the fortunes of the British Armies in -France through all their great battles, and he spoke kind words to us -which we were glad to hear.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</a></span></p> - -<h2>IV</h2> - -<p>In spite of my long and fairly successful career as a journalist, I -have rarely achieved what is known as a “scoop,” that is to say, an -exclusive story of sensational interest. On the whole, I don’t much -believe in the editor or reporter who sets his soul on “scoops,” -because they create an unhealthy rivalry for sensation at any -price—even that of truth—and the “faker” generally triumphs over the -truthteller, until both he and the editor who encouraged him come a -cropper by being found out.</p> - -<p>That is not to say that a man should not follow an advantage to the -utmost and his luck where it leads him. It is nearly always luck -that is one of the essential elements in journalistic success, and -sometimes, as in a game of cards, it deals a surprisingly fine hand. -The skill is in making the best use of this chance and keeping one’s -nerve in a game of high stakes.</p> - -<p>The only important “scoop” that I can claim, as far as I remember, -was my discovery of Doctor Cook after his pretended discovery of the -North Pole. That was due to a lucky sequence of events which led me -by the hand from first to last. The story is amusing for that reason, -and this is the first time I have written the narrative of my strange -experiences in that affair.</p> - -<p>My first stroke of luck, strange as it may seem, was my starting -twenty-four hours later than forty other correspondents in search of -the explorer at Copenhagen. If I had started at the same time, I should -have done what they did, and perhaps taken the same line as they did. -As it was, I had to play a lone hand and form my own judgment. </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</a></span></p> - -<p>I had arrived at the <i>Daily Chronicle</i> office from some country place -when E. A. Perris, the news editor, now the managing editor, said in a -casual way:</p> - -<p>“There’s a fellow named Doctor Cook who has discovered the North Pole. -He may arrive at Copenhagen to-morrow. Lots of other men have the start -of you, but see if you can get some kind of a story.”</p> - -<p>I uttered the usual groan, obtained a bag of gold from the cashier, and -set out for Copenhagen by way of the North Sea. On a long and tiresome -journey I repeated the name “Doctor Cook,” lest I should forget it, -wondered if I knew anything about Arctic exploration, and decided I -didn’t, and accepted the probability that I should be too late to find -the great explorer, and shouldn’t know what to ask him if I found him.</p> - -<p>I arrived in Copenhagen dirty, tired, and headachy in the evening. I -wanted above all things a cup of strong coffee, and with the German -language, communicated my desire to a taxi driver. He took me to a -rather low-looking café, filled with men and women and tobacco smoke. -That was my second stroke of luck, for if I had not gone to that -particular café I should never have met Doctor Cook in the way that -happened.</p> - -<p>Over my cup of coffee I looked at the Danish paper, and could read only -two words, “Doctor Cook.” A young waiter served me, and when I found -that he spoke English, I asked him if Doctor Cook, the explorer, had -arrived in Copenhagen.</p> - -<p>“No,” said the waiter. “He ought to have been here at midday. But -there’s a fog in the Cattegat, and his boat will not come in until -to-morrow morning. All Denmark is waiting for him.”</p> - -<p>So he had not arrived! Well, I might be in time, after all. I looked -round for any journalist I might know, but did not see a familiar face.</p> - -<p>Presently, as I sat smoking a cigarette, I perceived a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</a></span> suddenly -awakened interest among the people in the café. It was due to the -arrival of a very pretty lady in a white fur toque, with a white -fox-skin round her neck, accompanied by another young lady, and a tall -Danish fellow with tousled hair. They took their seats at the far end -of the café.</p> - -<p>The young waiter came up to me and whispered with some excitement:</p> - -<p>“Did you see that beautiful lady? That is Mrs. Rasmussen!”</p> - -<p>The name meant nothing to me, and when I told him so, he was shocked.</p> - -<p>“She’s the wife of Knud Rasmussen, the famous explorer. It was he who -provided Doctor Cook with his dogs before he set out for the North -Pole. They are great friends.”</p> - -<p>I was aware that luck was befriending me. From that lady, if I had the -pluck to speak to her, I could at least find out something about the -mysterious Doctor Cook, and perhaps get a good story about him, whether -I could meet him or not.</p> - -<p>I struggled with my timidity, and then went across the café and made -my bow to the pretty lady, explaining that I was a newspaper man from -London, who had come all the way to interview Doctor Cook, who was, I -understood, a friend of her distinguished husband. Could she tell me -how to find him?</p> - -<p>Mrs. Rasmussen who was highly educated and extremely handsome, spoke a -little French, a little German, and a very little English. In a mixture -of these three tongues we understood each other, helped out by the -young Dane, who was Peter Freuchen, a well-known traveler in the Arctic -regions, and a very good linguist.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Rasmussen was friendly and amused. She told me it was true her -husband was a great friend of Doctor Cook, and that he was the last -man who had seen him<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</a></span> before he went toward the North Pole. For that -reason she wanted to be one of the first to greet him. A launch, or -tug, belonging to the director of the Danish-Greenland Company, had -made ready to go down the Cattegat to meet the <i>Hans Egede</i> with Doctor -Cook on board, and she had hoped to make that journey. But the fog had -spoiled everything, and the launch would leave in the morning instead -at a very early hour. It was very disappointing!</p> - -<p>“Surely,” I said, “if you really want to go, it would be excellent to -travel to Elsinore to-night, put up at a hotel, and get on board the -launch at dawn. If you would allow me to accompany you——”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Rasmussen laughed at my adventurous plan.</p> - -<p>According to her, the last train had gone to Elsinore.</p> - -<p>“Let us have a taxi and drive there!”</p> - -<p>She told me that no motor car was allowed to drive at night beyond -a certain distance from Copenhagen. It would mean a fine, or -imprisonment, for the driver without special license.</p> - -<p>It seemed incredible.</p> - -<p>I summoned my friendly young waiter, and asked him to bring in a taxi -driver. In less than a minute a burly fellow stood before me, cap in -hand. Through the waiter I asked him how much he wanted to drive a -party that night to Elsinore. He shook his head, and, according to the -waiter, replied that he could not risk the journey, as he might be -heavily fined.</p> - -<p>“How much, including the fine?” I asked.</p> - -<p>If he had demanded fifty pounds, I should have paid it—with <i>Daily -Chronicle</i> money.</p> - -<p>To my amazement, he asked the modest sum of five pounds, including the -fine.</p> - -<p>I turned to Mrs. Rasmussen, Peter Freuchen, and the other lady, and -invited them all to make the journey in “my” motor car. </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</a></span></p> - -<p>They hesitated, laughed, whispered to each other, and were, as I could -see, tempted by the lure of the adventure.</p> - -<p>“But,” said Mrs. Rasmussen, “when we get there, supposing you were not -allowed on the launch by the Director of the Danish-Greenland Company? -He is our friend. But you are, after all, a stranger!”</p> - -<p>“I should have had an amusing drive,” I said. “It would be worth while. -Perhaps you would tell me what Doctor Cook says, when you return.”</p> - -<p>They laughed again, hesitated quite a time, then accepted the -invitation. It was arranged that we should start at ten o’clock, when -few people would be abroad outside the city, where we should have to -travel with lights out to avoid the police. There still remained an -hour or so. We had dinner, talked of Doctor Cook, and at ten o’clock -started out in the taxi, and I thought how incredible it was that I -should be sitting there, opposite a beautiful lady with a silver fox -round her throat, with a laughing girl by her side, and a young Danish -explorer next to the driver, riding through Denmark with lights out, -to meet a man who had discovered the North Pole, and whose name I had -never heard two days before. These things happen only in journalism and -romance.</p> - -<p>We had not gone very far when, driving through a village, we knocked -over a man on a bicycle. People came running up through the darkness. -Peter Freuchen leaped down from his seat to pick up the man, who -seemed to be uninjured, and there was a great chatter in the Danish -tongue, while I kept on shouting to Freuchen, “How much to pay?” After -a while he resumed his seat and said, “Nodings to pay!” So we went on -again, and after a long, cold drive without further incident, reached -Elsinore, where Hamlet saw his father’s ghost.</p> - -<p>At the hotel there we had something hot to drink, and then Mrs. -Rasmussen caught sight of a dapper little man who was the Director of -the Danish-Greenland Company<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</a></span> and the owner of the launch which was to -meet Doctor Cook.</p> - -<p>I was left in the background while my three companions entered into -conversation with him. From the expression on their faces, I soon saw -that they were disappointed, and I resigned myself to the thought that -I had the poorest chance of meeting the explorer’s ship at sea.</p> - -<p>Presently Mrs. Rasmussen came back.</p> - -<p>“He won’t take us,” she said.</p> - -<p>“Hard luck!”</p> - -<p>“But,” she added, “he will take you!”</p> - -<p>That sounded ridiculous, but it was true. The pompous little man, -it seemed, had had applications from half the ladies of Copenhagen, -including his own wife, perhaps, to take them on his tug to meet the -hero of the North Pole. He had refused them all, in order to favor -none at the expense of others. It was impossible for him to take Mrs. -Rasmussen and her friends. He very much regretted that. But when they -told him that I was an English journalist, he said there would be a -place for me with two or three Danish correspondents.</p> - -<p>Amazing chance! But hard on the little party I had brought to Elsinore! -They were very generous about the matter, and wished me good luck when -I embarked on the small tug which was to steam out to a lightship in -the Cattegat and at dawn go out to meet the <i>Hans Egede</i>, as Cook’s -ship was called. Like a fool, I left my overcoat behind and nearly -perished of cold, until an hour later I had climbed up an iron ladder -to the lightship in a turbulent sea and descended into the skipper’s -cabin, where there was a joyous “fugg” and some hot cocoa spiced with a -touch of paraffin.</p> - -<p>At dawn we saw, far away up the Cattegat, a little ship all gay with -bunting. It was the <i>Hans Egede</i>. We steamed toward it, lay alongside, -and climbed to its top deck up a rope ladder. There I saw a sturdy, -handsome<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</a></span> Anglo-Saxon-looking man, in furs, surrounded by a group of -hairy and furry men, Europeans and Eskimos, and some Arctic dogs. There -was no journalistic rival of mine aboard, except the young Danes with -us.</p> - -<p>I went up to the central figure, whom I guessed to be Doctor Cook, -introduced myself as an English press man, shook hands with him, and -congratulated him on his heroic achievement.</p> - -<p>He took my arm in a friendly way, and said, “Come and have some -breakfast, young man.”</p> - -<p>I sat next to him in the dining saloon of the <i>Hans Egede</i>, which was -crowded with a strange-looking company of men and women, mostly in furs -and oilskins, with their faces burned by sunlight on snow. The women -were missionaries and the wives of missionaries, and their men folk -wore unkempt beards.</p> - -<p>I studied the appearance of Doctor Cook. He was not bearded, but had -a well-shaven chin. He had a powerful face, with a rather heavy nose -and wonderfully blue eyes. There was something queer about his eyes, -I thought. They avoided a direct gaze. He seemed excited, laughed a -good deal, talked volubly, and was restless with his hands, strong -seaman’s hands. But I liked the look of him. He seemed to me typical of -Anglo-Saxon explorers, hard, simple, true.</p> - -<p>In response to my request for his “story,” he evaded a direct reply, -until, later in the morning, the Danes and I pressed him to give us an -hour in his cabin.</p> - -<p>It was in the saloon, however, that he delivered himself, unwillingly, -I thought, into our hands. As the two or three young Danes knew but -little English, the interview became mainly a dialogue between Doctor -Cook and myself. I had no suspicion of him, no faint shadow of a -thought that all was not straightforward. Being vastly ignorant of -Arctic exploration, I asked a number of simple questions to extract his -narrative; and, to save <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</a></span>myself trouble and get good “copy,” I asked -very soon whether he would allow me to see his diary.</p> - -<p>To my surprise, he replied with a strange defensive look that he had -no diary. His papers had been put on a yacht belonging to a man named -Whitney, who would take them to New York.</p> - -<p>“When will he get there?” I asked.</p> - -<p>“Next year,” said Doctor Cook.</p> - -<p>“But surely,” I said, still without suspicion, “you have brought your -journal with you? The essential papers?”</p> - -<p>“I have no papers,” he said, and his mouth hardened.</p> - -<p>“Perhaps I could see your astronomical observations?” I said, and was -rather pleased with that suggestion.</p> - -<p>“Haven’t I told you that I have brought no papers?” he said.</p> - -<p>He spoke with a sudden violence of anger which startled me. Then he -said something which made suspicion leap into my brain.</p> - -<p>“You believed Nansen,” he said, “and Amundsen, and Sverdrup. They had -only their story to tell. Why don’t you believe me?”</p> - -<p>I had believed him. But at that strange, excited protest and some -uneasy, almost guilty, look about the man, I thought, “Hullo! What’s -wrong? This man protests too much.”</p> - -<p>From that moment I had grave doubts of him. I pressed him several -times about his papers. Surely he was not coming to Europe, to claim -the greatest prize of exploration, without a scrap of his notes, or -any of his observations? He became more and more angry with me, until -for the sake of getting some narrative from him, I abandoned that -interrogation, and asked him for his personal adventures, the manner of -his journey, the weights of his sledges, the number of his dogs, and -so on. As I scribbled down his answers, the story appeared to me more -and more fantastic. And he contradicted himself<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</a></span> several times, and -hesitated over many of his answers, like a man building up a delicate -case of self-defense. By intuition, rather than evidence, by some quick -instinct of facial expression, by some sensibility to mental and moral -dishonesty, I was convinced, absolutely, at the end of an hour, that -this man had not been to the North Pole, but was attempting to bluff -the world. I need not deal here with the points in his narrative, and -the gaps he left, which served to confirm my belief....</p> - -<p>In sight of Copenhagen the <i>Hans Egede</i> was received by marvelous -demonstrations of enthusiasm. The water was crowded with craft of every -size and type, from steam yachts to rowing boats, tugs to pinnaces, -with flags aflutter. Cheers came in gusts, unceasingly. Sirens shrieked -a wailing homage, whistles blew. Bands on pleasure steamers played “See -the Conquering Hero Comes.”</p> - -<p>Doctor Cook, the hero, was hiding in his cabin. He had to be almost -dragged out by a tall and splendid Dane named Norman Hansen, poet and -explorer, who afterward constituted himself Doctor Cook’s champion and -declared himself my enemy, because of my accusations against this man.</p> - -<p>Doctor Cook came out of his cabin with a livid look, almost green. I -never saw guilt and fear more clearly written on any human face. He -could hardly pull himself together when the Crown Prince of Denmark -boarded his ship and offered the homage of Denmark to his glorious -achievement.</p> - -<p>But that was the only time in which I saw Cook lose his nerve.</p> - -<p>Landing on the quayside, I had to fight my way through an immense -surging crowd, which almost killed the object of their adoration by the -terrific pressure of their mass, in which each individual struggled -to get near him. I heard afterward that W. T. Stead, the famous old<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</a></span> -journalist of the <i>Review of Reviews</i>, which afterward I edited, flung -his arms round Doctor Cook, and called upon fellow journalists to form -his bodyguard, lest he should be crushed to death.</p> - -<p>On the edge of the crowd I met the first English journalist I had seen. -It was Alphonse Courlander, a very brilliant and amusing fellow, with -whom I had a close friendship. When he heard that I had been on Cook’s -ship and had interviewed him for a couple of hours, he had a wistful -look which I knew was a plea for me to impart my story. But this was -one of the few times when I played a lone hand, and I ran from him, and -jumped on a taxi in order to avoid the call of comradeship. I knew that -I had the story of the world.</p> - -<p>In a small hotel, distant from the center of the city, I wrote it to -the extent of seven columns, and the whole of it amounted to a case -of libel, making a definite challenge to Cook’s claim and ridiculing -the narrative which I set forth as he had told it to me. When I had -handed it into the telegraph office I knew that I had burned my boats, -and that my whole journalistic career would be made or marred by this -message.</p> - -<p>During the time I had been writing, Doctor Cook had been interviewed by -forty journalists in one assembly. W. T. Stead, as doyen of the press, -asked the questions, and at the end of the session spoke on behalf -of the whole body of journalists in paying his tribute of admiration -and homage to the discoverer of the North Pole. Spellbound by Stead’s -enthusiasm, and not having had my advantage of that experience on -the <i>Hans Egede</i>, there was not a man among that forty who suggested -a single word of doubt about the achievement claimed by Cook. By a -supreme chance of luck, I was alone in my attack.</p> - -<p>I will not disguise my sense of anxiety. I had a deep conviction that -my judgment was right, but whether I should be able to maintain my -position by direct evidence<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</a></span> and proof, was not so certain in my mind. -I knew, next day, that my dispatch had been published by my paper, for -great extracts from it were cabled back to the Danish press and they -caused an immense sensation in Copenhagen, and as the days passed in an -astounding fortnight, when I continued my attack by further and damning -accusations against Cook, I was the subject of hostile demonstrations -in the restaurants and cafés, and the Danish newspaper <i>Politiken</i> -published a murderous-looking portrait of me and described me as “the -liar Gibbs”—a designation which afterward they withdrew with handsome -apologies.</p> - -<p>The details of the coil of evidence I wove about the feet of Cook need -not be told in full. He claimed that he had told his full story to -Sverdrup, a famous explorer in Copenhagen, and that Sverdrup pledged -his own honor in proof of his achievement.</p> - -<p>Afterward I interviewed Sverdrup and obtained a statement from him that -Cook had given no proof whatever of his claim.</p> - -<p>He professed to have handed his written narrative and astronomical -observations to the University of Copenhagen, and it was claimed on -his behalf by the Danish press that these papers had been examined by -astronomical and geographical experts who were absolutely satisfied -that Cook had reached the North Pole.</p> - -<p>From the head of the University I obtained a statement that Cook had -submitted no such papers and had advanced no scientific proof.</p> - -<p>Using his own narrative to me, which I had scribbled down as he talked, -I enlisted the help of Peter Freuchen and other Arctic travelers, to -analyze his statements about his distances, his sledge weights, the -amount of food drawn by his dogs, and his time-table. They proved to be -absurd, and when he contradicted himself to other interviewers, I was -able, with further expert advice, to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</a></span> contradict his contradictions. It -was a great game, which I thoroughly enjoyed, though I worked day and -night, with only snatches of rest for food and sleep.</p> - -<p>But I had some nasty moments.</p> - -<p>One was when a statement was published in every newspaper of the world -that the Rector of the Copenhagen University had flatly denied my -interview with him and reiterated his satisfaction with the proofs -submitted by Doctor Cook.</p> - -<p><i>The Daily Chronicle</i> telegraphed this denial to me and said, “Please -explain.”</p> - -<p>I remember receiving that telegram shortly after reading the same -denial in the Danish newspapers, brought to me by Mr. Oscar Hansen, the -Danish correspondent of my own paper, who was immensely helpful to me. -I was thunderstruck and dismayed, for if the Rector of the University -denied what he had told me, and maintained a belief in the <i>bona fides</i> -of Cook, I was utterly undone.</p> - -<p>At that moment W. T. Stead approached me and put his hand on my -shoulder. He, too—still the ardent champion of Cook—had read that -denial.</p> - -<p>“Young man,” he cried, in his sonorous voice, “you have not only ruined -yourself, which does not matter very much, but you have also ruined -<i>The Daily Chronicle</i>, for which I have a great esteem.”</p> - -<p>“Mr. Stead,” I said, “I am a young and obscure man, compared with you, -and I appeal to your chivalry. Will you come with me to the Rector of -Copenhagen University and act as my witness to the questions I shall -put to him, and to the answers he gives?”</p> - -<p>“By all means,” he said, “and to make things quite beyond doubt, -we will take two other witnesses—the correspondent who issued the -statement about the denial, and another of established character.”</p> - -<p>The two other witnesses were a French count, acting as the -correspondent of a great French newspaper and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</a></span> the representative of a -news agency who had issued the university statement, and believed in -its truth.</p> - -<p>It was a strange and exciting interview with that Rector. For a long -time he refused to open his lips to say a single word one way or the -other about the Cook case. He relented slowly when W. T. Stead made an -eloquent plea on my behalf, and said that my honor was at stake on his -word.</p> - -<p>The correspondent who had published the denial of my interview tried -to intervene, speaking in rapid German which I could hardly follow, -endeavoring to persuade the Rector to uphold the statement issued with -regard to the University. But the Frenchman, acting as my second, as -it were, sternly bade him speak in English or French which all could -understand, and to give me the right of putting my questions. This was -upheld by Stead.</p> - -<p>I put my questions exactly word for word as I had done in the first -interview.</p> - -<p>Had Doctor Cook submitted any journal of his travels to the University?</p> - -<p>Had he submitted any astronomical observations?</p> - -<p>Had he presented any proof at all of his claim to have reached the Pole?</p> - -<p>The Rector hesitated long before answering each question in the -negative. The man was profoundly disturbed. Undoubtedly, as I knew -later, the University, with the King as its President, had deeply -involved itself by offering an honorary degree to Cook. As its chief -representative, this man was in a difficult and dangerous position, if -he turned down Cook’s claim. It was at least five minutes before he -answered the last question. Then, as an honest man, he answered, as he -had done before when I saw him alone, “No!”</p> - -<p>I breathed a deep sigh of relief. If he had been a dishonest man, my -reputation and career would have been utterly ruined. </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</a></span></p> - -<p>I asked him to sign the questions and answers as I had written them -down, but for a long time he refused to put his signature. Then he -signed, but as he handed me the paper, he said: “Of course that must -not be published in the newspapers.”</p> - -<p>I protested that in that case it was useless, and both Stead and the -French correspondent argued on my behalf. I had the paper in my breast -pocket, and when the Rector gave a timorous consent to its publication, -I left the room with deep words of thanks, and fairly ran out of the -gate of the University lest he should change his mind, or the paper -should be taken from me. It was published in <i>The Daily Chronicle</i>, and -in hundreds of other papers.</p> - -<p>A second blow befell me.</p> - -<p>I had resumed acquaintanceship with Peter Freuchen and Mrs. Rasmussen, -and at lunch one day she showed me a long letter which she had received -from her husband, the explorer who, as I have told, had been Cook’s -best friend, and had provided his dogs and Eskimos.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Rasmussen, smiling, said: “You, of all men, would like to read -that letter.”</p> - -<p>“Alas that I do not know Danish!” I answered.</p> - -<p>She marked one paragraph with a pencil, and said, “Perhaps I will let -you copy out those words.”</p> - -<p>It was Peter Freuchen who copied out the words in Danish, and Oscar -Hansen who translated them into English, on a bit of paper which I tore -out of my notebook.</p> - -<p>They were a repudiation by Knud Rasmussen of his faith in Cook, and a -direct suggestion that he was a knave and a liar.</p> - -<p>These words were, of course, vitally interesting to me, and, indeed, -to the world, for the fame and honor of Rasmussen were high, and his -name had been used as the best guarantee of Cook’s claim. With Mrs. -Rasmussen’s permission, I telegraphed her husband’s words<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</a></span> in my -message that day. They were immediately reproduced in all the Danish -papers, and made a new sensation.</p> - -<p>But my private sensation was far more emotional when, in crossing a -square the following evening, a Danish journalist showed me a paper and -said, “Have you seen this?”</p> - -<p>It was a formal denial by Mrs. Rasmussen that she had ever shown me a -letter from her husband, or that he had ever written the words I had -published.</p> - -<p>That was a severe shock to me. I could not understand it, or indeed -believe it. That very day Peter Freuchen and Mrs. Rasmussen had been my -guests at lunch, and as friendly as possible. Probably some malicious -journalist had invented the letter....</p> - -<p>It was late at night, and I could not find either Peter Freuchen or -Mrs. Rasmussen, nor did I ever see the lady again, because, on account -of certain high influences, she disappeared from Copenhagen.</p> - -<p>I remembered the bit of paper on which the words had been written -down in Danish by Peter Freuchen and translated into English by Oscar -Hansen. That document was very precious, and my only proof, but I -couldn’t find it in my pockets or my room. My room at the hotel was a -wreck of papers, but that one scrap evaded all search. At last, down on -my hands and knees, I found it screwed up under the bed, and gave a cry -of triumph.</p> - -<p>My old friend and true comrade, Oscar Hansen, made an affidavit that he -had translated Freuchen’s words, the editor of a news agency swore to -Freuchen’s handwriting, and I issued an invitation to Mrs. Rasmussen to -submit her husband’s letter to a committee of six, half appointed by -herself and half by me. If they denied that the letter contained the -words I had published, I would pay a certain heavy sum, which I named, -to Danish charities. That invitation was not accepted, and my words -were believed.</p> - -<p>I have already described in a previous column of these memories the -banquet to Doctor Cook which I attended<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</a></span> in the dress clothes of my -young friend the waiter. It was an historic evening, for, in the middle -of that dinner came the famous message from Peary in which he announced -his own arrival at the Pole and repudiated Cook’s claim.</p> - -<p>I stood close to Doctor Cook when that message was handed to him, and I -am bound to pay a tribute to his cool nerve. He read the message on the -bit of flimsy, handed it back, and said, “If Peary says he reached the -Pole, I believe him!”</p> - -<p>His manner at all times, after that temporary breakdown on the <i>Hans -Egede</i> was convincing. It was marvelous on the day when the doctor’s -degree—the highest honor of the University—was conferred upon him, -and before all the learned men there he ascended the pulpit of the -University chapel and in a solemn oration stretched out his arms and -said, “I show you my hands—they are clean!”</p> - -<p>At that moment I was tempted to believe that Cook believed he had been -to the North Pole. Sometimes, remembering the manner of the man, I am -tempted to think so still—though now there is no doubt that he never -went anywhere near his goal.</p> - -<p>I used to meet him on neutral ground at the American Minister’s house -in Copenhagen, where I handed round Miss Egan’s tea cakes. Doctor Cook -would never accept any cake from me! Maurice Egan, the Minister, was -immensely courteous and kind, and Miss Egan confided to me that if I -proved to be right about Doctor Cook, in whom she believed, she would -lose her faith in human nature. Since then, though I was proved right, -she has regained her faith in human nature, as I know from her happy -marriage in the United States.</p> - -<p>One other slight shock disturbed my mental poise in this fortnight of -sensation. It was when I read in the <i>Politiken</i> a challenge to a duel, -publicly addressed to me<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</a></span> by Norman Hansen, the poet and explorer. He -was a tall man, six foot three or so in his socks, and very powerful. I -am five-foot-six or so in my boots. If we met, I should die. I did not -answer that challenge! But on the day when Doctor Cook left Copenhagen, -with a wreath of roses round his bowler hat, and when I had done my job -with him, the crowd which had gone down to the quayside to see the last -of him, parted, and I found myself face to face with Norman Hansen.</p> - -<p>Some one in the crowd said:</p> - -<p>“When is that duel to be fought?”</p> - -<p>Norman Hansen came toward me, and held out his hand, with a great jolly -laugh.</p> - -<p>“We will never fight with the sword,” he said, “but only with the pen!”</p> - -<p>We didn’t even fight with the pen, for he lost all faith in Cook, and -sometimes from northern altitudes I get kind and generous messages from -him.</p> - -<p>W. T. Stead maintained his belief in Cook until the University of -Copenhagen formally rejected Cook’s claim and canceled his honorary -degree, when the evidence of his own papers, which afterward arrived, -and the story of his own Eskimos, left no shred of doubt in his favor.</p> - -<p>Then I had a note from the great old journalist.</p> - -<p>“I have lost and you have won,” he wrote, and after that used generous -words which I need not publish.</p> - -<p>Truly it was a queer, exciting incident in my journalistic life, and -looking back upon it, I marvel at my luck.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</a></span></p> - -<h2>V</h2> - -<p>By a young journalist, or an old one, there is always an adventure -to be found in London, as in any great city of the world where the -passions of men and women, the conflict of life, the heroism and crimes -of human nature, its dreams, its madness, and its faith, are but thinly -masked behind the commonplace aspect of modern streets, and beneath the -drab cloak of dullness of modern civilization.</p> - -<p>It was my hobby in those early Fleet Street days to explore the -underworld of London and to get behind the scenes of its monstrous -puppet show. I sought out the queer characters not yet “standardized” -by the discipline of compulsory education or the conventions of -middle-class manners.</p> - -<p>I dived into the foreign quarters of London and found that most nations -of Europe, and the races of the East, had their special sanctuaries in -the great old city, in which they preserved their own speech and habits -and faith.</p> - -<p>In the Russian quarter I met victims of the tyranny of Czardom, who -had escaped from Siberian prisons and still bore the marks of their -chains and lashes; and the Russian Jews, too, who had come to England -to save themselves from the pogroms of Riga and other cities. I found -many of them working as tailors and seamstresses in back rooms of -tenement houses, Whitechapel way, abominably overcrowded, but earning -high wages. It was a revelation to me that they did most of the “black” -work for great West End firms, so that Mayfair received its garments -from the East End, with any diseases that might be carried with them -from those fœtid little <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</a></span>factories. Thousands of them were employed -in cigarette factories, and spent their days filling little spills of -paper with the yellow weed, incredibly fast. According to the tradition -of not muzzling the ox that treads the corn, they were allowed to smoke -as much as they liked, and both men and women smoked continually.</p> - -<p>I made a study of German London, which, at that time, before something -happened like an earthquake, had as many German clubs as any good-sized -city of the Fatherland, and several German churches, workers’ unions, -theatrical and musical societies.</p> - -<p>In Soho I poked about French London, lunched at the <i>Petit Riche</i> -or dined at the Gourmet, and between Wardour Street and Old Compton -Street met the French girls who made artificial flowers for the ballets -and pantomimes, silk tights for the fairies of the footlights, and -embroidered shoes which twinkled on the boards.</p> - -<p>Italy in London was one of my earliest discoveries as a young writer in -search of the picturesque. It was but a ten minutes’ walk from my first -office, and often in lunch time I used to saunter that way, stopping to -listen to the English cheap-jacks in Leather Lane, on the other side -of Holborn, and then plunging into a labyrinth of narrow lanes and -courtyards entirely inhabited by Italians.</p> - -<p>It was a little Naples, in its color, its smells, its dirt. Across the -courtyards Italian women stretched their “washing”; and blue petticoats -and scarlet bodices, and silk scarves for women’s hair gave vivid color -to these London alleys. The women, as beautiful as Raphael’s Madonnas, -sang at their washtubs, surrounded by swarms of <i>bambini</i>.</p> - -<p>Here, under a baker’s shop kept by an Italian <i>padrone</i>, slept o’ -nights the little organ grinders and hurdy-gurdy boys, who used to -wander through the London suburbs and far into the countryside, to -the delight of English nurseries from which coppers were flung down -to these<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</a></span> grubby, dark-eyed urchins with little shivering monkeys in -their coat pockets or on their music boxes. They were the slaves of -the <i>padrone</i> and had to bring him all their earnings and get beaten -if they did not bring enough, before they slept in the cellars of this -London slum, among the black beetles and the rats.</p> - -<p>In one back yard lived a gray bear, belonging to two wanderers from the -mountains of Savoy, and I used to hear the rattle of his chains before -they led him out on his hind legs with a big pole between his paws.</p> - -<p>Above a big yard crowded with piano organs sat, in a little room at -the top of a high ladder, a fat old Italian who put the music on the -streets. He sat before an open organ case with a roll of cartridge -paper into which he stabbed little holes, which afterward made the -notes played by a spiked cylinder when the organ grinder turned his -handle. It was he who selected the tunes, thus conferring immortality -on many poor devils of musicians who heard their melodies whistled -by the errand boys to this music of the streets, and became famous -thereby. But it was the fat old Italian at the top of the tall ladder -who was the interpreter of their genius to the popular ear of the -great public of the streets and slums. He put in the trills, and the -“twiddley bits,” stabbing with his bradawl on the cartridge roll, -as though inspired by the divine afflatus, while his hair, above a -massive face and three chins, was all curls and corkscrews, as though -crotchets, and quavers, semiquavers, and demi-semiquavers, arpeggios -and chromatics were thrusting through his brain.</p> - -<p>In other yards were men all white from head to heel, who made the -plaster casts of Napoleon and Nelson, Queen Victoria and General -Gordon, Venus and Mercury, and other favorite characters of history, -sold by hawkers in Ludgate Hill and other haunts of high art at low -prices. They also made the casts of classical figures for art schools -and museums. </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</a></span></p> - -<p>In the back yards, the basements and the slum kitchens was another -profitable form of industry which was a monopoly of Italians in London -in the pre-war days. That was the ice cream trundled through the -streets with that alluring call to youth, “Hokey-pokey penny a lump!” -From surroundings appallingly free from sanitary supervision came this -nectar and ambrosia which the urchins of the London streets found an -irresistible temptation.</p> - -<p>It was a careless word on the subject of this lack of sanitation in the -ice-cream factories which nearly ended my career as a journalist before -it was fairly begun. Requiring some additional photographs for the -second instalment of some articles I was writing for a magazine—the -first, almost, that I ever wrote—I went one Sunday morning to Italy in -London with an amateur photographer. We went into one of the courtyards -where I had made friends with some of the pretty washerwomen, but I -was no sooner observed by a few of them than, as though by magic, -the courtyard was filled with a considerable crowd of those whom the -Americans call “Wops.”</p> - -<p>They came up from the basements where they slept as many as forty in -a cellar—organ grinders, ice-cream vendors, bear leaders, waiters. -I was obviously the object of passionate dislike. They surrounded me -with violent gestures and torrential speech, not one word of which -did I understand. At first I was mildly curious to know what all this -noise was about, but I saw that things were serious when several young -men began to flash about their clasp-knives. Help came at a critical -moment. Three London “Bobbies” appeared on the scene, as they generally -do, in the nick of time.</p> - -<p>“Now, what’s all this about?”</p> - -<p>Seldom before had I heard such a friendly and comforting inquiry.</p> - -<p>The crowd melted away. In the quietude that <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</a></span>followed, one young waiter -who remained explained to me that my published article on the Italian -quarter had caused great offense, as my reference to the ice-cream -factories had been taken as an insult. I had used the phrase “dirty -places” and the Italian colony desired my death. They did not get it -that Sunday morning. But I was sorry to have hurt their feelings, as I -had an affectionate regard for those people.</p> - -<p>I was abominably near a nasty accident, owing to a misplaced sense of -humor, when the Mohammedans in London celebrated the Feast of Ramadan, -as they do each year at the Holborn Restaurant. That is one of the most -unlikely places in which to meet Romance. On all the other days of -the year it is given over to public banquets of Odd Fellows and Good -Fellows, Masons, and Rotarians, and the business man of London when -he puts on a hard white shirt, and expands his manly bosom under the -influence of comradeship, and the sense of holding an honorable place -among his fellow men of the same social grade as himself. Yet, in the -Holborn Restaurant there is the mystery and the romance of the East, an -astonishing, and almost incredible, assembly of Oriental types, on that -day of Mohammedan rejoicing.</p> - -<p>The first time I went, there were several Indian princes in richly -colored turbans and gold-embroidered coats, some Persians in white -robes, Turks wearing the scarlet fez, a number of Arabs, some -full-blooded African negroes, and a group of Indian students. White -tablecloths, used as a rule by business men at their banquets, were -spread on the floor, and these were used as kneeling mats by the -Mohammedans, who bowed to the East with their foreheads touching the -ground and joined in a chant, rising and falling in the Oriental -scale, with strange wailings, as one among them read extracts from the -Koran, and between whiles seemed to carry on a musical and melancholy -conversation with the Faithful. </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</a></span></p> - -<p>My trouble was that I wanted to laugh. There was nothing to laugh at, -and much to admire in the intense faith of these Mohammedan worshipers, -but there are times, probably due to nervousness, when some little -demon tickles one into a desperate desire to relieve one’s emotion by -mirth. It is what schoolgirls call “the giggles.” I caught the eye of -an enormous negro, staring at me ferociously, and I failed to hide a -fatuous smile. It was the queer nasal lamentations of those kneeling -men, and this scene in the Holborn Restaurant, where I had dined the -very night before with business men in boiled shirts, which stirred -my sense of the ridiculous, against all my spirit of reverence and -decency. I was alarmed at myself, and hurriedly left the room.</p> - -<p>Outside the door I leaned against the wall and laughed with my -handkerchief to my mouth, because of this Arabian Nights’ dream in the -ridiculous commonplace of the Holborn Restaurant. As I did so, the -tall negro who had been eying me appeared suddenly before me in the -darkness of the passage. His eyes seemed to blaze with rage, and all -the wrath of Islam was in him, and he crouched a little as though to -make a spring at me. My misplaced sense of humor left me immediately! I -was out of the Holborn Restaurant and on top of a ’bus bound for Oxford -Circus, with astonishing rapidity.</p> - -<p>It was not only among the foreigners of London that I found strange -scenes and odd characters. The life of a journalist brings him into -touch with the eccentricities of human nature, and trains him to keep -his eyes open for rare birds, philosophers in back streets, odd volumes -in the bookshelf.</p> - -<p>It was by accident that I discovered a very queer fellow who revealed -to me a romantic profession. I was calling on a Member of Parliament -in the old Queen Anne house behind Westminster Abbey, when I saw a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</a></span> -smart gig standing by the pavement, a well-dressed young man with a -clean-shaven face, long nose, and green eyes, and, up against the -wall, a sack. It was the sack which astonished me. Filled with some -bulky-looking material, it was not like an ordinary sack, but was -heaving in a most peculiar way. I ventured to address the young man -with the gig.</p> - -<p>“What on earth’s the matter with that sack?”</p> - -<p>He grinned, and said, “Want to know?”</p> - -<p>Then, very cautiously, he opened the mouth of the sack, made a sharp -nip with forefinger and thumb, and brought out a big-sized rat.</p> - -<p>“There are four hundred in that bag,” he remarked proudly, “and all -alive and kicking. One has to handle ’em carefully. They bite like -blazes.”</p> - -<p>“What are they for?” I asked. “What are you going to do with them?”</p> - -<p>“Sell ’em to fancy gents who like a little sport with their dogs on -Sunday, down Mitcham way. Care to have my card?”</p> - -<p>He handed me a visiting card, and I read the inscription, which -notified that my new acquaintance was</p> - -<p>“<i>Rat Catcher to the Lord Mayor and the City of London.</i>”</p> - -<p>I made an appointment with this dignitary, and found that he was the -modern Pied Piper, who spent his nights in luring the rats of London -from riverside warehouses, city restaurants, and other establishments -along the bed of the Thames where they swarmed by the thousand.</p> - -<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div>“Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats,</div> -<div>Brown rats, black rats, grey rats, tawny rats,</div> -<div>Grave old plodders, gay young friskers,</div> -<div class="i2">Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins,</div> -<div>Cocking tails and pricking whiskers,</div> -<div class="i2">Families by tens and dozens....”</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</a></span></p> - -<p>Every night when the city folk had left their chop-houses or their -warehouses, this mysterious fellow with the greenish eyes went in -quietly with four big wire cages, some netting, and a long willow wand. -The nets, which had pouched pockets, he put up against the passages and -doorways. Then, in the absolute darkness, he stood motionless for an -hour. Presently there came a patter of tiny feet, a squeaking, a glint -of ravenous little eyes. They were all round him, searching for the -crumbs, ravenously. Suddenly he uttered a strange beastlike cry, in his -throat, like yodeling, and whipped the floor with his long white wand. -The rats were mesmerized, stupefied. They tried to make their way back -to their holes, but fell into the poacher’s nets, dozens and scores, on -a good hunting night. He emptied them into the cages, covered them with -white cloths, stood motionless again, waited again, made a second bag. -At dawn he departed with his sack well loaded, to sell to “fancy gents” -at four-pence each, in the suburbs of London.</p> - -<p>The foreign element in London was, on the whole, very law abiding. For -centuries London had been the sanctuary of political refugees from many -countries of persecution, and it was a tradition, and a good tradition, -of England, that no questions should be asked as to the political -faith of those who desired shelter from their own rulers. Even the -revolutionaries of Europe, and the “intellectual” anarchists, had the -good sense, for a long time, not to stir up trouble or attack the -laws of the land in which they found such generous exile. This rule, -however, was abruptly broken by a gang of foreign bandits who carried -out a series of alarming robberies, and, when tracked down at last, -shot a police inspector and wounded others.</p> - -<p>One of their own men was mortally wounded in the affray and carried -bleeding to a house in Grove Street, Whitechapel, one of the worst -streets in London, where<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</a></span> he died. He was a young Russian, as handsome -as a Greek god, in the opinion of the surgeons of the London Hospital, -with whom I happened to be lunching when one of the juniors rushed -in with the news that the corpse had been secured, against all -competitors, by the “London.”</p> - -<p>It was the death of this Russian which gave the clue to the habits -and whereabouts of the gang with whom he had been connected. Their -women were caught, and “blew the gaff,” and it was discovered that the -leader of the gang was another young Russian called Peter the Painter. -Scores of Scotland Yard detectives set out on the trail, and another -police inspector lost his life in the endeavor to arrest three of the -bandits at a house in Sidney Street, Whitechapel, where they defied all -attempts at capture by a ruthless use of automatic pistols. Siege was -laid to the house by the police and detectives, armed with revolvers, -and an astounding episode happened in the heart of London.</p> - -<p>For some reason, which I have forgotten, I went very early that morning -to the <i>Chronicle</i> office, and was greeted by the news editor with -the statement that a hell of a battle was raging in Sidney Street. He -advised me to go and look at it.</p> - -<p>I took a taxi, and drove to the corner of that street, where I found a -dense crowd observing the affair as far as they dared peer round the -angle of the walls from adjoining streets. Heedless at the moment of -danger, which seemed to me ridiculous, I stood boldly opposite Sidney -Street and looked down its length of houses. Immediately in front of me -four soldiers of one of the Guards’ regiments lay on their stomachs, -protected from the dirt of the road by newspaper “sandwich” boards, -firing their rifles at a house halfway down the street. Another young -Guardsman, leaning against a wall, took random shots at intervals while -he smoked a woodbine. As I stood near him, he winked and said, “What a -game!” </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</a></span></p> - -<p>It was something more than a game. Bullets were flicking off the wall -like peas, plugging holes into the dirty yellow brick, and ricocheting -fantastically. One of them took a neat chip out of a policeman’s -helmet, and he said, “Well, I’ll be blowed!” and laughed in a foolish -way. It was before the war, when we learned to know more about the -meaning of bullets. Another struck a stick on which a journalistic -friend of mine was leaning in an easy, graceful way. His support and -his dignity suddenly departed from him.</p> - -<p>“That’s funny!” he said, seriously, as he saw his stick neatly cut in -half at his feet.</p> - -<p>A cinematograph operator, standing well inside Sidney Street, was -winding his handle vigorously, quite oblivious of the whiz of bullets -which were being fired at a slanting angle from the house, which seemed -to be the target of the prostrate Guardsmen.</p> - -<p>A large police inspector, of high authority, shouted a command to his -men.</p> - -<p>“What’s all that nonsense? Clear the people back! Clear ’em right back! -We don’t want a lot of silly corpses lying round.”</p> - -<p>A cordon of police pushed back the dense crowd, treading on the toes of -those who would not move fast enough.</p> - -<p>I found myself in a group of journalists.</p> - -<p>“Get back there!” shouted the police.</p> - -<p>But we were determined to see the drama out. It was more sensational -than any “movie” show. Immediately opposite was a tall gin palace—“The -Rising Sun.” Some strategist said, “That’s the place for us!” We raced -across before the police could outflank us.</p> - -<p>A Jew publican stood in the doorway, sullenly.</p> - -<p>“Whatcher want?” he asked.</p> - -<p>“Your roof,” said one of the journalists.</p> - -<p>“A quid each, and worth it,” said the Jew.</p> - -<p>At that time, before the era of paper money, some of us<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</a></span> carried golden -sovereigns in our pockets, one to a “quid.” Most of the others did, -but, as usual, I had not more than eighteenpence. A friend lent me the -necessary coin, which the Jew slipped into his pocket as he let me -pass. Twenty of us, at least, gained access to the roof of “The Rising -Sun.”</p> - -<p>It was a good vantage point, or O.P., as we should have called it -later in history. It looked right across to the house in Sidney Street -in which Peter the Painter and his friends were defending themselves -to the death—a tall, thin house of three stories, with dirty window -blinds. In the house immediately opposite were some more Guardsmen, -with pillows and mattresses stuffed into the windows in the nature of -sandbags as used in trench warfare. We could not see the soldiers, -but we could see the effect of their intermittent fire, which had -smashed every pane of glass and kept chipping off bits of brick in the -anarchists’ abode.</p> - -<p>The street had been cleared of all onlookers, but a group of detectives -slunk along the walls on the anarchists’ side of the street at such an -angle that they were safe from the slanting fire of the enemy. They -had to keep very close to the wall, because Peter and his pals were -dead shots and maintained something like a barrage fire with their -automatics. Any detective or policeman who showed himself would have -been sniped in a second, and these men were out to kill.</p> - -<p>The thing became a bore as I watched it for an hour or more, during -which time Mr. Winston Churchill, who was then Home Secretary, came to -take command of active operations, thereby causing an immense amount -of ridicule in next day’s papers. With a bowler hat pushed firmly down -on his bulging brow, and one hand in his breast pocket, like Napoleon -on the field of battle, he peered round the corner of the street, and -afterward, as we learned, ordered up some field guns to blow the house -to bits. </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</a></span></p> - -<p>That never happened, for a reason which we on “The Rising Sun” were -quick to see.</p> - -<p>In the top-floor room of the anarchists’ house we observed a gas jet -burning, and presently some of us noticed the white ash of burnt paper -fluttering out of a chimney pot.</p> - -<p>“They’re burning documents,” said one of my friends.</p> - -<p>They were burning more than that. They were setting fire to the house, -upstairs and downstairs. The window curtains were first to catch -alight, then volumes of black smoke, through which little tongues of -flame licked up, poured through the empty window frames. They must have -used paraffin to help the progress of the fire, for the whole house was -burning with amazing rapidity.</p> - -<p>“Did you ever see such a game in London!” exclaimed the man next to me -on the roof of the public house.</p> - -<p>For a moment I thought I saw one of the murderers standing on the -window sill. But it was a blackened curtain which suddenly blew outside -the window frame and dangled on the sill.</p> - -<p>A moment later I had one quick glimpse of a man’s arm with a pistol -in his hand. He fired and there was a quick flash. At the same moment -a volley of shots rang out from the Guardsmen opposite. It is certain -that they killed the man who had shown himself, for afterward they -found his body (or a bit of it) with a bullet through the skull. It was -not long afterward that the roof fell in with an upward rush of flame -and sparks. The inside of the house from top to bottom was a furnace.</p> - -<p>The detectives, with revolvers ready, now advanced in Indian file. -One of them ran forward and kicked at the front door. It fell in, and -a sheet of flame leaped out.... No other shot was fired from within. -Peter the Painter and his fellow bandits were charred cinders in the -bonfire they had made.</p> - -<p>So ended the “Battle of Sidney Street,” which created<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</a></span> intense -excitement and indignation throughout England, and threw a glare of -publicity on to the secret haunts of the foreign anarchists in London.</p> - -<p>I was one of those who directed the searchlight, for the very next day, -with Eddy, my colleague, I took up residence at 62 Sidney Street, and -explored the underworld of Whitechapel and the Anarchist clubs of the -Russian and German Jews, who were the leading spirits of a philosophy -which is now known as Bolshevism. And in that quest I had some strange -adventures, and met some very queer folk.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</a></span></p> - -<h2>VI</h2> - -<p>Before taking lodgings in Sidney Street, Whitechapel, to study the -haunts of Peter the Painter and his fellow “thugs,” I tried to get a -room in the house in Grove Street to which the handsome young Russian -had been carried when he was mortally wounded by the police.</p> - -<p>With my companion Eddy, I knocked at the door of this dark little -dwelling place, in a sinister street with a railed sidewalk, where -foreign-looking men lounged about in doorways, and young drabs with -painted faces started out at dusk for the lighted highways. Eddy and I -believed ourselves to be disguised adequately for East End life. We had -put on our oldest clothes and cloth caps, but we were both aware that -our appearance in Grove Street aroused immediate suspicion. After three -knocks, the door was opened on a chain, and a frowsy woman spoke to me -in Yiddish. I answered in German, which she seemed to understand. Upon -my asking for a room, she undid the chain and opened the door a little -way, so that I could see the crooked wooden stairs up which the man’s -body had been carried by two of those men who now lay burned to death -in Sidney Street.</p> - -<p>The woman asked us to wait, and then went down a stinking passage -and spoke to a man, as I could hear by the voices. While we waited, -shadows crept up out of the dark street about us, and I saw that we -were surrounded by the foreign-looking men who had been lounging in -the doorways. The woman came back with a tall, bearded man who spoke -English.</p> - -<p>“What do you want?”</p> - -<p>“A room for the night.” </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</a></span></p> - -<p>“What the hell for?” he asked. “Do you know there’s been a murder in -this house?”</p> - -<p>“That makes no difference,” I said, casually. “It’s late and raining, -and we want to sleep.”</p> - -<p>“Not here. We don’t want no narks in this house. We’re honest people.”</p> - -<p>“All right,” said Eddy. “We’ll go somewhere else.”</p> - -<p>He was moving off, when the man took hold of his arm.</p> - -<p>“Perhaps you won’t,” he snarled. “I may get into trouble about this, -with the cops. You’ll stay here till I send a word round to the -station.”</p> - -<p>He gave a whistle, and the men lurking in the darkness about us pressed -closer. They were young Jews of Russian type, anæmic and white-faced.</p> - -<p>He shoved the man off, and pushed his way through the crowd. They -jabbered in a foreign tongue, and followed a little way, but did not -touch us.</p> - -<p>“Let go of my arm, or I’ll hit you,” said Eddy.</p> - -<p>The rain fell faster, and we were splashed with mud. With good warm -houses in the West of London, it was ridiculous to be tramping about -the East like this, homeless and cold. We knocked at many doors in -other streets, and every answer we had was a rough refusal in Yiddish -or German to take us in. Not even when we offered as much as a -sovereign for a night’s shelter.</p> - -<p>“These people don’t like the look of us,” said Eddy. “What’s the matter -with our money?”</p> - -<p>The truth was, I think, that the affair in Sidney Street had thoroughly -scared the foreign element in the East End, and these people to whom we -applied for rooms were on their guard at once against two strangers who -might be police spies or criminals in search of a hiding place. They -were not accepting trouble either way.</p> - -<p>It was late at night when at last we persuaded an Israelite, and master -tailor, to rent us a room in Sidney<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</a></span> Street, next door to the house in -which Peter the Painter and his friends had defied the armed police of -London, and escaped capture by dying in the flames.</p> - -<p>From that address Eddy and I wrote a series of articles describing our -experiences in the East End, among anarchists, criminals, and costers. -The anarchists were the most interesting, and we visited them in their -night clubs.</p> - -<p>We went, I remember, to a Russian hotel in Whitechapel, where the chief -anarchist club in London had established its headquarters through fear -of a police raid at its old address. Certainly they took no precautions -to ensure secrecy, for even outside the hotel, down a side street, Eddy -and I could hear the stentorian voice of one of their orators, and see -the shadows of his audience on the window blinds. We went into the -hotel and found the stairs leading to the club room densely packed by -young men and women, for the most part respectably, and even smartly, -dressed, of obviously foreign race—Russian, German, and Jewish.</p> - -<p>Eddy and I wormed our way upstairs by slow degrees, sufficiently -close to hear the long, excited speech that was being made in German. -Here and there at least I heard snatches of it, and such phrases as -“the tyranny of the police,” “the fear of the <i>bourgeoisie</i>,” “the -dictatorship of the people,” “the liberty of speech,” and “the rights -of labor to absolute self-government.” Such phrases as these were -loudly applauded whenever the speaker paused.</p> - -<p>“Who is speaking?” I asked of a good-looking young fellow sitting on -the stairs.</p> - -<p>He answered sullenly:</p> - -<p>“Rocca. What’s that to you?”</p> - -<p>Presently there was a whispering about us. Sullen faces under bowler -hats held close consultation. Then there was a movement on the stairs, -jamming Eddy and myself against the banisters. </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</a></span></p> - -<p>“What do you want here?” asked one of the young men, aggressively. “If -you’re police narks, we’ll turn you out!”</p> - -<p>“Yes, or do you in!” said another.</p> - -<p>“We don’t want any bleeding spies here,” said a woman.</p> - -<p>Other expressions of hostility were uttered, and there was an ugly look -on the faces of these foreign youths.</p> - -<p>I thought it best to tell them frankly that I was merely a newspaper -reporter on <i>The Daily Chronicle</i>, finding a little descriptive -material. I should be interested to hear the speech upstairs, if they -had no objection.</p> - -<p>This candor disarmed them, or most of them, though a few raised the cry -of “Turn them out!”</p> - -<p>But an elderly man who seemed to have some authority raised his hand, -and took me under his protection.</p> - -<p>“That’s all right. We’ve nothing to hide. If <i>The Daily Chronicle</i> -wants our views, it can have them. Better come and see Mrs. Rocca.”</p> - -<p>The crowd made way for us on the stairs and my companion and I were led -to a narrow landing outside the room, where the orator still bellowed -in German to a packed audience, and then into a little slip of a room -which I found to be an ordinary bathroom.</p> - -<p>On the edge of the bath sat a well-dressed, rather good-looking and -pleasant-eyed lady, to whom I was introduced, and who was introduced to -me as Mrs. Rocca. She was the wife of the orator in the next room, and, -like himself, German.</p> - -<p>She spoke English perfectly, and in the presence of half a dozen -men who crowded in to listen, we had an argument lasting at least -an hour, on the subject of anarchy. She began by disclaiming, for -the anarchists in London, all knowledge of and responsibility for -the affair of Peter the Painter and his associates. They were merely -common thieves. But it was laughable, she<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</a></span> thought, what a panic fear -had been caused in middle-class London by the killing of a policeman -or two. It filled columns of the newspapers, with enormous headlines. -It seemed to startle them as something too horrible and monstrous for -imagination. Why all that agitation over the deaths of two guardians -of property, when there was no agitation at all, no public outcry, no -fierce clamor for vengeance, because every night men and women of the -toiling classes were being killed by the inhuman conditions of their -lives, in foul slums, in overcrowded bedrooms, in poisonous trades, in -sweated industries, as the helpless slaves of that capitalistic system -which protected itself by armies of police. The English people were -the world’s worst hypocrites. They hid a putrid mass of suffering, -corruption, and disease, caused by modern industrialism, and pretended -that it did not exist.</p> - -<p>“What is your philosophy?” I asked. “How do you propose to remedy our -present state?”</p> - -<p>“I am an intellectual Nihilist,” said the lady very calmly. “I believe -in the ultimate abolition of all law, all government, all police, and -in a free society with perfect liberty to the individual, educated in -self-discipline, love for others, and moral purpose.”</p> - -<p>I need not here repeat her arguments, nor their fantastic disregard of -human nature and the stark realities of life. She was well read, and -quoted all manner of writers from Plato to Bernard Shaw, and I marveled -that such a woman should be living in the squalor of Whitechapel as -a preacher of the destructive gospel. We had a vehement argument, in -which Eddy joined, and though we waxed hot, and disagreed with each -other on all issues, we maintained the courtesies of debate, in which, -beyond any mock modesty, I was hopelessly out-argued by this brilliant, -extraordinary, and dangerous woman. </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</a></span></p> - -<p>It was from acquaintances made in that club that we were led into other -byways of Whitechapel and heard strange and terrible tales of Russian -revolutionaries, who showed me the sores of fetters and chains about -their wrists and legs, and swore eternal hatred of the Russian Czardom, -which crushed the souls of men and women and tortured their bodies. -They were, doubtless, true tales, and it was with the remembrance -of those horrors that the Russian Revolution was made, in all its -cruelty and terror, until the autocracy of the Czars was replaced by -the tyranny of Lenin and the Soviet State, when the dream of Russian -liberty was killed, for a generation at least, in the ruin and famine -and pestilence of the people.</p> - -<p>Eddy and I dined in the kosher restaurants of the East End, went to the -Jewish theater, and explored the haunts of the Russian and Oriental -Jews of London.</p> - -<p>In our wanderings we discovered the most Oriental place this side of -Constantinople. It was Hessell Street Market, in a deep sunken road, -reached by flights of steep steps through blocks of buildings in the -Commercial Road, and quite unknown to most Londoners. On each side of -the sunken street were wooden booths which looked as though they had -been there since the time of Queen Elizabeth, and at night, when we -went, they were lit, luridly, by naptha flares. In these booths sat, -cross-legged, old bearded men with hooked noses, who looked as though -they were contemporaries of Moses and the Prophets. They were selling -cheap Oriental rugs, colored cottons and silks, sham jewelery, rabbit -skins, kosher meat, skinny fowls, and embroidered slippers. The crowd -marketing in this place, chaffering, quarreling, picking over the -wares, with the noise of a Turkish bazaar, were mostly of Oriental -types. Some of the men wore fur caps, or astrakhan caps, like the -Persians who cross the Galata bridge at Constantinople. Others wore fur -coats reaching to their heels, and top hats of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</a></span> ancient architecture. -It was the market of the London Ghetto, and thronged with flashy young -Jews and Jewesses, starved-looking men of Slav aspect, and shifty-eyed -boys who were professional pickpockets and sold the harvest of their -day’s toil to the old villains in the booths.</p> - -<p>It was a young thief who acted as our guide to some of these places, -and he performed a delicate operation in the way of housebreaking for -our benefit. We were eager to get a photograph of Peter the Painter, -and he told us that he knew of the only one in existence. It belonged -to a “young lady” who had been Peter’s friend, and naturally wished to -keep secret her association with this bandit. It stood on her bedroom -mantelpiece, and if we would give him half an hour, he would “pinch” it -for us. But he would have to replace it after we had made use of it. At -the end of an hour he returned with the photograph of a good-looking -young Russian, and told us that it had been an “easy job.” This -photograph was reproduced as the only authentic portrait of Peter the -Painter, but I have grave doubts about it.</p> - -<p>With this lad, who was an intelligent fellow and vowed that henceforth -he was going to lead an honest life, as burglary was a mug’s game, -he went into the cellars below a certain restaurant which were used -as a library of anarchist literature. Doubtless there was more high -explosive here, in the way of destructive philosophy, than one might -find in Woolwich Arsenal, but we did not examine those dangerous little -pamphlets and books which preached the gospel of revolution. At that -time, before the advent of Bolshevism in the history of the world, -that propaganda seemed to have no bearing upon the ordinary facts -of life, and did not interest us. It was at a later period that the -international anarchist in London translated his textbooks and touted -them outside the gates of English factories, and slipped them into the -hands of unemployed men. </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</a></span></p> - -<p>In those pre-war days, the foreign revolutionaries in London kept -themselves aloof from English life and, as I have said, generally -avoided unpleasant contact with the English law. Living in the foulest -lodgings—I sicken still at the memory of the stench we encountered in -some of their tenement houses—many of these young tailors, cigarette -makers, and factory hands dressed themselves up in the evening and came -down West with their girl friends to the music halls and night clubs in -the neighborhood of Piccadilly, leaving the older folk to their squalor -and the children to the playground of the streets and courts. Now -and again they stabbed each other, or cut each other’s throats, but, -as a rule, such incidents were hushed up by their neighbors, and the -London police were not invited to inquire into affrays between these -aliens.... The war made a great clearance of these foreigners, and many -of their old haunts have disappeared.</p> - -<p>By the merest chance I saw the disappearance of one of the oldest and -most historic haunts of London lawbreakers. It was the abandonment -of the Old Bailey, before its grim and ancient structure was pulled -down to make way for the new and imposing building where Justice again -pursues its relentless way with those who fall into its grip. Ever -since Roman days there has been a prison on the site of the Old Bailey, -and for hundreds of years men and women have languished there in dark -cells, rattled their chains behind its bars, rotted with jail fever, -and died on the gallows tree within its walls. The dark cruelties of -English justice which, in the old days, was merciless with all who -broke its penal laws, however young and innocent till then, belong -to forgotten history, for the most part, but as time is counted in -history, it is not long since the judges of the Old Bailey condemned -young girls to death for stealing a few ribbons or handkerchiefs, and -my own grandfather saw their executions, in batches. </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</a></span></p> - -<p>But on the last day of the Old Bailey, when the police were withdrawn -from its courtroom and corridors, before its furniture and fittings -were to be put up for public auction, the crowd I met there did not -remember those old ruthless days. They were the criminals of a later -generation who had been put in the cells as “drunks and disorderlies,” -as pickpockets and “petty larcenies,” brought up for judgment with the -knowledge that short sentences would be inflicted on them.</p> - -<p>It was one of the most remarkable crowds I have ever seen. Some queer -sentiment had brought all these crooks and jailbirds to see the last -of their old “home.” Frowzy women and “flash” girls, old scamps of the -casual ward and doss house, habitual drunkards, and young thieves, -sporting touts and burglars of the Bill Sikes brand, had gathered -together, as though by special invitation, to the “private view.” -Laughing, excited, full of loquacious reminiscences, they wandered -through the charge room and the cells where they had been “lagged,” -pointed out the cell from which Jack Sheppard had escaped, and other -cells once inhabited by famous murderers and criminals, and surged -into the great court where they had stood in the dock facing the -scarlet-robed judge and all the majesty of law. They stood in the dock -again, lots of them, jeering, with bursts of hoarse laughter at the -merry jest.</p> - -<p>They crowded up to the judge’s throne. One young coster, with a gift -of mimicry, put on a judicial manner, wagged his head solemnly, and -sentenced his pals to death. Shrieks of laughter greeted his pantomime. -An old ruffian with a legal-looking face, sodden with drink, played the -part of prosecuting counsel, addressed an imaginary judge as “M’lud,” -the crowd as “gentlemen of the jury,” and asserted that the evidence -was overwhelming as to the guilt of the prisoner, who was indeed “a -naughty, naughty man.”</p> - -<p>“The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</a></span> truth!” screamed a -girl with big feathers in her hat, and she laughed hysterically at her -own humor.</p> - -<p>There was something grim and tragic beneath the comedy of the scene. -This travesty of the law by those who had been in its clutches revealed -a vicious psychology lost to all shame and decency, but was also a -condemnation of society which produced such types of men and women, -for the most part victims of slum life, foul surroundings, and evil -upbringing, tolerated, and indeed created, by the social system of -England. It needed the pen of Dickens to describe this scene, and truly -it was a hark-back to the days of Dickens himself. I was astounded that -such characters as Bill Sikes, Old Fagin and Nancy, and Charley Bates -should still remain in the London of Edward VII, as they appeared in -the living image that day in the Old Bailey.</p> - -<p>I wandered upstairs into deserted rooms. They were strewn with papers -ankle-deep, and on the table I saw a bulky volume, bound in iron, which -was the old charge book, dating from 1730. To this day I regret that I -did not “pinch” it, for it was an historic relic which, with scandalous -carelessness, was thrown away. But I was afraid of carrying off such -a big thing, lest I should find myself on a more modern charge-sheet -at another court. I did, however, stuff a number of papers into my -pockets, and when I reached home and examined them, I found that they -were also historical documents of great interest.</p> - -<p>One of them, for instance, was a list of eighty convicts, or so, -condemned to penal servitude and transportation to Botany Bay. Many -of them—boys and girls—had been sentenced to death for the crime -of stealing a few potatoes, a pinafore, some yards of cotton, or, in -one case, for breaking a threshing machine, and had been “graciously -reprieved by His Majesty King William IV” and condemned to that -ferocious punishment of penal servitude in the convict settlements -of Australia, which<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</a></span> to many of them was a living death, until by -flogging, and insanitary conditions, and disease, death itself released -them. That was but a few years before the reign of Queen Victoria!</p> - -<p>It was in the new Old Bailey, very handsomely paneled, nicely warmed, -lighted with delicate effects of color through high windows—doubtless -the clerks of the court thought it quite a privilege for the criminals -to be judged in such a place—that I saw the trial of that famous and -astonishing little murderer, Doctor Crippen.</p> - -<p>It will be remembered that he was captured on a ship bound for Halifax, -with a girl named Ethel le Neve, dressed up in boy’s clothes, with whom -he had eloped after killing his wife and dissecting her body for burial -in his cellar.</p> - -<p>Crippen looked a respectable little man, with weak, watery eyes and a -drooping moustache, so ordinary a type of middle-class business man in -London that quite a number of people, including one of my own friends, -were arrested by mistake for him when the hue and cry went forth.</p> - -<p>I was at Bournemouth at that time, in one of the aviation meetings -which were held in the early days of flying. It was celebrated by -fancy fêtes, open-air carnivals, fancy-dress balls, and all kinds of -diversions. The most respectable town in England, inhabited mostly by -retired colonels, well-to-do spinsters, and invalids, seemed to take -leave of its senses in a wild outburst of frivolity. Even the Mayor -was to be seen in the broad glare of sunshine, wearing a false nose. -Into that atmosphere of false noses and fancy frocks came telegrams to -several newspaper correspondents from their editors.</p> - -<p>“Scotland Yard believes Crippen at Bournemouth. Please get busy.”</p> - -<p>That was the tenor of the telegram sent to me, and I saw by the pink -envelopes received by friends at table<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</a></span> in the Grand Hotel one night -that they had received similar messages. One by one they stole out, -looking mightily secretive—in search of Crippen, who, by that time was -nearing Halifax.</p> - -<p>With a friend named Harold Ashton, a well-known “crime sleuth,” I went -into the hall, and after a slight discussion decided that if Crippen -was in Bournemouth it was not our job to find him. We were, for the -time, experts in aviation, and couldn’t be put off by foolish murders.</p> - -<p>As we went upstairs, Ashton put his head over the banisters, and then -uttered an exclamation.</p> - -<p>“Scotland Yard!”</p> - -<p>Looking over the stair rail, I saw a pair of boots, belonging to a man -sitting in the hall. True enough, they had come from Scotland Yard, -according to the tradition which enables any detective to be recognized -at a glance by any criminal. One of those detectives had been sent down -on the false rumor, and probably hoped to find Doctor Crippen and Ethel -le Neve disguised as Pierrot and Columbine on the pier.</p> - -<p>Ashton and I decided to have a game with the man. We wrote a note in -block letters, as follows:</p> - -<p class="center">“ARE YOU LOOKING FOR DOCTOR CRIPPEN? IF SO, BEWARE!”</p> - -<p>By a small bribe, we hired a boy to deliver it to the detective, and -then depart quickly.</p> - -<p>The effect was obviously disconcerting to the man, for he looked most -uneasy, and then hurried out of the hotel. Doubtless he could not -understand how anybody in Bournemouth could know of his mission. Ashton -and I followed him, and he was immediately aware that he was being -shadowed. He went into a public house and ordered a glass of beer which -he did not drink. Ashton and I did the same, and were quick on his -heels when he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</a></span> slipped out by a side door. We kept up this game for -quite a time, until we tired of it, and to this day the detective must -wonder who shadowed him so closely in Bournemouth, and for what fell -purpose.</p> - -<p>Curiously, by the absurd chances of journalistic life, I became mixed -up in the Crippen case, not only by having to describe the trial, but -by having to write the life story of Ethel le Neve. That girl, who -had been Crippen’s typist, was quite a pretty and attractive little -creature, and in spite of her flight with him in boy’s clothes, -the police were satisfied that she was entirely innocent of the -murder. Anyhow, she was not charged, and upon her liberation she was -immediately captured at a price, by <i>The Daily Chronicle</i>, who saw -that her narrative would make an enormous sensation. They provided -her with a furnished flat, under an assumed name, and for weeks <i>The -Daily Chronicle</i> office was swarming with her sister’s family, while -office boys fetched the milk for the baby, and sub-editors paid the -outstanding debts of the brother-in-law, in order that Ethel le Neve -should reserve her tale exclusively to the nice, kind paper! Such is -the dignity of modern journalism, desperate for a “scoop.”</p> - -<p>Eddy and I were again associated in the extraction of Ethel le Neve’s -tale. Eddy, as a young barrister, now well-known and prosperous at -the Bar, cross-examined her artfully, and persistently, with the firm -belief that she knew all about the murder. Never once, however, did he -trap her into any admission.</p> - -<p>From my point of view, the psychology of the girl was extremely -interesting. Just a little Cockney girl, from a family of humble -class and means, she had astonishing and unusual qualities. It is -characteristic of her that when she was staying in Brussels with -Crippen, disguised as a boy—and a remarkably good-looking boy she -appeared—because she knew that Crippen was wanted by the law for “some -old thing or other,” which she didn’t<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</a></span> bother to find out, she spent -most of her time visiting the art galleries and museums of the Belgian -capital. She had regarded the whole episode as a great “lark,” until at -Halifax detectives came aboard and arrested the fugitives on a charge -of murder. She admitted to me that, putting two and two together, -little incidents that had seemed trivial at the time, and remembering -queer words spoken by Crippen—“the doctor,” as she called him—she -had no doubt now of his guilt. But, as she also admitted, that made no -difference to her love for him. “He was mad when he did it,” she said, -“and he was mad for me.” That was the extraordinary thing—that deep, -sincere, and passionate love between the little weak-eyed, middle-aged -quack doctor, and this common, pretty little Cockney girl.</p> - -<p>I read Crippen’s love letters, written to Ethel le Neve from prison, -immensely long letters, written on prison paper in a neat little -writing, without a blot or a fault. All told, there were forty thousand -words of them—as long as a novel—and they were surprising in their -good style, their beauty of expression, their resignation to death. -These two people from the squalor of a London suburb, might have been -mediæval lovers in Italy of Boccaccio’s time, when murder for love’s -sake was lightly done.</p> - -<p>In a little restaurant in Soho I sat with Ethel le Neve, day after -day, while all the journalists of England were searching for her. Many -times she was so gay that it was impossible to believe that she had -escaped the hangman’s rope by no great distance, and that her lover was -a little blear-eyed man lying under sentence of death. Yet that gayety -of hers was not affected or forced. It bubbled out of her because of -a quick and childish sense of humor, which had not been killed by the -frightful thing that overshadowed her. When that shadow fell upon her -spirit again, she used to weep, but never for<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</a></span> long. Her last request -to me was that I should have Doctor Crippen’s photograph made into -a miniature which she could wear concealed upon her breast. On the -morning of his execution she put on black for him, and wished that she -might have died with him on the scaffold.</p> - -<p>I am certain, as the police were, that she was guiltless of all -knowledge and participation in the murder of Mrs. Crippen, but she -seemed as careless of that crime as any woman of the Borgias when a -rival was removed from her path of love. Some old strain of passionate -blood had thrust up again in this London typist girl, whose name of le -Neve might hold the clue, if we knew her family history, to this secret -of her personality.</p> - -<p>I was glad to see the last of her, having written down her tale, -because that was not the kind of journalism which appealed to my -instincts or ideals, and I sickened at the squalor of the whole story -of love and murder, as I sat with Ethel le Neve in friendly discourse, -not without pity for this girl whose life had been ruined by her folly, -and who would be forever haunted by the grim tragedy of Crippen’s crime.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</a></span></p> - -<h2>VII</h2> - -<p>Although my reminiscences hitherto have dealt with my adventures as -a special correspondent, I have from time to time sat with assumed -dignity in the editorial chair. Indeed, I was an editor before I was -twenty-one, and I may say that I began life very high up in the world -and have been climbing down steadily ever since.</p> - -<p>I was at least very high up—on the top floor of the House of Cassell, -in La Belle Sauvage Yard—when I assumed, at the age of nineteen, the -enormous title of Educational Editor, and gained the microscopic salary -of a hundred and twenty pounds a year.</p> - -<p>With five pounds capital and that income, I married, with an audacity -which I now find superb. I was so young, and looked so much younger, -that I did not dare to confess my married state to my official chief, -who was the Right Honorable H. O. Arnold-Forster, in whose room I sat, -and one day when my wife popped her head through the door and said -“Hullo!” I made signs to her to depart.</p> - -<p>“Who’s that pretty girl?” asked Arnold-Forster, and with shame I must -confess that I hid the secret of our relationship.</p> - -<p>That first chief of mine was one of the most extraordinary men I ever -met, and quite the rudest to all people of superior rank to himself.</p> - -<p>As Secretary to the Admiralty, and afterward Minister of War, many -important visitors used to call on him in his big room at the top -of Cassell’s, where he was one of the Directors. I sat opposite, -correcting proofs of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</a></span> school books and advertisements, writing fairy -tales in spare moments, and listening to Arnold-Forster’s conversation. -He treated distinguished admirals, generals, and colonels as though -they were office boys, so that they perspired in his presence, and -were sometimes deeply affronted, but, on the other hand, as a proof -of chivalry, he treated office boys and printers’ devils as though -they were distinguished admirals, generals, and colonels, with a most -particular courtesy.</p> - -<p>I saw him achieve the almost incredible feat of dictating a complete -history of England as he paced up and down his room, with hardly a -note. It is true that his patient secretary had to fill in the dates -afterward, and verify the “facts,” which were often wrong, but the -result was certainly the most vivid and illuminating history of England -ever written for young people, and Rudyard Kipling wrote to him that it -was one of the few books that had kept him out of bed all night.</p> - -<p>To me Arnold-Forster was the soul of kindness, and encouraged me to -write my first book, “Founders of the Empire,” which is still selling -in English schools, after twenty years, though I make no profit thereby.</p> - -<p>At twenty-three years of age, I heard of a new job, and applied for -it. It was the position of managing editor of the Tillotsons’ Literary -Syndicate, in the North of England. The audacity of my application -alarmed me as I wrote the letter, and I excused myself, as I remember, -in the final sentence. “As Pitt said,” I wrote, “I am guilty of the -damnable crime of being a Young Man.”</p> - -<p>That sentence gained me the position, as I afterward heard. The -Tillotsons were three young brothers who believed in youth. They were -amused and captured by that phrase of mine. So I went North for a time, -with my young wife.</p> - -<p>It was a great experience in the market of literary wares. My task was -to buy fiction and articles for <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</a></span>syndicating in the provincial and -colonial press, and my judgment was put to test of the sales list.</p> - -<p>I “spotted” some winners who are now famous. Among them I remember -was Arnold Bennett. He sent in a story called “The Grand Babylon -Hotel”—his first romance—and I read it with the conviction that it -was first-class melodrama. He asked a paltry price, which I accepted, -and then I asked him to lunch in London—the joy of seeing London -again!—and made him an offer for the book rights. He agreed to that -fee, but afterward, when the book was immensely successful, he grieved -over his bad bargain, and in one of his later books he warned all -authors against a pale-faced young man, with his third finger deeply -stained by nicotine, who had a habit of asking authors to lunch and -robbing them over the coffee cups. Later in life he forgave me.</p> - -<p>Although I had hard work as editor in Bolton of the Black Country—the -city was ugly, but the people kind—it was there that I found my pen, -and whatever quality it has.</p> - -<p>I wrote an immense number of articles on every kind of subject, to be -syndicated in the provincial press, and I made a surprising success -with a weekly essay called “Knowledge is Power.” Like Francis Bacon, “I -took all knowledge for my province” by “swotting up” the great masters -of drama, poetry, novels, essays, philosophy, and art. It was my own -education, condensed into short essays, written with the simplicity, -sincerity, and enthusiasm of youth, for people with less chances than -myself. I began to get letters from all parts of the earth, partly -for the reason that the articles appeared in <i>The Weekly Scotsman</i>, -among other papers, which goes wherever a Scottish heart beats. -Correspondents confided in me, as in an old wise man—the secrets -of their lives, their hopes and ambitions, their desire to know the -strangest and quaintest things. Old ladies sent me cakes, flowers, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</a></span> -innumerable verses. Young men asked me how they could become the Lord -Mayor’s coachman (that was an actual question!), or find the way to -Heaven.</p> - -<p>Meanwhile Fleet Street called to me with an alluring voice. Kind as -the people were to me in Bolton—beyond all words kind—I sickened for -London. One night I wrote a letter to Alfred Harmsworth, founder of -<i>The Daily Mail</i>, and afterward Lord Northcliffe. Almost by return post -he asked me to call on him, and I took the chance.</p> - -<p>I remember as though it were yesterday my first interview with that -genius of the new journalism. He kept me waiting for a while in an -antechamber of Carmelite House. Young men, extremely well dressed, -and obviously in a great hurry on business of enormous importance -to themselves, kept coming and going. Messenger boys in neat little -liveries bounced in and out of the “Chief’s” room, in answer to his -bell. Presently one of them approached me and said, “Your turn.” I drew -a deep breath, prayed for courage, and found myself face to face with -a handsome, clean-shaven, well-dressed man, with a lock of brown hair -falling over his broad forehead, and a friendly, quizzical look in his -brown eyes.</p> - -<p>Sitting back in a deep chair, smoking a cigar, he read some of the -articles I had brought, and occasionally said “Not bad!” or “Rather -amusing!” Once he looked up and said, “You look rather pale, young man. -Better go to the South of France for a bit.”</p> - -<p>But it was the air of Fleet Street I wanted.</p> - -<p>Presently he gave me the chance of it.</p> - -<p>“How would you like to edit Page Four, and write two articles a week?”</p> - -<p>I went out of Carmelite House with that offer accepted, uplifted to the -seventh heaven of hope, and yet a little scared by the dangerous and -dazzling height which I had reached. </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</a></span></p> - -<p>A month later, having uprooted my home in the North, brought a wife and -babe to London, incurred heavy expenses with a mortgage on the future, -I presented myself at <i>The Daily Mail</i> again, and awaited the leisure -and pleasure of Alfred Harmsworth.</p> - -<p>When I was shown into his room, he only dimly remembered my face.</p> - -<p>“Let me see,” he said, groping back to the distant past, which was four -weeks old.</p> - -<p>When I told him my name, he seemed to have a glimmer of some -half-forgotten compact.</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes! The young man from the North.... Wasn’t there some talk of -making a place for you in <i>The Daily Mail</i>?”</p> - -<p>My heart fell down a precipice.... I mentioned the offer that had been -made and accepted. But Harmsworth looked a little doubtful.</p> - -<p>“Page Four? Well, hardly that, perhaps. I’ve appointed another editor.”</p> - -<p>I thought of my wife and babe, and unpaid bills.</p> - -<p>“Do you mind touching the bell?” asked Harmsworth.</p> - -<p>The usual boy came in, and was ordered to send down a certain gentleman -whose name I did not hear. Presently the door opened, and a tall, thin, -pale, handsome, and extremely haughty young gentleman sauntered in and -said “Good afternoon,” icily.</p> - -<p>Harmsworth presented me to Filson Young, whom afterward I came to know -as one of the most brilliant writers in Fleet Street, as he still -remains. Not then did I guess that we should meet as chroniclers of -world war in the ravaged fields of France.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Young,” said Harmsworth, in his suavest voice, “this is a -newcomer, named Philip Gibbs. I half promised him the editorship of -Page Four.”</p> - -<p>Here he tapped Young on the shoulder, and added in a jocular way: </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</a></span></p> - -<p>“And if you’re not very careful, young man, he may edit Page Four!”</p> - -<p>Young offered me a cold hand, and there was not a benediction in his -glance. I was put under his orders as a writer, as heir presumptive -to his throne. As it happened, we became good friends, and he had no -grudge against me when, some months later, he vacated the chair in my -favor and went to Ireland for <i>The Daily Mail</i>, to collect material for -his brilliant essays on “Ireland at the Crossroads.”</p> - -<p>So there I was, in the Harmsworth <i>régime</i>, which has made many men, -and broken others. It was the great school of the new journalism, which -was very new in England of those days, and mainly inspired by the -powerful, brilliant, erratic, and whimsical genius of Alfred Harmsworth -himself.</p> - -<p>I joined his staff at the end of the Boer War period, when there was -a brilliant group of men on <i>The Daily Mail</i>, such as Charles Hands, -Edgar Wallace, H. W. Wilson, Holt White, and Filson Young. The editor -was “Tom” Marlowe, still by a miracle in that position, which he -kept through years of turbulence and change, by carrying out with -unfaltering hesitation every wish and whimsey of The Chief, and by a -sense of humor which never betrayed him into regarding any internal -convulsion, revolution, or hysteria of <i>The Daily Mail</i> system as more -than the latest phase in an ever-changing game. Men might come, and men -might go, but Marlowe remained forever, bluff, smiling, imperturbable, -and kind.</p> - -<p>Above him in power of direction, dynamic energy, and financial -authority, was Kennedy Jones, whom all men feared and many hated. -He had a ruthless brutality of speech and action which Harmsworth, -more human, more generous, and less cruel (though he had a strain of -cruelty), found immensely helpful in running an organization which -could not succeed on sentiment or brotherly<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</a></span> love. Kennedy Jones would -break a man as soon as look at him, if he made a mistake “letting -down” the paper, if he earned more money for a job which could be done -for less by a younger man, if he showed signs of getting tired. That -was his deliberate policy as a “strong man” out to win at any price, -but, as in most men of the kind, there lay beneath his ruthlessness -a substratum of human quality which occasionally revealed itself -in friendly action. He had a cynical honesty of outlook on life, -which gave his conversation at times the hard sparkle of wit and the -bitter spice of truth. Beyond any doubt, the enormous success of the -Northcliffe press, as it was afterward called, owed a great deal to the -business genius of this man.</p> - -<p>Alfred Harmsworth himself provided the ideas, the policy, the spirit of -the machine. He was the enthusiast, the explorer, and the adventurer, -with the world’s news as his uncharted seas. He had only one test of -what was good to print, “Does this interest Me?” As he was interested, -with the passionate curiosity of a small boy who asks continually -“How?” and “Why?”, in all the elementary aspects of human life, in its -romances and discoveries, its new toys and new fads, its tragedies and -comedies of the more obvious kind, its melodramas and amusements and -personalities, that test was not narrow or one-eyed. The legend grew -that Harmsworth, afterward Northcliffe, had an uncanny sense of public -opinion, and, with his ear to the ground, knew from afar what the -people wanted, and gave it to them. But, in my judgment, he had none of -that subtlety of mind and vision. He had a boyish simplicity, overlaid -by a little cunning and craft. It was not what the public wanted that -was his guiding rule. It was what he wanted. His luck and genius lay in -the combination of qualities which made him typical to a supreme degree -of the average man, as produced by the triviality, the restlessness, -the craving for<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</a></span> sensation, the desire to escape from boredom, the -impatience with the length and dullness and difficulty of life and -learning, the habit of taking short cuts to knowledge and judgment, -which characterized that great middle-class public of the world before -the war.</p> - -<p>One method by which Harmsworth impressed his own views and character -on the staff and paper was to hold a daily conference in <i>The Daily -Mail</i> office, which all editors, sub-editors, reporters, special -correspondents, and glorified office boys were expected to attend. -Freedom of speech was granted, and free discussion invited, without -distinction of rank. The man who put a good idea into the pool was -rewarded by Harmsworth’s enthusiastic approbation, while he himself -criticized that day’s paper, pointed out its defects, praised some -article which had caught his fancy, and discussed the leading matter -for next day’s paper. Cigarettes and cigars lay ready to the hand. -Tea was served, daintily. Laughter and jokes brightened this daily -rendezvous, and Harmsworth, at these times, in those early days, was at -his best—easy, boyish, captivating, to some extent inspiring. But it -was an inspiration in the triviality of thought, in the lighter side -of the Puppet Show. Never once did I hear Harmsworth utter one serious -commentary on life, or any word approaching nobility of thought, or any -hint of some deep purpose behind this engine which he was driving with -such splendid zest in its power and efficiency. On the other hand, I -never heard him say a base word or utter an unclean or vicious thought.</p> - -<p>He was very generous at times to those who served him. I know one man -who approached him for a loan of £100.</p> - -<p>He was shocked at the idea.</p> - -<p>“Certainly not! Don’t you know that I never lend money? I wouldn’t do -it if you were starving in the gutter.” </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</a></span></p> - -<p>Then he wrote a cheque for £100, and said, “But I’ll give it to you, my -dear fellow. Say no more about it.”</p> - -<p>Now and again, when he saw one of his “young men” looking pale and run -down, he would pack him off for a holiday in the South of France, with -all his expenses paid. In later years he gave handsome pensions to many -who had served him in the early days.</p> - -<p>He had his court favorites, like the mediæval kings, generally one of -the newcomers who had aroused his enthusiasm by some little “scoop,” -or a brilliant bit of work. But he tired of them quickly, and it was a -dangerous thing to occupy that position, because it was almost certain -to mean a speedy fall.</p> - -<p>For a little while I was one of his favorites. He used to chat with me -in his room and say amusing, indiscreet things, about other members of -the staff, or his numerous brothers.</p> - -<p>I remember his looking up once from his desk where he sat in front of -a bust of Napoleon, to whom he bore a physical resemblance, and upon -whose character and methods with men he closely modeled himself.</p> - -<p>“Gibbs,” he said, “whenever you see a man looking like a codfish -walking about these passages, you’ll know my brother Cecil brought him -in. Then he comes to me to hoik him out again!”</p> - -<p>As temporary favorite, I was invited down to Sutton Court, a -magnificent old mansion of Elizabethan days, in Surrey. It was in the -early days of motoring, and I was taken down in a great car, and back -in another, and felt like an emperor. Harmsworth was a delightful host, -and kept open house during the week-ends, where one heard the latest -newspaper “shop” under the high timbered roof and between the paneled -walls, where the great ladies and gentlemen of England, in silks and -brocades, had dined and danced by candlelight.</p> - -<p>It was here, in the minstrels’ gallery, one afternoon,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</a></span> that Harmsworth -asked me to tell him all about “syndicating,” according to my -experience with the Tillotsons’ syndicate. I told him, and he became -excited.</p> - -<p>“Excellent! I tell you what to do. Go back to <i>The Daily Mail</i> and say -I’ve sacked you. Then go to the South of France with your wife, for -three months. I’ll pay expenses. After that, return to Fleet Street, -where you’ll find an office waiting for you, called ‘the British Empire -Syndicate, Limited.’ Nobody must know that I’m behind it.... How’s that -for a scheme?”</p> - -<p>It seemed to me a pretty good scheme, although I was doubtful whether -I could work it. I temporized, and suggested drawing out the scheme -on paper, more in detail. That disappointed him. He wanted me to say, -“Rather! The chance of a life time!” My hesitation put me into the -class he called, “Yes, but——” I drew up the scheme, but he went for -a visit to Germany, and on his return did not give another thought to -the “British Empire Syndicate, Limited.” Other ideas had absorbed his -interest.</p> - -<p>At the end of a year I saw I was losing favor. An incident happened -which forewarned me of approaching doom. He had returned from another -visit to Germany, and was in a bad temper, believing, as he always did, -that <i>The Daily Mail</i> had gone to the dogs in his absence. He reproved -me sharply for the miserable stuff I had been publishing in Page Four, -and demanded to see what I had got in hand.</p> - -<p>I took down some “plums”—special articles by brilliant and -distinguished men. He glanced through them, and laid them down angrily.</p> - -<p>“Dull as ditchwater! Send them all back!”</p> - -<p>I protested that it was impossible to send them back, as they were all -commissioned. My own honor and honesty were at stake.</p> - -<p>“Send them all back!” he said, with increasing anger. </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</a></span></p> - -<p>I did not send them back, but gave them “snappier” titles. The next -day he sent for me again, and demanded to see what else I proposed to -publish—“not that trash you showed me yesterday!”</p> - -<p>I took down the same articles, with some others. He had more leisure, -read them while he smoked a cigar, and at intervals said, “Good!” ... -“Excellent!” ... “Why didn’t you show these to me yesterday?”</p> - -<p>Needless to say, I did not enlighten him. I was saved that time, but a -few months later I saw other signs of disfavor.</p> - -<p>I remember that at that time I had to see General Booth, the founder -of the Salvation Army, that grand old man for whose humanity and love -I had a great respect, in spite of his methods of conversion, with -scarlet coats and tambourines. He was angry with something I had -written, and was violent in his wrath. But then he forgave me and -talked very gently and wisely of the responsibilities of journalism, -“the greatest power in the world for good or evil.”</p> - -<p>Presently the old man seized me by the wrist with his skinny old hand, -and thrust me down on to my knees.</p> - -<p>“Now let us pray for Alfred Harmsworth,” he said, and offered up -fervent prayer for his wisdom and light.</p> - -<p>I don’t know what effect that prayer had on Harmsworth, but it seemed -to have an immediate effect upon my own fate. I was “sacked” from <i>The -Daily Mail</i>.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</a></span></p> - -<h2>VIII</h2> - -<p>After my time on <i>The Daily Mail</i>, I joined <i>The Daily Express</i> for a -few months before becoming one of the literary editors of <i>The Daily -Chronicle</i>.</p> - -<p>On <i>The Express</i> I came to know Sir Arthur Pearson before the days of -his blindness, and did not admire him so much then (though I liked -him) as in those later years when, by his magnificent courage, and his -devoted service to all the blinded men of the war, he was one of the -truly heroic figures of the world.</p> - -<p>As a newspaper proprietor he was a man of restless energy, but narrower -in his outlook, at that time, than his great rival, Harmsworth, whose -methods he imitated. He was a strong adherent of tariff reform, when -Joseph Chamberlain stumped the country in favor of that policy, which -divided friend from friend, wrecked the amenities of social life, and -started passionate arguments at every dinner table, somewhat in the -same manner that the personality and policy of President Wilson caused -social uproar in the United States, during the Peace Conference.</p> - -<p>Pearson conferred on me the privilege, as I think he considered it, -of recording the progress of the Chamberlain campaign, and it was the -hardest work, I think, apart from war correspondence, that I have ever -done. I do not regret having done it, for it took me into the midst of -one of the biggest political conflicts in English history, led by one -of the most remarkable men.</p> - -<p>My task was to write each night what is called “a descriptive report,” -which means that I had to give the gist of each of Chamberlain’s long -speeches, with their salient points, and at the same time describe the -scenes<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</a></span> in and around the hall, besieged everywhere by vast crowds of -opponents and supporters who often came into conflict, Chamberlain’s -methods with his interrupters, and the incidents of the evening. -Pearson often had a place on the platform, near the man for whom he -had a real hero worship, and sent down little notes to me when various -points of importance occurred to him. Always my article had to be -finished within a few minutes of Chamberlain’s peroration, in order to -get it on to the wire for London.</p> - -<p>It was at Newport, in Wales, I remember, that I nearly blighted my -young life by over-sympathy with the sufferings of a fellow mortal. -This was a correspondent of <i>The Daily Mail</i>, who had been a most -convinced and passionate free trader. He had written, only a few weeks -before, a series of powerful and crushing articles against tariff -reform, which had duly appeared in <i>The Daily Mail</i>, until Harmsworth -announced one morning that he had been talking to his gardener, and had -decided that tariff reform would be a good thing for England. It would -be, therefore, the policy of <i>The Daily Mail</i>.</p> - -<p>By a refinement of cruelty which I am sure he did not realize, his -free trade agent was sent down to reveal the glories of tariffs, as -expounded by Chamberlain. It went sorely to the conscience of this -Scot, who asked me plaintively, “How can I resign—with wife and -bairns?” At Newport his distress was acute, owing to the immense -reception of Chamberlain by crowds so dense that one could have walked -over their mass, which was one solid block along the line of route.</p> - -<p>Before the speech that night he stood me a bottle of wine, which -we shared, and he wept over this red liquid at the abomination of -tariffs, the iniquity of <i>The Daily Mail</i>, and the conscience of a -correspondent. What that wine was, I cannot tell. It was certainly some -dreadful kind of poison. I had drunk discreetly, but upon entering<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</a></span> -the hall, I felt a weight on my head like the dome of St. Paul’s, and -saw the great audience spinning round like an immense revolving Face. -For two hours’ agony I listened to Chamberlain’s speech on tin plates, -wrote things I could not read, and at the end of the meeting, having -thrust my stuff over the counter of the telegraph office, collapsed, -and was very ill. I heard afterward that the free trade Scot was -equally prostrate, but he survived, and in course of time became more -easy in his conscience, and a Knight of the British Empire.</p> - -<p>Toward the end of the campaign I saw that Joseph Chamberlain was -breaking. I watched him closely, and saw signs of mental and physical -paralysis creeping over him. Other people were watching him, with more -anxiety. Mrs. Chamberlain was always on the platform, by his side, in -every town, and her face revealed her own nervous strain. Chamberlain, -“Our Joe,” as his followers called him, lost the wonderful lucidity -of his speech. At times he hesitated, and fumbled over the thread of -his thought. When he was heckled, instead of turning round in his old -style with a rapid, knock-out retort, he paused, became embarrassed, -or stood silent with a strange and tragic air of bewilderment. It was -pitiful toward the end. The strongest force in England was spent and -done. The knowledge that his campaign had failed, that his political -career was broken, as well as the immense fatigue he had undergone, and -the intense effort of his persuasive eloquence, snapped his nerve and -vitality. He was stricken, like President Wilson, one night, and never -recovered.</p> - -<p>In that campaign Chamberlain converted me against himself on the -subject of tariff reform, but I learned to admire the courage, and hard -sledge-hammer oratory of this great Imperialist leader who represented -the old jingo strain of Victorian England, in its narrow patriotism and -rather brutal intolerance, ennobled, to some <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</a></span>extent, by old loyalties -and traditions belonging to the sentiment of the British folk. The -very name of Joseph Chamberlain seems remote now in English history, -and the mentality of the English people has outgrown that time when -he was fired by that wave of Imperialism which overtook the country -and produced the genius of Kipling, the aggressive idealism of Cecil -Rhodes, and the Boer War, with its adventures, its Call of the Wild, -its stupidity, its blatant vulgarity, its jolly good fellows, its -immense revelation of military incompetence, and its waste of blood and -treasure.</p> - -<p>After that campaign, I displeased Arthur Pearson by a trivial -difference of opinion. He believed firmly that Bacon wrote -“Shakespeare.” I believed just as firmly that he didn’t. When he asked -me to write up some new aspect of that argument, I flatly refused, and -Pearson was very much annoyed. A little later I resigned my position, -and for some time he did not forgive me. But years later we met again, -and he was generous and kind in the words he spoke about my work. It -was out in France, when he visited the war correspondents’ mess and -went with us into Peronne after its capture by our troops. He was -blind, but more cheerful than when I had known him in his sighted days. -At least he had gained a miraculous victory over his tragic loss, and -would not let it weaken him. That day in Peronne he walked into the -burning ruins, touched the walls of shattered houses, listened to the -silence there, broken by the sound of a gun or two, and the whirr of -an aëroplane overhead. He saw more than I did, and his description -afterward was full of detail and penetrating in its vision.</p> - -<p>We met again, after the war, at a dinner in New York, when he spoke of -the work of St. Dunstan’s, which he had founded for blinded men. It -was one of the most beautiful speeches I have ever heard—I think the -most<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</a></span> beautiful—and there was not one of us there, in a gathering of -American journalists and business men, who did not give all the homage -in his heart to this great leader of the blind.</p> - -<p>As one of the literary editors of <i>The Daily Chronicle</i>, I had a -good deal of experience of the inside of newspaper life, and, on the -whole, some merry times. The hours were long, for I used to get to the -office shortly after ten, and, more often than not, did not leave till -midnight. Having charge of the magazine page, which at that time was -illustrated by black and white drawings, I was responsible for the work -of three artists, alleged to be tame, but with a strain of wildness at -times, which was manifested by wrestling bouts, when all of us were -found writhing on the floor in what looked like a death struggle, -when the door was opened by the office boy or some less distinguished -visitor. One of them was Edgar Lander, generally known as “Uncle” in -the Press Club, and in Bohemian haunts down Chelsea way. Endowed with -a cynical sense of humor, a gift for lightning repartee which dealt -knock-out blows with the sure touch of Carpentier, and a prodigious -memory for all the characters of fiction in modern and classical works, -he gave a good lead to conversation in the large room over the clock -in Fleet Street where we had our workshop. Another of the artists was -Alfred Priest, afterward well known as a portrait painter, and three -times infamous in the Royal Academy as the painter of “the picture of -the year.” He was, and is, a philosophical and argumentative soul, -and Lander and he used to trail their coats before each other, in a -metaphorical way, with enormous conversational results, which sometimes -ended in violence on both sides. The third artist, nominally under my -control, but like the others, entirely out of it, was Stephen Reid, -whom I have always regarded as a master craftsman of the black and -white art, which he has now<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</a></span> abandoned for historical painting. A -shrewd Scotsman also with a lively sense of humor, he kept the balance -between his two colleagues, and roared with laughter at both of them.</p> - -<p>We were demons for work, although we talked so much, and the page we -produced day by day was, by general consensus of opinion, I think, -the best of its kind in English journalism. We gave all our time and -all our energy to the job, and I suppose there are few editors in the -world, and few artists, who have ever been seen staggering down Fleet -Street, as once Alfred Priest and myself might have been observed, -one midnight, carrying a solid block of metal weighing something like -half a hundredweight, in order that our page might appear next day. -That was a full-page block with text and pictures, representing some -great floods in England in which we had been wading all day. We were -so late in getting back with our work that the only chance of getting -it into the paper was to act as porters from the blockmakers to <i>The -Daily Chronicle</i> press. We nearly broke our backs, but if it had been -too late for the paper we should have broken our hearts. Such is the -enthusiasm of youth—ill rewarded in this case, as in others, because -the three artists were sacked when black and white drawings gave way to -photography. Afterward Edgar Lander of my “three musketeers” lost the -use of his best arm in the Great War, where, by his old name of “Uncle” -and the rank of Captain, he served in France, and gave the gift of -laughter to his crowd.</p> - -<p>In those good old days of <i>The Daily Chronicle</i>, long before the -war, there was a considerable sporting spirit, inspired by the news -editor, Ernest Perris, who is now the managing editor, with greater -gravity. Perris, undoubtedly the best news editor in London, was very -human in quiet times, although utterly inhuman, or rather, superhuman, -when there was a “world scoop” in progress.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</a></span> It was he who challenged -Littlewood, the dramatic critic, to a forty-mile walk for a £10 bet, -and afterward, at the same price, anybody who cared to join in. I was -foolishly beguiled into that adventure, when six of us set out one -morning at six o’clock, from the Marble Arch to Aylesbury—a measured -forty miles. We were all utterly untrained, and “Robin” Littlewood, the -dramatic critic, singularly like Will Shakespeare in form and figure, -refused to let his usual hearty appetite interfere with his athletic -contest. It was a stop for five-o’clock tea which proved his undoing, -for although he arrived at Aylesbury, he was third in the race, so -losing his £10, and was violently sick in the George Inn. Perris was an -easy first, and I was a bad second. I remember that at the thirtieth -mile I became dazed and silly, and was seen by people walking like a -ghost and singing the nursery rhymes of childhood. That night when -the six returned by train to London, they were like old, old men, and -so crippled that I, for one, had to be carried up the steps of Baker -Street Station.</p> - -<p>Another hobby of Perris’s was amateur boxing, and I had an office -reputation of knowing something of the science of that art, as I had a -young brother who boxed for Oxford.</p> - -<p>Perris, after various sparring bouts in which he had given bloody noses -to sub-editors and others, challenged in mortal combat my friend Eddy, -whom I have already introduced in this narrative. There had been some -temperamental passages between the news editor and this young writer, -so that, if the conflict took place, it would be lively. I acted as -Eddy’s second in the matter, and assuming immense scientific knowledge, -coached him as to the right methods of attack. At least I urged upon -him the necessity of aggressive action in the first round, because if -he once gave Perris a chance of hitting out, Eddy would certainly be -severely damaged, for Perris<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</a></span> is a big man with a clean-shaven face of -a somewhat pugilistic type, and with a large-sized fist.</p> - -<p>This little meeting between the news editor and his chief reporter -aroused considerable interest in the office, and some betting. Quite a -little crowd had collected in the sub-editorial room for the event. It -was not of long duration. At the words, “Time, gentlemen,” Eddy, heroic -as any man inspired by anxiety, made an immediate assault upon Perris, -like a swift over-arm bowler, and by a fluke of chance, landed the news -editor a fearful blow on the head. It dazed him, but Eddy was not to -be denied, and continued his attack with the ferocity of a man-eating -tiger, until Perris collapsed.... After that, with greedy appetite for -blood, he made mincemeat of a young man named “Boy” Jones, who asked -for trouble and got it.</p> - -<p>These little episodes behind the scenes of life in Fleet Street kept up -the spirits and humor of men who, as a rule, worked hard and long each -day, and were always at the mercy of the world’s news, which sent them -off upon strange errands in the Street of Adventure, or tied them to -the desk, like slaves of the galleys.</p> - -<p>My next experience in editorship was when I was appointed literary -editor of a new daily paper called <i>The Tribune</i>, the history of which -is one of the romantic tragedies of Fleet Street.</p> - -<p>Its founder and proprietor was a very tall, handsome, and melancholy -young man named Franklin Thomasson, who came from that city of Bolton -in the Black Country where I had been managing editor of the Tillotson -Syndicate. He had the misfortune of being one of the richest young men -in England, as the son of an old cotton spinner who had built up the -largest cotton mills in Lancashire. It was, I believe, a condition -of his will that his son should establish a London journal in the -Liberal interest. Anyhow, Franklin Thomasson, who was an idealist of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</a></span> -that faith, started <i>The Tribune</i> as a kind of sacred duty which he -had inherited with his money. He appointed as his editor-in-chief a -worthy old journalist of an old-fashioned type, named William Hill, -who had previously been a news editor of <i>The Westminster Gazette</i>, an -excellent evening paper with only one defect—it did not publish news. -At least, it was not for any kind of news that people bought it, but -entirely for the political philosophy of its editor, J. A. Spender, -who was the High Priest of the Liberal Faith, and for the brilliant -cartoons of “F.C.G.,” who did more to kill Chamberlain and tariffs than -any other power in England.</p> - -<p>There were many people of knowledge and experience who warned Franklin -Thomasson of the costly adventure of a new daily paper in London. -Augustine Birrell, disastrous failure as Chief Secretary for Ireland, -but distinguished for all time as a genial scholar and essayist, was -one of them. I went to see him with William Hill, and toward the end -of the interview, in which he was asked to become a kind of literary -godfather to the new venture, he said to Franklin Thomasson, with a -twinkle in his eyes,</p> - -<p>“My dear Thomasson, I knew your father, and had a high respect for him. -For his sake I advise you that if you pay £100,000 into my bank as a -free gift, and do <i>not</i> start <i>The Tribune</i>, you will save a great deal -of money!”</p> - -<p>It was a prophecy that was only too truly fulfilled, for before -Thomasson was through his troubles, he had lost £300,000.</p> - -<p>A very brilliant staff of assistant editors and reporters was engaged -by William Hill—many of the most brilliant journalists in England, and -some of the worst. Among them (I will not say in which category) was -myself, but at the first assembly of editors before the publication of -the paper, I received a moral shock.</p> - -<p>I encountered a next-door-neighbor of mine, named<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</a></span> Hawke, who had been -a colleague of mine on <i>The Daily Chronicle</i>.</p> - -<p>I greeted him with pleasure, and surprise.</p> - -<p>“Hullo, Hawke, what are you doing here?”</p> - -<p>“I’m literary editor,” he said. “What are you?”</p> - -<p>“That’s funny!” I replied. “I happen to be literary editor of this -paper!”</p> - -<p>William Hill had appointed two literary editors, to be perfectly on -the safe side. He had also appointed two news editors. Whether the two -news editors settled the dispute by assassination, I do not know. Only -one functioned. But Hawke and I agreed to divide the job, which we did -in the friendliest way, Hawke controlling the reviews of books, and I -editing the special articles, stories, and other literary contents of -the paper.</p> - -<p>It was started with a tremendous flourish of trumpets in the way of -advance publicity. On the first day of publication, London was startled -by the appearance of all the omnibus horses and cart horses caparisoned -in white sheets bearing the legend “Read <i>The Tribune</i>.” Unfortunately -it was a wet and stormy day, and before an hour or two had passed, the -white mantles were splashed with many gobs of mud, and waved wildly -as dirty rags above the backs of the unfortunate animals, or dangled -dejectedly about their legs. A night or two before publication, a grand -reception was given, regardless of expense, to an immense gathering of -political and literary personalities. The walls of <i>The Tribune</i> office -were entirely covered with hothouse flowers, and baskets of orchids -hung from the ceilings. Wine flowed like water, and historical truth -compels me to confess that some members of the new staff were overcome -by enthusiasm for this rich baptism of the new paper. One young -gentleman, very tall and eloquent, fell as gracefully as a lily at the -feet of Augustine Birrell. Another, when the guests were gone, resented -some fancied impertinence<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</a></span> from the commissionaire, and knocked him -through the telephone box. One of the office boys, unaccustomed to -champagne, collapsed in a state of coma and was put in the lift for -metal plates and carried aloft to the machine room. Long after all the -guests had gone, and Franklin Thomasson himself had returned home, -another gentleman in high authority on the organizing side was so -melted with the happy influences of the evening that his heart expanded -with human brotherly love for the night wanderers of London who had -been attracted by the lights and music in <i>The Tribune</i> office, and -he invited them to carry off the baskets of orchids in the hall, as a -slight token of his affection and sympathy. Indeed, his generosity was -so unbounded that he made them a gift of the hall clock—a magnificent -timepiece with chimes like St. Paul’s Cathedral—and they were about -to depart with it, praising God for this benevolence, when Franklin -Thomasson, who had been summoned back by telephone, arrived on the -scene to save his property and restore discipline.</p> - -<p>It was, of course, only a few Bohemian souls who were carried away by -the excitement of that baptismal night. Generally speaking, the staff -of <i>The Tribune</i> was made up of men of high and serious character, -whose chief fault, indeed, was to err rather much on the side of -abstract idealism and the gravity of philosophical faith.</p> - -<p>We produced a paper which was almost too good for a public educated in -the new journalism of the Harmsworth school, with its daily sensations, -its snippety articles, its “stunt” stories. We were long, and serious, -and “high-brow,” and—to tell the truth—dull. The public utterly -refused to buy <i>The Tribune</i>. Nothing that we could do would tempt -them to buy it. As literary editor of special articles and stories, I -bought some of the most brilliant work of the best writers in England. -I published one of Rudyard Kipling’s short stories—a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</a></span> gem—but it -did not increase the circulation of <i>The Tribune</i> by a single copy. -I published five chapters of autobiography by Joseph Conrad—a -literary masterpiece—but it did not move the sales. I persuaded G. K. -Chesterton to contribute a regular article; I published the work of -many great novelists, and encouraged the talent of the younger school; -but entirely without success. It was desperately disappointing, and -I am convinced that the main cause of our failure was the surfeit of -reading matter we gave each day to a public which had no leisure for -such a mass of print, however good its quality. The appearance of the -paper, owing to the lack of advertisements, was heavy and dull, and -any bright and light little articles were overshadowed among the long, -bleak columns.</p> - -<p>A new editor, belonging to the Harmsworth school, a charming little man -named S. G. Pryor, succeeded William Hill, but his attempts to convert -<i>The Tribune</i> into a kind of <i>Daily Mail</i> offended our small clientele -of serious readers, without attracting the great public.</p> - -<p>After two years of disastrous failure, Franklin Thomasson, who by that -time had lost something like £300,000, decided to cut his losses, and -the news leaked out among his staff of over eight hundred men that -the ship was sinking. It was a real tragedy for those men who had -left good jobs to join <i>The Tribune</i>, and who saw themselves faced -with unemployment, and even ruin and starvation for their wives and -families. Some of us made desperate endeavors to postpone the sentence -of death by introducing new capital.</p> - -<p>One of my colleagues journeyed to Dublin in the hope of persuading -Augustine Birrell to obtain government support for this Liberal organ.</p> - -<p>He sent a somewhat startling telegram to Birrell at Dublin Castle.</p> - -<p>“The lives of eight hundred men with their wives and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</a></span> children depend -on the interview which I beg you to grant me to-day.”</p> - -<p>Birrell was surprised, and granted the interview.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Birrell,” said my grave and melancholy friend, placing a hat of -high and noble architecture on the great man’s desk, “is <i>The Tribune</i> -going to die?”</p> - -<p>“Sir,” said Mr. Birrell, twinkling through his eyeglasses, “may <i>The -Tribune</i> die that death it so richly deserves.”</p> - -<p>I succeeded in holding up the sentence of doom for another fortnight, -by the sportsmanship of a gallant old lady named the Countess of -Carlisle. We had been conducting a temperance crusade which had earned -her warm approval, and for the sake of that cause and her Liberal -idealism, she offered to guarantee the men’s wages until the paper -might be sold.</p> - -<p>But it was never sold. The fatal night came when Franklin Thomasson, -white and distressed, but resolute, faced his staff with the dreadful -announcement that that was the last night. One man fainted. Several -wept. Outside the printers waited in the hope that at this twelfth hour -some stroke of luck would avert this great misfortune. To them it was a -question of bread and butter for wives and babes.</p> - -<p>That luck stroke did not happen.</p> - -<p>With several colleagues I waited, smoking and talking, after the -sentence had been pronounced. It seemed impossible to believe that <i>The -Tribune</i> was dead. It was more than the death of an abstract thing, -more than the collapse of a business enterprise. Something of ourselves -had died with it, our hopes and endeavors, our work of brain and heart. -A newspaper is a living organism, threaded through with the nerves of -men and women, inspired by their spirit, animated by their ideals and -thought, the living vehicle of their own adventure of life. So <i>The -Tribune</i> seemed to us then, in that last<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</a></span> hour, when we looked back on -our labor and comradeship, our laughter, our good times together on -“the rag,” as we had called it.</p> - -<p>Long after midnight I left the office for the last time, with -that friend of mine who had gone to Augustine Birrell, a tall, -melancholy-mannered, Georgian-looking man, whose tall hat was a noble -specimen of old-fashioned type.</p> - -<p>The brilliant lights outside the office suddenly went out. It was like -the sinking of the ship. My friend said, “Dead! Dead!” and lifted his -hat as in the presence of death.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</a></span></p> - -<h2>IX</h2> - -<p>After the downfall of <i>The Tribune</i> there was a period of suffering, -anxiety, and in some cases despair, for many of the men who had held -positions on that paper. One good fellow committed suicide. Others fell -into grievous debt while waiting like Mr. Micawber for something to -turn up. Fleet Street is a cruel highway for out-of-work journalists, -and as so many were turned out into the street together it was -impossible for all of them to be absorbed by other newspapers, already -fully staffed.</p> - -<p>There were rendezvous of disconsolate comrades in the Press Club -or Anderton’s Hotel, where they greeted each other with the gloomy -inquiry, “Got anything yet?” and then, smoking innumerable cigarettes, -in lieu, sometimes, of more substantial nourishment, cursed the -cruelty of life, the abominable insecurity of journalism, and their -own particular folly in entering that ridiculous, heartbreaking, -soul-destroying career.... One by one, in course of time, they found -other jobs down the same old street.</p> - -<p>I determined to abandon regular journalism altogether, and to become -a “literary gent” in the noblest meaning of the words, and anyhow a -free lance. I have always regarded journalism as merely a novitiate -for real literature, a training school for life and character, from -which I might gain knowledge and inspiration for great novels, as -Charles Dickens had done. My ambition, at that time, was limitless, -and I expected genius to break out in me at any moment. Oh, Youth! -Here, then, was my chance, now that I was free from the fetters of the -journalistic prison house. </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</a></span></p> - -<p>With a wealth of confidence and hope, but very little capital of a -more material kind, I took a cottage at the seashore for a month and -departed there with my wife and small boy. It was a coast-guard’s -cottage at Littlehampton, looking on to the sea and sand, and -surrounded by a fence one foot high, like the doll’s house it was. -There, in a tiny room, filled with the murmur of the sea, and the -vulgar songs of seaside Pierrots, I wrote my novel, <i>The Street of -Adventure</i>, in which I told, in the guise of fiction, the history -of <i>The Tribune</i> newspaper, and gave a picture of the squalor, -disappointment, adventure, insecurity, futility, and good comradeship -of Fleet Street.</p> - -<p>It was much to be desired that this novel of mine should be a success. -Even my wife’s humorous contentment with poverty, which has always been -a saving grace in my life, did not eliminate the need of a certain -amount of ready money. <i>The Street of Adventure</i>, my most successful -novel, cost me more than I earned. In the first place, it narrowly -escaped total oblivion, which would have saved me great anxiety and -considerable expense. After leaving the coast-guard’s cottage at -Littlehampton, with my manuscript complete—150,000 words in one -month—I had to change trains at Guildford to get to London from some -other place. My thoughts were so busy with the story I had written, -and with the fortune that awaited me by its success, that I left the -manuscript on the mantelpiece in the waiting room of Guildford Station, -and did not discover my loss until I had been in London some hours. It -seemed—for five minutes of despair—like the loss of my soul. Never -should I have had the courage to rewrite that novel which had cost so -much labor and so much nervous emotion. Despairingly I telegraphed -to the station master, and my joy was great when, two hours later, I -received his answer: “Papers found.” Little did I then know that if he -had<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</a></span> used them to brighten his fire I should have been saved sleepless -nights and unpleasant apprehensions.</p> - -<p>It was accepted and published by William Heinemann, on a royalty basis, -and it was gloriously reviewed. But almost immediately I received -a writ of libel from one of my friends and colleagues on the late -<i>Tribune</i>, and sinister rumors reached me that Franklin Thomasson, the -proprietor, and six other members of the staff were consulting their -solicitors on the advisability of taking action against me. I saw -ruin staring me in the face. My fanciful narrative had not disguised -carefully enough the actuality of the <i>Tribune</i> and its staff. My fancy -portraits and amiable caricatures had been identified, and could not be -denied. Fortunately only one writ was actually presented and proceeded -with, against myself and Heinemann, but the book was withdrawn from -circulation at a time when the reviews were giving it columns of -publicity, and it was killed stone dead—though later it had a merry -resurrection.</p> - -<p>The man who took a libel action against me was the character who in -my book is called Christopher Codrington, the same young man who had -lifted his hat when the lights went out and said, “Dead! Dead!” He and -I had been good friends, and I believed, and still believe, that my -portrait of him was a very agreeable and fanciful study of his amiable -peculiarities—his Georgian style of dress, his gravity of speech, -his Bohemianism. But he resented that portrait, and was convinced -that I had grossly maligned him. The solicitors employed by myself -and Heinemann to prepare the defense piled up the usual bill of costs -(and I had to pay the publisher’s share as well as my own), so that -by the time the case was ready to come into court I knew that, win or -lose, I should have some pretty fees to pay. It never came into court. -A few days before the case was due, I met “Christopher Codrington” in -Fleet Street! We paused,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</a></span> hesitated, raised our hats solemnly, and then -laughed (we had always been much amused with each other).</p> - -<p>“What about some lunch together?” I suggested.</p> - -<p>“It would never do,” he answered. “In a few days we shall be engaged in -a legal duel.”</p> - -<p>“Meanwhile one must eat,” I remarked casually.</p> - -<p>He agreed.</p> - -<p>We had a good luncheon at The Cock in Fleet Street. I had the honor -of paying for it. We discussed our chances in the libel action. -Christopher Codrington said he had a “clear case.” He emphasized the -damnably incriminating passages. I argued that he would only make -himself ridiculous by identifying himself with my pleasantries and -giving them a sinister twist. We parted in a friendly, courteous way, -as two gentlemen who would cross swords later in the week.</p> - -<p>When my solicitors heard that we two had lunched together, they threw -up their hands in amazement.</p> - -<p>“The two principals in a libel action! And the one who alleges libel -allows the other to pay for his lunch! The case collapses!”</p> - -<p>They were shocked that the law should be treated with such levity. It -almost amounted to contempt.</p> - -<p>That evening I called on “Christopher Codrington” and explained the -grievous lapse of etiquette we had both committed. He was disconcerted. -He was also magnanimous. I obtained his signature to a document -withdrawing the action, and we shook hands in token of mutual affection -and esteem.... But all my royalties on the sales of the novel, -afterward reissued in cheap form, went to pay Heinemann’s bill and -mine, and my most successful novel earned for me the sum of £25 until -it had a second birth in the United States, after the war.</p> - -<p>I knew after that the wear and tear, the mental distress, the financial -uncertainty that befell a free lance in search of fame and fortune, -when those mocking will-o’-the-wisps <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</a></span>lead him through the ditches of -disappointment and the thickets of ill luck. How many hundreds of times -did I pace the streets of London in those days, vainly seeking the plot -of a short story, and haunted by elusive characters who would not fit -into my combination of circumstances, ending at four thousand words -with a dramatic climax! How many hours I have spent glued to a seat -in Kensington Gardens, working out literary triangles with a husband -and wife and the third party, two men and a woman, two women and a -man, and finding only a vicious circle of hopeless imbecility! At such -times one’s nerves get “edgy” and one’s imagination becomes feverish -with effort, so that the more desperately one chases an idea, the more -resolutely it eludes one. It is like the disease of sleeplessness. The -more one tries to sleep, the more wakeful one becomes. Then the free -lance, having at last captured a good idea, having lived with it and -shaped it with what sense of truth and beauty is in his heart, carries -it like a precious gem to the market place. Alas, there is no bidder! -Or the price offered insults his sensitive pride, and mocks at his -butcher’s bill. It is “too good,” writes a kindly editor. “It is hardly -in our style,” writes a courteous one. It is “not quite convincing,” -writes a critical one.... It is bad to be a free lance in this period, -when fortune hides. It is worse to be the free lance’s wife. His -absent-mindedness becomes a disease.</p> - -<p>(I remember posting twenty-two letters with twenty-two stamps, but -separately, letters first and stamps next, in the red mouth of the -pillar box!)</p> - -<p>His moods of despair when his pen won’t write a single lucky word give -an atmosphere of neurasthenia to the house. He becomes irritable, -uncourteous, unkind, because, poor devil, he believes that he has lost -his touch and his talent, upon which this woman’s life depends, as well -as his own.</p> - -<p>My life as a free lance was not devoid of those periods<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</a></span> of morbid -depression, and yet, on the whole, I was immensely lucky, compared with -many other beggars of my craft. It was seldom that I couldn’t find -some kind of a market for my wares, and I had an industry—I can at -least boast of that, whatever the quality of my pen—which astonishes -myself when I look back upon those days. I was also gifted to this -extent—that I had the journalistic instinct of writing “brightly” on -almost any subject in which I could grab at a few facts, and I could -turn my pen to many different aspects of life and letters, which held -for me always fresh and enthusiastic interest. Not high qualities, but -useful to a young man in the capture of the fleeting guinea.</p> - -<p>I worked hard, and I enjoyed my toil. While earning bread and butter by -special articles and short stories, I devoted much time and infinite -labor to the most unprofitable branch of literature, which is history, -and my first love. Goodness knows how many books I read in order to -produce my <i>Men and Women of the French Revolution</i>, published in -magnificent style, with a superb set of plates from contemporary -prints, and almost profitless to me.</p> - -<p>It was by casual acquaintance with one of the queer old characters of -London that I obtained the use of those plates. He was a dear, dirty -old gentleman, who had devoted his whole life to print collecting and -had one of the finest collections in England. He lived in an old house -near Clerkenwell, which was just a storehouse for these engravings, -mezzotints, woodcuts, and colored prints of the eighteenth century. -He kept them in bundles, in boxes, in portfolios, wherever there was -floor space, chair space, and table space. To reach his desk, where -he sat curled up in a swivel chair, one had to step over a barricade -of those bundles. At meal times he threw crumbs to the mice who were -his only companions, except an old housekeeper, and whenever the need -of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</a></span> money became pressing, as it did in his latter years, he used to -take out a print, sigh over it as at the parting of an old friend, and -trot round to one of the London print sellers who would “cash it” like -a cheque.... I think I made £150 out of <i>Men and Women of the French -Revolution</i>, and my best reward was to see it, years later, in the -windows of the Paris bookshops. That gave me a real thrill of pride and -pleasure....</p> - -<p>I made less than £150 by my life of George Villiers, Duke of -Buckingham, one of the most romantic characters in English history, -and strangely unknown, except for Scott’s portrait in <i>The Fortunes of -Nigel</i>, and the splendid figure drawn by Alexandre Dumas in <i>The Three -Musketeers</i>, until, with prodigious labor, which was truly a labor of -love, I extracted from old papers and old letters the real life story -of this man, and the very secrets of his heart, more romantic, and more -fascinating, in actual fact, than the fiction regarding him by those -two great masters.</p> - -<p>I think it was £80 that I was paid for <i>King’s Favorite</i>, in which -again I searched the folios of the past for light on one of the most -astounding mysteries in English history—the murder of Sir Thomas -Overbury by the Earl of Somerset and the Countess of Essex—and -discovered a plot with kings and princes, great lords and ladies, -bishops and judges, poisoners, witch doctors, cutthroats and poets, as -hideously wicked as in one of Shakespeare’s tragedies. I was immensely -interested in this work. I gained gratifying praise from scholars and -critics. But I kept myself poor for knowledge sake. History does not -pay—unless it is a world history by H. G. Wells. Never mind! I had a -good time in writing it, and do not begrudge the labor.</p> - -<p>My book on George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, brought me the -friendship of the very noble and charming family of the Earl and -Countess of Denbigh. Lord<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</a></span> Denbigh is the descendant of Susan -Villiers—the sister of George Villiers—who married the first Earl of -Denbigh, and he has in his possession the original letters written by -the Duke of Buckingham to his devoted wife, and her beautiful letters -to him, as well as a mass of other correspondence of great historical -value. Lord Denbigh invited me down to Newnham Paddox, his lovely -Warwickshire home, founded by his ancestors in the reign of James I, -and in the long gallery I saw the famous VanDyck portraits of the -Duke of Buckingham, the “hero” of my book, which have now been sold, -with other priceless treasures, when war and after-war taxation have -impoverished this old family, like so many others in England to-day. -I always look back to those visits I paid to Newnham Paddox as to a -picture of English life, before so much of its sunshine was eclipsed -by the cost and sacrifice of that great tragedy. They were a large -and happy family in that old house, with three sons and a crowd of -beautiful girls, as frank and merry and healthy in body and soul as -Shakespeare’s Beatrice and Katherine, Rosamond and Celia. I remember -them playing tennis below the broad terrace with its climbing flowers, -and the sound of their laughter that came ringing across the court -when Lady Dorothy leapt the net, or Lady Marjorie took a flying jump -at a high ball. On a Sunday afternoon they captured some tremendous -cart horses, grazing on the day of rest, mounted them without reins -or bridle, rode them astride, charged each other like knights at a -tourney, fearless and free, while Lady Denbigh laughed joyously at -the sight of their romps. There was an exciting rat hunt in an old -barn, which was nearly pulled down to get at the rats.... No one saw -a shadow creeping close to those sunlit lawns, to touch the lives of -this English family and all others. They played the good game of life -in pre-war England. They played the game of life and death with equal -courage<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</a></span> when war turned Newnham Paddox into a hospital and called upon -those boys and girls for service and sacrifice. The eldest son, Lord -Feilding, was an officer in the Guards, and badly wounded. Two of the -boys were killed, one in the Army, one in the Navy. Lady Dorothy led -an ambulance convoy in Belgium, and I met her there when she was under -fire, constantly, in ruined towns and along sinister, shell-broken -roads, injecting morphia into muddy, bloody men, just picked up from -the fields and ditches, crying aloud in agony. Lady Denbigh herself -wore out her health and spirit, and died soon after the Armistice. It -was the record of many families like that, who gave all they had for -England’s sake.</p> - -<p>During that time of free lancing I enlarged my list of acquaintances -by friendly encounter with some of the great ones of the world, its -passing notorieties, and its pleasant and unpleasant people.</p> - -<p>In the first class was that curious old gentleman, the Duke of Argyll, -husband of Princess Louise. As poor as a church mouse, he was given -house-room in Kensington Palace, where I used to take tea with him now -and then, and discuss literature, politics, and history, of which he -had a roving knowledge. I was a neighbor of his, living at that time -in what I verily believe was the smallest house in London, at Holland -Street, Kensington, and it used to amuse me to step out of my doll’s -house, with or without eighteenpence in my pocket, and walk five -hundred yards to the white portico on the west side of the old red -brick palace, to take tea with a Royal duke. The poor old gentleman -was so bored with himself that I think he would have invited a tramp -to tea, for the sake of a little conversation, but for the austere -supervision of Princess Louise, of whom he stood in awe. As the Marquis -of Lorne, and one of the handsomest young men in England, he had gained -something of a reputation as a poet and essayist. His poetry in later -years was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</a></span> ponderously bad, but he wrote idealistic essays which had -some touch of style and revealed a mind above the average in nobility -of purpose.</p> - -<p>As an editor I had bought some of his literary productions, and had put -a number of useful guineas into the old man’s pockets, so that he had a -high esteem for me, as a man with immense power in the press, though, -as a free lance, I had none.</p> - -<p>This acquaintanceship startled some of my brother journalists on the -day of King Edward’s funeral at Windsor Castle. The Duke of Argyll -was a grand figure that day, in a magnificent uniform, with the Order -of the Garter, decorations thick upon his breast, and a great plumed -hat. After the ceremony, standing among a crowd of princes, he hailed -me, and walked arm in arm with me along the ramparts. I felt somewhat -embarrassed at this distinction, especially as I was in the full gaze -of my comrades of Fleet Street, who stood at a little distance. They -saw the humor of the situation when I gave them a friendly wink, but -afterward accused me of unholy “swank.”</p> - -<p>It was about this time that I came to know Beerbohm Tree, in many ways -the greatest, and in more ways the worst, of our English actors. He was -playing Caliban in “The Tempest” when I sought an interview with him on -the subject of Shakespeare.</p> - -<p>“Shakespeare!... Shakespeare!” he said, leering at me with a beastlike -face, according to the part he was playing, and clawing himself with -apelike hands. “I seem to have heard that name. Is there anything I can -say about him? No, there is nothing. I’ve said all I know a thousand -times, and more than I know more times than that.”</p> - -<p>He could think of nothing to say about Shakespeare, but suggested that -I should run away and write what I liked. I did, and it was at least -a year before the article<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</a></span> was published in a series of provincial -papers, a long article in which I wrote all that I thought Tree ought -to say, if he loved Shakespeare with anything like my own passion.</p> - -<p>One evening I received a long telegram from him.</p> - -<p>“Honor me by accepting two stalls any night at His Majesty’s and kindly -call on me between the acts.”</p> - -<p>I accepted the invitation, wondering at its effusiveness. When I called -on him, he was playing Brutus, and clasped my hand as though he loved -me.</p> - -<p>“Little do you know the service you have done me,” he said. “My -secretary told me the other night that I was booked for a lecture on -Shakespeare at the Regent Street Polytechnic. I had forgotten it. I had -nothing prepared. It was a dreadful nuisance. I said ‘I won’t go.’ He -said, ‘I’m afraid you must.’ ... Two minutes later a bundle of press -cuttings was brought to me. It contained your interview with me on the -subject of Shakespeare. I read it with delight. I had no idea I had -said all those things. What a memory you must have! I took the paper to -the Polytechnic, and delivered my lecture, by reading it word for word.”</p> - -<p>After that I met Tree many times and he never forgot that little -service. In return he invited me to the Garrick Club, or to his great -room at the top of His Majesty’s, and told me innumerable anecdotes -which were vastly entertaining. He had a rich store of them, and told -them with a ripe humor and dramatic genius which revealed him at his -best. His acting was marred by affectations that became exasperating, -and sometimes by loss of memory and sheer carelessness. I have seen him -actually asleep on the stage. It was when he played the part of Fagin -in “Oliver Twist,” and in a scene where he had to sit crouched below a -bridge, waiting for Bill Sikes, he dozed off, wakened with a start, and -missed his cue.</p> - -<p>Tree’s egotism was almost a disease, and in his last<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</a></span> years his -vanity and pretentiousness obscured his real genius. He was a great -old showman, and at rehearsals it was remarkable how he could pull -a crowd together and build up a big picture or intensify a dramatic -moment by some touch of “business.” But he played to the gallery all -the time, and made a pantomime of Shakespeare—to the horror of the -Germans when he appeared in Berlin! They would not tolerate him, and -were scandalized that such liberties should be taken with Shakespearian -drama, which they have adopted as their own.</p> - -<p>Another great figure of the stage whom I met behind the scenes was -Sarah Bernhardt, when she appeared at the Coliseum in London. She took -the part of Adrienne Lecouvreur, in which she was an unconscionable -time a-dying, after storms of agony and mad passion. I had an -appointment to meet her in her room after the play, and slipped round -behind the scenes before she left the stage. Her exit was astonishing -and touching. The whole company of the Coliseum and its variety -show—acrobats, jugglers, “funny” men, dancing girls, “star turns”—had -lined up in a double row to await this Queen of Tragedy, with homage. -As she came off the stage, George Robey, with his red nose and -ridiculous little hat, gravely offered his arm, with the air of Walter -Raleigh in the presence of Queen Elizabeth. She leaned heavily on his -arm, and almost collapsed in the chair to which he led her. She was -panting after her prolonged display of agony before the footlights, and -for a moment I thought she was really dying.</p> - -<p>I bent over her and said in French that I regretted she was so much -fatigued. My words angered her instantly, as though they reflected upon -her age.</p> - -<p>“Sir,” she said harshly, “I was as much fatigued when I first played -that scene—was it thirty years ago, or forty?—I have forgotten. It is -the exhaustion of art, and not of nature.”</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</a></span></p> - -<h2>X</h2> - -<p>As a special correspondent of <i>The Daily Chronicle</i> (after a spell of -free-lance work) I went abroad a good deal on various missions, and -occasionally took charge of the Paris office in the absence of Martin -Donohue who held that post but was frequently away on some adventure in -other countries.</p> - -<p>I came to know and to love Paris, by day and night, on both sides of -the Seine, and in all its quarters, rich and poor. To me it is still -the most attractive city in the world, and I have an abiding passion -for its ghosts, its beauty, and its people. To “feel” Paris one must -be steeped in the history and literature of France, so that one walks, -not lonely, but as a haunted man along the rue St. Honoré, where Danton -lived, and where Robespierre closed his shutters when Marie Antoinette -passed on her tumbril; in the Palais Royal, where Camille Desmoulins -plucked leaves from the trees and stuck them in his hat as a green -cockade; in the great nave of Notre Dame, where a thousand years of -faith, passion, tragedy, glory, touch one’s spirit, closely, as one’s -hand touches its old stones; across the Pont Neuf, where Henry met his -murderer, and where all Paris passed, with its heroes, cutthroats, -and fair women; on the left bank, by the bookstalls, where poets -and scholars roved, with hungry stomachs and eager minds; up in the -Quartier Latin, where centuries of student life have paced by the old -gray walls, and where wild youth has lived its short dream of love, -quaffed its heady wine, laughed at life and death; up the mountain of -Montmartre where <i>apaches</i> used to lurk in the darkness, and Vice wore -the false livery of Joy; in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</a></span> the Luxembourg Gardens, where a world of -lovers have walked, hand in hand, while children played, and birds -twittered, and green buds grew to leaf, which faded and fell as love -grew old and died.</p> - -<p>Paris is nothing but an exhibition of architecture and a good shopping -place, unless one has walked arm in arm with D’Artagnan, seen the great -Cardinal pass in his robes, stood behind the arras when Marguérite -de Valois supped with her lover, wandered the cold streets o’ nights -with François Villon, listened to the songs of Ronsard, passed across -the centuries to the salons of Madame de Deffand and Madame Geoffrin, -supped with the Encyclopædists, and heard the hoarse laughter of the -mobs when the head of the Princesse de Lamballe was paraded on a pike, -and the fairest heads of France fell under the knife into the basket of -the guillotine. It was Dumas, Victor Hugo, Erckmann-Chatrian, Eugène -Sue, Murger, Guy de Maupassant, Michelet’s “France,” and odd bits of -reading in French history, fiction, and poetry, which gave me the -atmosphere of Paris, and revealed in its modernity, even in its most -squalid aspects, a background of romance.</p> - -<p>So it has been with millions of others to whom Paris is an enchanted -city. But, as a journalist, I had the chance to get behind the scenes -of life in Paris, and to put romance to the test of reality.</p> - -<p>One of my earliest recollections of Paris was when I went there for a -fortnight with my wife, in the first year of our marriage, on savings -from my majestic income of £120 a year. We stayed in a little hotel -called the Hôtel du Dauphin, in the rue St. Roch—where Napoleon fired -his “whiff of grapeshot”—and explored the city and all its museums -with untiring delight, although at that time, during the Dreyfus trial -and the Fashoda crisis, England was so unpopular that we—obviously -English—were actually insulted in the streets. (It was before the -Entente Cordiale!) </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</a></span></p> - -<p>One little show was unusual in its character. A fool named Jules -Guérin, wanted by the police for not paying his rates, or something of -the kind, fortified his house in the rue Chabrol, and defied the whole -armed might of Paris to fetch him out. It was a kind of Sidney Street -affair, for he was armed with an automatic pistol and fired at any -policeman who approached. M. Lépine, the prefect, decided to besiege -him and starve him out, and when my wife and I wedged our way through -vast crowds, we found the rue Chabrol surrounded by a veritable army of -gendarmes. No one was allowed down the street, to the great annoyance -of my wife, who desired to see Jules Guérin.</p> - -<p>While we were talking together, a woman plucked my wife’s sleeve and -said in French, “You want to see Guérin?... Come with me.”</p> - -<p>She led us down a number of narrow passages beyond the police cordon -until, suddenly, we came into the very center of the deserted street.</p> - -<p>“Voilà!” said the woman. “Vous voyez l’imbécile!”</p> - -<p>She pointed to an upper window, and there, sure enough, was the -“imbecile,” Guérin, a sinister-looking fellow with a black beard, with -a large revolver very much in evidence. My wife laughed at him, and he -looked very much annoyed.... It was a full week before he surrendered -to the law.</p> - -<p>One of the most interesting times I had in Paris was when the -Confédération Générale de Travail, under the leadership of Jean Jaurès, -declared a general strike against the government of Aristide Briand. -It was a trial of strength between those two men, who had once been -comrades in the extreme Left of revolutionary labor. Both of them were -men of outstanding character. Jaurès was much more than a hot-headed -demagogue, of the new Bolshevik type, eager to destroy civilization -in revenge against “Capital.” He was a lover of France in every<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</a></span> -fiber of his body and brain, and a man of many Christian qualities, -including kindness and charity and personal morality, in spite of -religious scepticism. He saw with clear vision the approaching danger -of war with Germany, and he devoted his life, and lost it, on behalf -of antimilitarism, believing that German democracy could be won over -to international peace, if French democracy would link up with them. -It was for that reason that he attacked the three years’ system of -military service, and denounced the increasing expenditure of France on -military preparations. But to attain his ideal of international peace, -he played into the hands of revolutionary labor, and defended many of -its violent methods, including “direct action.” It was with Aristide -Briand that he had drawn up the plans of a general strike in which -every trade union or syndicate in France would join at the appointed -hour, in order to demonstrate the power of “Labor” and to overthrow the -autocracy of “Capital.”</p> - -<p>When Briand deserted the Left Wing, modified his views for the sake of -office, and finally became Premier of France, Jaurès, who had taunted -him as a renegade, put into operation against him the weapon he had -helped to forge. A general strike was declared.</p> - -<p>There were astonishing scenes in Paris. The machinery of social life -came to a dead stop. No railway trains arrived or departed, and I had -a sensational journey from Calais to Paris in the last train through, -driven by an amateur who had not mastered the mystery of the brakes, so -that the few passengers, with the last supply of milk for Paris, were -bumped and jolted with terrifying shocks.</p> - -<p>Food from the rural districts was held up on wayside stations, and -Paris was like a besieged city, living on rapidly diminishing stocks. -The “Metro” ceased work, and armies of clerks, shopgirls, and business -men had to walk to their work from suburbs or distant quarters.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</a></span> They -made a joke of it, and laughed and sang on their way, as though it was -the greatest jest in the world. But it became beyond a jest after the -first day or two, especially at night, when Paris was plunged into -abysmal darkness because the electricians had joined the railway men -and all other branches of labor.</p> - -<p>The restaurants and cafés along the great boulevards were dimly lighted -by candles stuck into wine and beer bottles, and bands of students from -the Latin Quarter paraded with paper lanterns, singing the Funeral -March and other doleful ditties, not without a sense of romance and -adventure in that city of darkness. The <i>apaches</i>, who love not the -light, came out of their lairs, beyond Clichy, and fell upon wanderers -in the gloom, robbing them of their watches and ready money, and -clubbing them if they put up any resistance. No milk could be had for -love or money, no butter, eggs, fish, or fresh meat, except by the rich -hotels which cornered the markets with their small supplies brought in -by farm carts, hand carts, or babies’ perambulators.</p> - -<p>On the whole there was very little violence, for, in spite of their -excitability, Parisian crowds are good-natured and law-abiding. -But there was one section which gave trouble. It was the union of -<i>terrassiers</i> or day laborers. They knocked off work and strolled down -toward the center of Paris in strong bodies, looking dangerous and -picturesque in their great loose breeches tucked into their boots, -short jackets, and flat bonnets pulled over the right eye. Most of them -carried knives or cheap pistols, and they had ancient, traditional -grudges against the <i>agents de police</i>.</p> - -<p>Those simple and admirable men were remarkably polite to them, and -generally contrived to keep at a safe distance when they appeared in -force. But the mounted police of the Garde Républicaine tried to herd -them back from the shopping centers of the city which they <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</a></span>threatened -to loot, and came into immediate conflict with them. As an observer -interested in the drama of life, I several times became unpleasantly -mixed up with <i>terrassiers</i> and other rash onlookers when the Garde -Républicaine rode among them, and I had some narrow escapes from being -trampled down.</p> - -<p>A hot affair took place round a scaffolding which had been put up for -some new building up by Montmartre. The <i>terrassiers</i>, driven back by -the mounted men who used the flat of their swords, made a stronghold -of this place, and loosed off their pistols or flung brickbats at the -“enemy,” inflicting several casualties. Orders were given to clear out -this hornets’ nest, and the Garde Républicaine charged right up to the -scaffolding and hauled out the ruffians, who were escorted as prisoners -through hooting mobs. It was all very exciting, and Paris was beginning -to lose its temper.</p> - -<p>Jaurès had called a great meeting of <i>cheminots</i>—the railway -workers—in the <i>Salle de Manège</i>, or riding school, down the rue St. -Denis. In the interests of <i>The Daily Chronicle</i> I decided to attend -it. It was in a low quarter of the city, and vast crowds of factory -workers and young hooligans surged up and down the street, jeering at -the police, and asking for trouble. Far away, above their heads, I -could see the steel helmets with their long black plumes of the Garde -Républicaine.</p> - -<p>A narrow passage led to the <i>Salle de Manège</i>, where Jaurès had -begun his meeting with an assembly of two thousand railway workers, -packed tight, as I could see when the door was opened an inch to -give them air. It was guarded by a group of strikers who told me in -rough language to clear off, when I asked for admission. One of them, -however, caught my remark that I belonged to <i>The Daily Chronicle</i>. It -impressed him favorably. “I used to read it when I was a hairdresser in -Soho,” he told me. He opened the door enough for me to step inside. </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</a></span></p> - -<p>Presently I was sorry he did. The atmosphere was hellish in its heat -and stench, arising from the wet sawdust of the riding school and the -greasy clothes of this great crowd of men, densely massed. Jaurès was -on the tribune, speaking with a powerful, sonorous voice, I forget his -words, but remember his appeal to the men to reveal the nobility of -labor by their loyalty and their discipline. He was scornful of the -renegade Briand who had sold his soul for office and was ready to use -bayonets against the liberties of men whose cause he had once defended -with passionate hypocrisy.... After an hour of this, I thought I should -die of suffocation, and managed to escape.</p> - -<p>It was out of the frying pan into the fire, for the crowds in the rue -St. Denis were being forced back by the Republican Guard, and I was -carried off my feet in the stampede, until I became wedged against -the wall of a corner café, with a surging crowd in front. Some one -flung a wine bottle at one of the Republican Guards, and unseated him. -Immediately the mounted troops rode their horses at the throng outside -the café. Tables fell over, chairs were smashed, and a score of men -and women fell in a heap through the plate glass windows. There were -shrieks of terror, mingled with yells of mirth. I decided to watch -the drama, if possible, from a more comfortable observation post, and -knocked at the door of one of the tall tenement houses near by. It was -opened by a villainous-looking man, shielding the flame of a candle -with a filthy hand.</p> - -<p>“What do you want?” he asked in French.</p> - -<p>“A view from your top window,” I said.</p> - -<p>He bargained with me sullenly, and I agreed to five francs for a place -on his roof. It was worth that money, to me, to see how the poor of -Paris sleep in their cheap lodging houses. I went through the rooms -on each floor, by way of rickety old stairs, and in each room were<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</a></span> -fifteen to twenty people, sitting or lying on iron bedsteads, men in -some rooms, women in others. Some of them were sleeping and snoring, -others lay half-dressed, reading scraps of newspaper by flickering -gas light. Others were undressing, careless of the publicity given -to their rags. It was astonishing to me that hardly any of them paid -the slightest attention to the scenes in the street below, which were -becoming riotous, as I could hear by gusts of noise, in which the -shrieks of women mingled with hoarse groans and yells and a kind of -sullen chant with the words, “<i>Hue! Hue! Hue! A bas la police. A bas la -police! Hue! Hue! Hue!</i>”</p> - -<p>This house was older than the French Revolution, and I couldn’t help -thinking that perhaps when the tumbrils were passing on their way to -the guillotine, men and women like this were lying abed, or yawning -and combing their matted hair, or playing cards by candlelight, as two -fellows here, not bothering to glance beyond the windows at such a -common sight as another batch of aristocrats going to their death.</p> - -<p>From the roof I looked down on the turbulent crowd, charged again and -again by the Republican Guards until the street was clear. Presently -the <i>cheminots</i> came surging out of the <i>Salle de Manège</i>, with Jaurès -at their head, walking very slowly. The police let Jaurès get past, and -then broke up the procession behind him, with needless brutality, as it -seemed to me. Many men were knocked down, and fell under the horses’ -hoofs. Others were beaten by blunt swords.</p> - -<p>Not only Paris was in the throes of the general strike, but all -France. It was a serious threat to the French government and to the -social life of the people. Briand, who had played with revolutionary -ideas as a younger man, showed now that he had the wisdom that comes -from responsibility, and the courage to apply it. He called certain -classes to the colors. If they disobeyed,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</a></span> it would be treason to the -Flag, punishable by death. If they obeyed, it would break the general -strike, as they would be ordered, as soldiers, to run the trains, and -distribute supplies. It was a great risk to take, threatening civil -war, but he took it, believing that few men would refuse obedience to -military discipline. He was right, and by this means he crushed the -general strike and broke the power of the trade unions.</p> - -<p>I interviewed him at that time, and remember my first meeting with -that man who afterward, when the World War had ended in the defeat of -Germany, held the office of Premier again and endeavored vainly to save -France from the ruin which followed victory.</p> - -<p>I waited for him, by appointment, in a great salon furnished in the -style of Louis XV, with gilded chairs and a marble-topped table at -which Napoleon had once sat as Emperor. I was chatting with one of -his secretaries, when the door opened, and a tall, heavily built man -with large, dark, melancholy eyes, came into the room. He looked at -me somberly, and I stared back, not realizing that it was the Prime -Minister of France. Then the secretary whispered “Monsieur Briand,” and -he held out his hand to me. We had a long talk, or, rather, he talked -and I listened, impressed by the apparent frankness and simplicity and -courage of the man.</p> - -<p>He told me how great had been the danger to France from the forces of -anarchy let loose by the Confédération Générale de Travail by their -action of the general strike, and he defended the policy by which he -had broken that threat against the authority of government. He did not -disguise from me that he had risked not only his political life and -reputation, but even the very peace and stability of France. But that -risk had been necessary, because the alternative would have been a weak -and shameful surrender to anarchy and revolution.</p> - -<p>Jaurès was beaten, as he deserved to be, on that issue.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</a></span> His worst -defeat was not then, but in August of 1914, when those German -Socialists, in whose pacifism and brotherhood of man he had believed, -supported the challenge of their war lords against France and Russia, -and marched with all the rest toward the French frontier. The whole -of Jaurès’s life struggle for international peace was made vain by -the beating of drums for the greatest war in history. Among his own -people there were many, once spellbound by his oratory and loyal to his -leadership, who now abused him as the man who had weakened the defenses -of France by his antimilitarist influence. There were some, even, who -said “Jaurès betrayed us to the Enemy!”</p> - -<p>On that night when many nations of Europe answered the call to arms, -stupefied, conscious of enormous terrors approaching all human life, -hearing already, in imagination, the thunder of a world of guns that -had not yet opened fire, I paced the streets of Paris with a friend, -wondering how soon he and I would be caught up in that death struggle.</p> - -<p>“Let us turn in at the <i>Croissant</i>,” he said. “We must eat, though the -world goes mad.”</p> - -<p>It was late, and when we arrived at the restaurant in the rue -Montmartre, it was closed and guarded by police.</p> - -<p>“What has happened?” I asked, and some one in the crowd answered with -intense emotion:</p> - -<p>“Jaurès is assassinated! He was shot there, as he sat at dinner.”</p> - -<p>He was shot from behind a curtain, in a plush-covered seat where often -I had sat, by some young man who believed that, in killing Jaurès, he -was helping to secure the victory of France.</p> - -<p>I saw his funeral <i>cortège</i>. They gave him a great funeral. Ministers -of France, men of all parties, dignitaries of the Church, marched -behind his coffin, and <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</a></span>behind the red flags which were blown by a -strong wind. It was not love for him, but fear of the people which -caused that demonstration at his burial. It was an appeal for that -<i>Union Sacrée</i> of all classes by which alone the menace to the life -of France might be resisted. There need have been no fear. There -was hardly a man in France who did not offer his life as a willing -sacrifice, in that war which seemed not only against France and her -friends, but against civilization itself and all humanity. So the -<i>poilus</i> believed, with simple faith, unshaken by any doubt—in the -peaceful policy of France and the unprovoked aggression of Germany.</p> - -<p>The restaurant in which Jaurès was killed—the <i>Croissant</i>, with the -sign of the Turkish Crescent—was one of the few in Paris open all -night for the use of journalists who slept by day. Needless to say, -other night birds, even more disreputable, found this place a pleasant -sanctuary in the wee sma’ hours. I went there often for some meal which -might have been dinner, lunch, or breakfast, any time between 2 and -5 <span class="smaller">A.M.</span> I was with my colleague, Henri Bourdin, during the -Italian war in Tripoli.</p> - -<p>Our job was to receive long dispatches over the telephone, from -Italian correspondents, and transmit them by telephone to London. It -was a maddening task, because after very few minutes of conversation, -the telephone cut us off from one of the Italian cities, or from -London, and only by curses and prayers and passionate pleading to lady -operators could we establish contact again.</p> - -<p>Though the war in Tripoli was a trivial episode, wiped out in our -memory by another kind of war, the Italian correspondents wrote -millions of words about every affair of outposts—all of which streamed -over the telephone in florid Italian. I had a Sicilian who translated -that Italian into frightful French, which I, in turn, translated into<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</a></span> -somewhat less frightful English, and conveyed by telephone to London.</p> - -<p>It went on hour after hour, day after day, and night after night, -especially from a man named Bevione. I hated his eloquence so much that -I made a solemn vow to kill him, if ever I met him in the flesh.... I -met him in Bulgaria, during another war, but he was so charming that -I forgave him straightway for all the agony he had inflicted on me. -Besides, undoubtedly, he would have killed me first.</p> - -<p>The Sicilian was a marvel. Between the telephone calls he narrated -all his love affairs since the age of fourteen, and they were -innumerable. During the telephone calls, it was he who pleaded with -the lady operators not to cut him off, or to get his call again. He -punctuated every sentence with a kiss. “Madonna!... Bacio!... Bacio!” -He gave these unknown beauties (perhaps they were as ugly as sin!) a -million kisses over the telephone wires, and by this frenzy of amorous -demonstration seriously disturbed the Paris exchange, and held up all -our rivals.</p> - -<p>Henri Bourdin, in intervals of waiting, used to make the time pass by -acting all the most famous dramas of the modern French stage, and I vow -that this single man used to give me the illusion of having seen the -entire company of the Comédie Française, so vivid were his character -studies and descriptions.</p> - -<p>Abandoning the Sicilian to any opportunities of love he might find -beyond the telephone receiver, Bourdin and I used to leave the office -on the Boulevard des Capucines just as the light of dawn was creeping -into the streets of Paris, when the <i>chiffonniers</i> picked at the rags -in the dustbins, and pale ladies of the night passed like ghosts to -their lodgings in mean streets.</p> - -<p>We made our way sometimes to the markets—<i>Les Halles</i>—where the women -of the Revolution used to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</a></span> gather with their knitting and their gossip -of the latest heads to fall in the basket of the guillotine. Many of -the houses round about belong to that period, and Bourdin and I used -to take coffee in old eating and drinking houses like the “<i>Chien qui -Fume</i>” (The Dog Who Smokes), which still have on their walls the iron -brackets for the lanterns on which French aristocrats were hanged by -infuriated mobs, in 1793.</p> - -<p>They were still frequented by strange and sinister-looking characters. -I remember one group, certainly as queer as any I have seen. Bourdin -and I were seated at table when they came in excitedly—about thirty -men and women, all laughing and jabbering. The men wore long hair, -very wild and unkempt, with flowing black ties of “La Vallière” style. -The women had short hair, cut with straight fringes. Presently another -man appeared, astoundingly like Ary Scheffer’s study of Our Lord, with -long pale hair, and straw-colored beard, and watery blue eyes. At his -coming, the company became delirious with enthusiasm, while he went -gravely round the circle and kissed each man and woman on the lips.</p> - -<p>It was Bourdin who explained to me the mystery of these fantastic -creatures. They belonged to the most advanced Anarchist society in -Paris. The man who appeared last had just been acquitted by the French -courts on a charge of kidnapping and locking up one of his fellow -anarchists, who had betrayed the society to the police.</p> - -<p>The only time in which I myself have been in the hands of the French -police was in the early days of the war, while I was waiting in Paris -for my papers as accredited war correspondent with the British Armies -in the field. This unpleasant experience was due to my ceaseless -curiosity in life and the rash acceptance of a casual invitation.</p> - -<p>A friend of mine had become acquainted with two ladies who sang at -“Olympia,” and I happened to be in a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</a></span> taxicab with him when they -approached the door of his vehicle as we alighted.</p> - -<p>It was eleven o’clock at night, and it was murmured by the two ladies -that they were going to a “reception” at some apartment near the -Étoile—a most aristocratic neighborhood. They would be delighted if we -accompanied them. I was tired, and did not wish to go, but my friend -Brown, always fresh at midnight, saw amusement ahead, and begged me to -come.</p> - -<p>“For an hour, then,” I said.</p> - -<p>In the cab on the way to the Étoile, Brown sang mock Italian opera with -one of the ladies, who had an excellent voice and a sense of humor. I -exchanged a few remarks with the other lady, and was slightly disturbed -by the somewhat German accent with which she spoke French.</p> - -<p>Certainly, the apartment in which presently we found ourselves, in an -avenue by the Étoile, was extremely elegant, and crowded with men and -women in evening dress, who looked highly respectable. Among them were -a few French officers in uniform and one English officer. The hostess -was a charming-looking lady, with snow-white hair. There was a little -music, a little dancing, and polite conversation. It was decorous and -dull.</p> - -<p>At the end of an hour I spoke to Brown.</p> - -<p>“I’ve had enough of this. I’m off.”</p> - -<p>He informed me in a whisper that if I went I should be losing something -very good in the way of an adventure.</p> - -<p>“This is, undoubtedly, one of the most criminal haunts in Paris,” he -said. “I can smell abomination! Something melodramatic will happen -before long, or I’ll eat my hat.”</p> - -<p>I was surprised, and alarmed. I had no desire to be at home in a -criminal haunt in time of war. I decided even more firmly to go, and -went to take leave of the charming lady with the snow-white hair.</p> - -<p>She seemed vexed that I should desire to go so soon,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</a></span> but seeing that I -was decided, made a somewhat curious request.</p> - -<p>“Do you mind going out by the garden entrance—through the French -windows? We do not care to show lights through the front door. <i>C’est -la guerre!</i>”</p> - -<p>I went out through the garden entrance, followed by Brown, who said I -was missing the fun.</p> - -<p>It was dark in the garden, and I stumbled on the way to a little garden -gate, twenty yards away from the house.</p> - -<p>As I put my hand on the latch of the gate, I was aware of a large -number of black shadows coming toward me out of the bushes beyond. -Instinctively I beat a hasty retreat back to the house. Something had -happened to it. Where the French windows had been was now a steel door. -Brown was doing something mysterious, bending low and making pencil -marks on a white slab of the wall.</p> - -<p>“What’s up?” I asked.</p> - -<p>“I’m identifying the house, in case of future need,” he answered.</p> - -<p>I made a tattoo with my stick against the steel door. My one foolish -desire was to get back into the house, away from those black figures -outside the garden gate. It was too late. Directly I knocked on the -door, a score of them rushed into the garden, and I was seized and -carried in strong arms until, at a considerable distance, I was dumped -down under the Eiffel Tower, in charge of a dozen <i>agents de police</i>. -Groups of men and women in evening dress, some of whom I recognized -as visitors at the reception of the charming lady with the snow-white -hair, were also in charge of strong bodies of police. My friend Brown -was a prisoner some twenty yards away. It was a cold night, but, -philosophically, to the amazement of the French police, he lay down on -the grass and went to sleep.</p> - -<p>We were kept under the Eiffel Tower for two hours, at the end of which -time a motor car drew up, with a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</a></span> gentleman wearing the tricolor sash -of a French prefect. It was for him that we had been waiting. Strangely -enough, we were all taken back to the apartment from which we had come, -and there each person was subjected to an examination by the prefect -and his assistants. There was evident terror among the men and women -who had passed the evening in the house of mystery.</p> - -<p>Brown and I were liberated after an inspection of our passports. On the -way home I asked Brown for a little explanation, for I could understand -nothing of the business.</p> - -<p>He understood perfectly.</p> - -<p>“That place was a gambling den. The police were looking for German -spies, as well as French officers absent without leave. I told you we -should see something worth while!”</p> - -<p>I confess I did not think it worth while. I had had a nasty fright, -caught a bad cold, and missed a good night’s sleep.</p> - -<p>But it was certainly a little bit of melodrama, which one may find in -Paris more easily than in any city in the world.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</a></span></p> - -<h2>XI</h2> - -<p>After the revolution in Portugal, which led to the exile of King Manuel -and the overthrow of the Royalist <i>régime</i> in favor of a republic under -the presidency of Affonso Costa, I was asked by Lord Lytton to go out -and report upon the condition of the prisons in that country.</p> - -<p>They were packed with Royalists and with all people, of whatever -political opinion, who disapproved of the principles and methods of -the new government, including large numbers of the poorest classes. -Sinister stories had leaked through about the frightful conditions -of these political prisoners, and public opinion in England was -stirred when the Dowager Duchess of Bedford, who had visited Portugal, -published some sensational statements. I suspected that the dear old -Duchess of Bedford was influenced a good deal by sentiment for the -Royalist cause, although when I saw her she was emphatic in saying that -she had never met King Manuel and was moved to take action for purely -humanitarian reasons. Lord Lytton, a man of liberal and idealistic -mind, was certainly not actuated by the desire for Royalist or -anti-republican propaganda, and in asking me to make an investigation -on behalf of a committee, he made it clear that he wished to have the -true facts, uncolored by prejudice. On that condition I agreed to go.</p> - -<p>I found, before going, that the moving spirit behind the accusations -of cruelty appearing in the British press against the new rulers of -Portugal, and behind the Duchess of Bedford, was a little lady named -Miss Tenison. </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</a></span></p> - -<p>“She has all the facts in her hands,” said Lord Lytton, “and you ought -to have a talk with her. You will have to make a long journey.”</p> - -<p>I made the journey to a remote part of England, where I found a very -ancient little house, unchanged by any passing of time through many -centuries. I was shown into a low, long room, haunted, I am certain, -by the ghosts of Tudor and Stuart England. Two elderly ladies, who -introduced themselves as Miss Tenison’s aunts, sat on each side of -a mediæval fireplace. Presently Miss Tenison appeared and for more -than a moment—for all the time of my visit—I imagined myself in -the presence of one of those ghosts which should properly inhabit a -house like this—a young lady in an old-fashioned dress, so delicate, -so transparent, so spiritual, that I had the greatest difficulty in -accepting her as an inhabitant of this coarse and material world.</p> - -<p>She was entirely absorbed in the Portuguese affairs, and her aunts -told me that she dreamed at night about the agony of the Royalist -prisoners in their dungeons. She was in correspondence with many -Royalist refugees, and with those still hiding in Portugal, from whom -she obtained the latest news. She had a romantic admiration—though -not knowing him personally—for a certain count, who had led a -counter-revolution and had been captured sword in hand, before being -flung into prison and treated as a common convict. She hated Affonso -Costa, the President, as Russian <i>émigrés</i> afterward hated Lenin.</p> - -<p>It was from this little lady, ethereal in appearance but as passionate -in purpose as Lytton Strachey’s Florence Nightingale, that I gained -my first insight into the Portuguese situation and my letters of -introduction to some great people still hiding in Lisbon. I left her -house with the sense of having begun a romantic adventure, with this -remarkable little lady in the first chapter. </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</a></span></p> - -<p>The second chapter of my adventure was fantastic, for I found myself -in the wilds of Spain, suddenly responsible for a German wife and six -bandboxes filled with the lingerie of six Brazilian beauties.... It -sounds incredible, but it is true.</p> - -<p>It happened that a tunnel fell down on the engine of a train -immediately ahead of the one in which I was traveling through northern -Spain on the way to Lisbon. This brought our train to a standstill in -a rather desolate spot. There was vast excitement, and a babble of -tongues. Most of the travelers were on their way to Lisbon, to catch -a boat to Brazil which was leaving the following day. Among them was -a stout little German, with a large, plump, and sad-looking wife. -Neither of them could speak anything but German, but the husband, -who was almost apoplectic with rage and anxiety, seemed to divine by -intuition that a local train which halted at the wayside station might -go somewhere in the direction of Lisbon. Entirely forgetting his wife, -or thinking, perhaps that she would follow him whithersoever he went, -he sprang on to the footboard of the local train, and scrambled in -just as it steamed away. So there I was with the German wife, to whom -I had previously addressed a few words, and who now appealed to me for -advice, protection, and something to eat. The poor lady was hungry, and -her husband had the money. Highly embarrassed, because I knew not how -long I should be in the company of this German <i>Hausfrau</i>, I provided -her with some food at the buffet, and endeavored to get some news of -the best manner to reach Lisbon.</p> - -<p>Then the second blow befell me. Six extraordinarily beautiful Brazilian -girls, with large black eyes and flashing teeth, did exactly the same -thing as the German gentleman. That is to say, they hurled themselves -into a local train just as it was starting away. Six heads screamed -out of the carriage window. They were <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</a></span>screaming at me. It was a wild -appeal that I should rescue the six enormous bandboxes which they had -left on the platform, and bring them to a certain hotel in Lisbon. So -there I was, with the bandboxes and the German wife.</p> - -<p>I duly arrived in Lisbon, after a nightmare journey, with all my -responsibilities, and handed over the bandboxes to the Brazilian -beauties, and the German wife to the German husband. I obtained no -gratitude whatever in either case.</p> - -<p>In Lisbon I plunged straightway into a life of romance and tragedy, -which was strangely reminiscent of all I had read about the French -Revolution.</p> - -<p>With my letters of introduction I called at several great houses of -the old nobility, which seemed to be utterly abandoned. At least, no -lights showed through the shutters, and they were all bolted and barred -within their courtyards. At one house, in answer to my knocking, and -the ringing of a bell which jangled loudly, there came at last an -answer. A little door in the wall was cautiously opened on a chain by -an old man servant with a lantern. Upon mentioning my name, and the -word “Inglese,” which I hoped was good Portuguese for “English,” the -door was opened wider, and the man made a sign for me to follow him. I -was led into a great mansion, perfectly dark, except for the lantern -ahead, and I went up a marble staircase, and then into a large salon, -furnished in the style of the French Empire, with portraits on the -walls of eighteenth century ladies and gentlemen in silks and brocades. -In such a room as this Marie Antoinette might have sat with her ladies -before the women of the markets marched to Versailles.</p> - -<p>The old man servant touched a button, and flooded the room with the -light of the electric candelabra, making sure first that no gleam of it -would get through the heavy curtains over the shutters. Then he left -the room, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</a></span> soon afterward appeared an old lady in a black dress -with a white shawl over her shoulders.</p> - -<p>She was the aunt of one of the great families of Portugal, some of -whom had escaped to England, and others of whom were in the prisons of -Lisbon. She spoke harshly, in French, of the base and corrupt character -of the new Portuguese Republic, and of the cruelties and indignities -suffered by the political prisoners. She lived quite alone in the old -mansion, not caring to go out because of the insults she would receive -in the streets, but otherwise safe. So far, at least, Affonso Costa and -his police had not threatened her liberty or her possessions.</p> - -<p>In another house in the outskirts of Lisbon, with a beautiful garden, -where the warm air was filled with the scent of flowers in masses of -rich color, I met another lady of the old <i>régime</i>, a beautiful girl, -living solitary, also, and agonized because of the imprisonment and ill -treatment of her relatives. She implored me to use what influence I -had, as an English journalist, to rescue those unhappy men.</p> - -<p>It was my mission to get into the prisons, and see what were the real -conditions of captivity there. After frequent visits to the Foreign -Office, I received permits to visit the Penetenciaria and the Limoero, -in which most of the political prisoners were confined. The guide who -went with me told me that the Republic had nothing to hide, and that -I could see everything and talk as much as I liked with the captives. -He was certain that I should find the Penetenciaria, at least, a model -prison. The other was “rather old-fashioned.”</p> - -<p>On the whole, I preferred the old-fashioned prison. The “model prison” -seemed to me specially and beautifully designed to drive men mad -and kill their humanity. It was spotlessly clean and provided with -excellent sanitary arrangements, washhouses, bakehouses, kitchens,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</a></span> and -workshops, but the whole system of the prison was ingeniously and, to -my mind, devilishly constructed to keep each prisoner, except a favored -few, in perpetual solitude. Once put into one of those little white -cells, down one of the long white corridors, and a man would never see -or talk with a fellow mortal again until his term of penal servitude -expired, never again, if he had a life sentence. There were men in -that place who had already served ten, or fifteen, or twenty years. -Through a hole in the door they received their food or their day’s -ration of work. To exercise them, a trap was opened at the end of their -cell, so that they could walk out, like a captive beast, into a little -strip of courtyard, divided by high walls from the strip on either -side. Up above was the open sky, and the sunlight fell aslant upon the -white-coated walls, but it was a cramped and barren space for a man’s -body and soul. Perhaps it was no worse than other European prisons, -possibly much better. But it struck me with a cold horror, because of -all those living beings isolated, in lifelong silence, entombed.</p> - -<p>One corridor was set apart for the political prisoners, and when I -saw them they were allowed to have their cell doors open, and to -converse with each other, for a short time. Otherwise they, too, -were locked in their separate cells. I spoke with a number of them, -all men of high-sounding names and titles, but a melancholy, pale, -miserable-looking crowd, whose spirits seemed quite broken by their -long captivity. They were mostly young men, and among them was the -Portuguese count who had led the counter-revolutionary rising and -had been captured by the Republican troops. They had one grievance, -of which they all spoke passionately. The Republic might have shot -them as Royalists. At least that would have enabled them to die like -gentlemen. But it had treated them like common criminals and convicts, -and had even forced them to wear convict garb, to have their heads<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</a></span> -shaved, and to wear the hood with only eyeholes which was part of -the dress—horrible in its cruelty—of all long-sentence men. My -conversation with most of them was in French, but two young brothers -of very noble family spoke excellent English. They seemed to regard my -visit as a kind of miracle, and it revived hopes in them which made me -pitiful, because I had no great expectation of gaining their release. -When I went away from them, they returned to their cells, and the steel -doors clanked upon them.</p> - -<p>In the prison called the Limoero there were different conditions of -life, enormously preferable, I thought, to the Penetenciaria, in spite -of its filth and dirt and disease. There was no solitary confinement -here, but crowds of men and women living in a hugger-mugger way, with -free intercourse between their rooms. They were allowed to receive -visitors at stated times, and when I was there the wives of many of the -prisoners had come, with their babies and parcels of food. The babies -were crawling on the floor, the food was being cooked on oil stoves, -and there was a fearful stench of unwashed bodies, fried onions, -tobacco smoke, and other strong odors.</p> - -<p>The Fleet Prison, as described by Charles Dickens, must have closely -resembled this place, in its general system of accommodation and social -life, and I saw in many faces there the misery, the haggard lines, -the despair, which he depicts among those who had been long suffering -inmates of that debtors’ jail.</p> - -<p>Many of the men here were of the aristocratic and intellectual classes, -among them editors and correspondents of Royalist papers, poets, -novelists, and university professors. They had not been charged with -any crime, they had not been brought up for trial, they had no idea -how long their captivity would last—a few months, a few years, or -until death released them. But at least in equal proportion to the -Royalists—I think in a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</a></span> majority—were men of poorer class—mechanics, -printers, tailors, shoemakers, artisans of all kinds. They, too, were -political prisoners, having been Socialists, Syndicalists, and other -types of advanced democrats.</p> - -<p>Some of the men told me that they had no idea whatever why they were -lodged in Limoero. They had been arrested without charge, flung into -prison without trial, and kept there without hope of release. Quite a -number of them had been imprisoned by the Royalist <i>régime</i> in the time -of the monarchy, and the Republic had not troubled about them. They -were just left to rot, year after year.</p> - -<p>The political prisoners were allowed to receive food from their -relatives, but many had no relatives able to provide them, and they had -nothing but prison fare, which was hardly enough for life. They begged -through the bars of the windows to passers-by, as I saw them, with -their hands thrust through the iron gratings. Owing to the overcrowding -and insanitary conditions, disease was rife, and prison fever ravaged -them.</p> - -<p>I had been told of one prison called Forte Mon Santo, on a hill some -distance away from Lisbon, and as I could get no official pass to visit -it, I decided to try and gain admission by other means. In the Black -Horse Square at Lisbon, I hired a motor car from one of the street -drivers, and understood from him that he was the champion automobilist -of Lisbon. Certainly he drove like a madman and a brute. He killed -three dogs on the way, not by accident, but by deliberately steering -into them, and laughed uproariously at each kill. He drove through -crowded streets with a screeching horn, and in the open countryside -went like a fiend, up hill and down dale. I was surprised to find -myself alive on the top of the hill which, as I knew by private -directions, was the prison of Mon Santo.</p> - -<p>But I could see no prison. No building of any kind<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</a></span> stood on the lonely -hilltop or on its slopes, which were bare of all but grass. All I could -see was a circle of queer-looking objects like large metal mushrooms. -Upon close inspection I saw that these things were ventilators for a -subterranean building, and walking further, I came to a steep, circular -ditch, into which some steps were cut. At the top of the steps stood a -sentry with a rifle slung over his arm.</p> - -<p>I approached this man, who regarded me suspiciously and unslung his -rifle, but the glint of a gold sovereign—we used to have such things -before the era of paper money—persuaded him that I was an agreeable -fellow. My brutal motor driver, who spoke a bit of French, so that he -understood my purpose, explained to the sentry that I was an English -tourist who would like to see his excellent prison. After some debate, -and a roving eye over the surrounding landscape, the sentry nodded, -and made a sign for me to go down the steps, with the motor driver. I -noticed that during all the time of my visit he walked behind us, with -his rifle handy, lest there should be any trick on our part.</p> - -<p>It was the most awful dungeon I have ever seen, apart from ancient dens -disused since mediæval times. Completely underground, its dungeons -struck me with a chill even in the short time I was there. Its walls -oozed with water. No light came direct through the narrow bars of the -cells in which poor wretches lay like beasts, but only indirectly -from the surrounding ditch, so that they were almost in darkness. In -the center of this underground fort was a cavern in complete darkness -except, perhaps, for some faint gleam through a grating about two feet -square, high up in the outer wall. It was just a hole in the rock, -and inside were five men with heavy chains about them. Once a day the -jailers pushed some loaves of bread through the grating. What went on -in that dark dungeon, and in the darkness of those men’s souls,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</a></span> it is -better, perhaps, not to imagine. The cruelty of men is not yet killed, -and there are still, in the hearts of men and of nations, lurking -devils worse than the wildness and ferocity of beasts....</p> - -<p>I went to other prisons in Lisbon and Oporto. They were not like that, -but, generally, like the Limoero, unclean, squalid, horrible, but with -human companionship, which alleviates all suffering, if there is any -kind of comradeship. In these cases one could not charge the Portuguese -Republic with inflicting bodily suffering upon their prisoners in any -deliberate way. The indictment against them was that, under the fair -name of liberty, they had overthrown the monarchical <i>régime</i> and -substituted a new tyranny. For, among all the people I met, there were -few who had been charged with any offense against the law, or given the -right of defense in any trial.</p> - -<p>A queer fellow came into my life during this time in Portugal, whose -behavior still baffles me by its mystery. The episode is like the -beginning of a sensational detective story, without any clue to its -solution.</p> - -<p>The first night of my arrival in Lisbon I dined alone in the hotel, -and soon remarked a handsome, well-dressed, English-looking man who -kept glancing in my direction. After dinner he came up to me and said: -“Excuse me, but isn’t your name Jones? I think I had the pleasure of -meeting you in London, some months ago?”</p> - -<p>“A mistake,” I said, civilly; “my name is not Jones.”</p> - -<p>He looked disappointed when I showed no signs of desiring further -conversation, and went away. But presently, after studying the hotel -list (as I have no doubt), he returned, and with a very genial smile, -said: “Oh, forgive me! I made a mistake in the name. You are Philip -Gibbs, I believe. I met you at the Savage Club.”</p> - -<p>I knew he was lying, for I seldom forget a face, and not such a face -as his, very powerful and arresting, but as I was bored with my own -company, I gave him a little<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</a></span> rope. We took coffee together, and talked -about the affairs of the world and the countries in which we had -wandered. He had been to South America and other countries, and told -me some very amusing yarns. I was much taken with this man, who was -certainly well-educated and a brilliant talker.</p> - -<p>The mystery appeared when he tapped at my door next morning, and said -he desired to ask a favor.</p> - -<p>I expected him to borrow money, but what he wanted was less expensive, -and more extraordinary. He wanted me to go to the seashore near Cascaes -and bring back to him a handful of pebbles. As he could not pay for -such a service from a man in my position, he would gladly make me a -friendly gift of anything that might strike my fancy in the shops of -Lisbon.</p> - -<p>No questioning of mine as to the meaning of this extraordinary -request brought any explanation. He regretted that he could not -enlighten me as to his reason, but for him the matter was of vital -importance. I utterly refused to fetch the pebbles or to go anywhere -near the seashore. It flashed across my mind that this very handsome, -English-looking gentleman might be a police spy set to dog my -footsteps. He certainly dogged me all right. I could hardly get away -from him, wherever I went, and he pressed me to take wine with him -at the open-air cafés. One night when we sat together in Black Horse -Square, he became uneasy, and kept glancing over his shoulder at the -crowded tables. Presently he rose, and said, “Let us take a stroll.” I -agreed, and was quickly aware that we were being followed by three men.</p> - -<p>I spoke to him.</p> - -<p>“One of us is being shadowed. Is it you or me?”</p> - -<p>“Me,” he said. “As long as you stay with me, I am safe. Let us slip -into this place....”</p> - -<p>He pushed open the swing door of a wine shop, and we went inside. He -ordered a bottle of cheap wine, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</a></span> before it had been brought, three -men entered and sat near the door.</p> - -<p>My strange acquaintance sipped a little wine, spoke to me loudly in -English about the weather, and whispered the words, “Follow me quickly!”</p> - -<p>He rose from the table, and went rapidly out of the back door of the -restaurant into the courtyard, and out through a side door into the -street by which we had entered. It was dark, but as we walked we -saw, at the end of the street, under a lantern, three men standing -motionless.</p> - -<p>“Hell!” said my acquaintance.</p> - -<p>He plunged into a narrow alley, and then through a labyrinth of little -streets until suddenly we emerged on the square opposite our hotel.</p> - -<p>“How’s that for geographical knowledge?” he asked.</p> - -<p>“Good!” I said. “But after this I do not desire your company. I don’t -understand why these men followed you, and I don’t like the game, -anyhow.”</p> - -<p>He regretted my annoyance, and was so polite and amusing that I -relented toward him, especially as he told me he was going to Vigo next -day.</p> - -<p>He wished me good-by that night when he went to bed. But next morning -when I left Lisbon for Oporto, he was on the platform, and said that he -had changed his plans and was going to the same place as myself.</p> - -<p>I was now convinced that he was really shadowing me, and told him so. -But he shook his head and laughed.</p> - -<p>“Nothing of the kind. I like your company, because you’re the only -Englishman in this land of dagoes. Also I want you to get me that -handful of pebbles.”</p> - -<p>He returned again to the subject of those ridiculous pebbles. I could -get them easily for him on the seashore by Oporto. It would give me -very little trouble. It would be an enormous favor to him.... I refused -to consider the idea. </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</a></span></p> - -<p>In Oporto he took me into a jeweler’s shop and bought a little -cedarwood box about five inches square.</p> - -<p>“I want enough pebbles to fill this box,” he said. “Surely you can get -them for me?”</p> - -<p>“Surely you can get them yourself,” I answered.</p> - -<p>But he shook his head, and said that was impossible.</p> - -<p>We were again followed down the streets of Oporto. My companion drew -my attention to the fact, and then sidestepped into an umbrella shop. -But he did not buy an umbrella. He bought a very neat, and rather -expensive, sword stick, and offered to give me another like it.</p> - -<p>“It may be useful,” he remarked.</p> - -<p>I declined the sword stick, but accepted the thick cudgel which he had -been carrying since I knew him.</p> - -<p>That is practically the end of the story. He left Oporto two days -later, and before going made one last request. It was that I should -send a telegram which he had written out, to an address in South -Kensington. It was to the following effect:</p> - -<p>“<i>Arriving in London Saturday. Cannot get the pebbles.</i>”</p> - -<p>What is the meaning of that mystery? I cannot give a guess, and have -sometimes thought of offering the problem to Conan Doyle.</p> - -<p>Sometimes, also, I have wondered whether it is in any way connected -with an incident that took place in the abandoned palace of King -Manuel, or rather, in his garden. From the newspaper reports it -appeared that some of the royal jewels had been buried before the -flight of King Manuel. Perhaps it was for the purpose of digging for -them that three men, of whom one was believed to be an Englishman, -had entered the palace garden on the night of my arrival in Lisbon. -A sentry had discovered them and fired. The men fired back, and the -sentry was wounded, before they escaped over the wall.</p> - -<p>Was that man “believed to be an Englishman” my mysterious acquaintance? -I am tempted to think so, yet I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</a></span> cannot provide a theory for the -pebbles from the seashore, the jewel box, the shadowing in the streets -of Lisbon, the purchase of the sword stick, and the eagerness for my -company.</p> - -<p>All that has nothing to do with the political prisoners and my mission -of inquiry. The end of that story is that after the publication of my -articles in <i>The Daily Chronicle</i>, and many papers on the Continent, -Affonso Costa declared a general amnesty and the prison doors were -unlocked for a great “jail-delivery” of Royalists.</p> - -<p>How far my articles had any influence toward that action, I do not -know. Certainly I received some share in the credit, and for months -afterward there were Portuguese visitors at my little house in Holland -Street, to kiss my hand—as the deliverer of their relatives and -friends—much to the amusement of my wife.</p> - -<p>But the real deliverer of the prisoners was little Miss Tenison, who -had pulled all the wires from her haunted house.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</a></span></p> - -<h2>XII</h2> - -<p>Ever since I can remember I have lived in the company of men and women -of a “literary” turn of mind, who either gained a livelihood by writing -or used their pens as a means of augmenting other forms of income. My -memory, therefore, is a long portrait gallery of authors, novelists, -and journalists, many of whom, however, as I must immediately confess, -were utterly unknown to fame, and entirely without fortune.</p> - -<p>My own father was an essayist and novelist in his spare time as a -Civil Servant in the Board of Education, where, in those good old days -of leisured life, he worked from eleven till four—not, I suspect, -in a very exacting way. Anyhow, it was noticed by his sons that -whenever they called upon him in his office, he was either washing -his hands, or discussing life and literature with his colleagues. A -man of overflowing imagination, enormous range of reading, passionate -interest in all aspects of humanity, and most vivacious wit and -eloquence, it was a brutal tragedy that he should have been fettered to -the soul-destroying drudgery of a government office. But he gathered -round him many worshipful friends, and was a popular figure in one -of the oldest literary haunts of London, still “going strong” as The -Whitefriars Club.</p> - -<p>As a young boy in an Eton collar, I used to dine with him there, filled -with reverence and delight because I sat at table with the literary -giants of the day. To my father, whose genial imagination exaggerated -the genius of his friends, they were all “giants,” but I expect the -world, and even Fleet Street, has forgotten most of them by now. To -me, the greatest of them were G. A. Henty, a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</a></span> grand old man with a -beard like Father Christmas, who rewrote French and English history -in delectable romance—does anyone read him now?—George Manville -Fenn, the author of innumerable books of which I cannot remember -a single title—O, fleeting time!—and Ascot Hope Moncrieff, who, -under his first two names, was the very first editor of <i>The Boy’s -Own Paper</i>—surely a thousand years ago!—and the author of the most -entrancing boys’ books, and many serious and scholarly volumes.</p> - -<p>This fine old man, who is still producing books, was our intimate -friend at home, in early days, when a great family of brothers and -sisters, of whom I came fifth, welcomed him with real honor and -affection.</p> - -<p>Another of my father’s friends, whom I used to think the wisest man -in the whole world, was a little old gentleman of the distinguished -name of Smith, who died the other day (getting a paragraph in <i>The -Times</i>), having devoted his whole life to a work on The Co-ordination -of Knowledge. It was his simple and benign ambition to classify every -scrap of knowledge since the beginning of the world’s history to the -present time, by a card index system. He died, after fifty years of -labor, with that task uncompleted!</p> - -<p>I had the opportunity of meeting one character at The Whitefriars’ -Club, who is still famous in Fleet Street, though he is like an ancient -ghost. This was an old Shakespearian actor named O’Dell, who used to -play the part of the gravedigger in “Hamlet,” and the clown in “As You -Like It,” sixty years and more ago. Under the title of “The Last of the -Bohemians,” he had a privileged place at the Whitefriars, which he was -always the last man to leave for some unknown destination, popularly -supposed to be a seat on the Thames Embankment because of his extreme -penury. He wore a sombrero hat and a big black cloak in the old style -of tragic actors. It<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</a></span> was this costume and his ascetic face which led -to a bet between the conductor and driver of an old horse bus passing -down Fleet Street, before the time of motor cars.</p> - -<p>“I say, Bill,” said the conductor, “who d’yer think we ’ave aboard?”</p> - -<p>“Dunno,” said the driver.</p> - -<p>“Cardinal Manning! S’welp me Bob!”</p> - -<p>“No blooming fear! That ain’t the Cardinal.”</p> - -<p>“Well, I’ll bet a tanner on it.”</p> - -<p>At the Adelphi the conductor leaned over O’Dell as he descended with -grave dignity, and said:</p> - -<p>“Beg yer pardon, sir, but do you ’appen to be Cardinal Manning?”</p> - -<p>“Go to hell and burn there!” said O’Dell in his sepulchral voice.</p> - -<p>Joyously the conductor mounted the steps and called to the driver.</p> - -<p>“I’ve won that bet, Bill. It is ’is ’Oliness!”</p> - -<p>There are many such stories about O’Dell, who had a biting wit and a -reckless tongue. He is now, like Colonel Newcome in his last years, -a Brother of the Charterhouse, in a confraternity of old indigent -gentlemen who say their prayers at night and dine together in hall. -Among the historic characters of Fleet Street he will always have a -place and I am glad to have met that link between the present and the -past.</p> - -<p>Among my literary friends as a young man was, first and foremost—after -my father, who was always inspiring and encouraging—my own brother, -who reached the heights of success (dazzling and marvelous to my -youthful eyes) under the name of Cosmo Hamilton.</p> - -<p>After various flights and adventures, including a brief career on the -stage, he wrote a book called <i>Which is Absurd</i>, and after it had been -rejected by many publishers, placed it on the worst possible terms with -Fisher Unwin. It made an immediate hit, and refused to stop selling.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</a></span> -After that success he went straight on without a check, writing -novels, short stories, and dramatic sketches which established him as -a new humorist, and then, achieving fortune as well as fame, entered -the musical comedy world with “The Catch of the Season,” “The Beauty -of Bath,” and other great successes, which he is still maintaining -with unabated industry and invention. He and I were close “pals,” -as we still remain, and, bad form as it may seem to write about my -brother, I honestly think there are few men who have his prodigality of -imagination, his overflowing storehouse of plots, ideas, and dramatic -situations, his eternal boyishness of heart—which has led him into -many scrapes, given him hard knocks, but never taught him the caution -of age, or moderated his sense of humor—his wildness of exaggeration, -his generous good nature, or the sentiment and romance which he hides -under the laughing mask of a cynic. In character he and I are the poles -apart, but I owe him much in the way of encouragement, and his praise -has always been first and overwhelming when I have made any small -success. As a young man I used to think him the handsomest fellow in -England, and I fancy I was not far wrong.</p> - -<p>As a journalist, it was natural that my most familiar friends should -be of that profession, and therefore not necessarily famous as men of -letters, unless they broke away from the limitations of newspaper work. -They are still those for whom I have most affection—H. W. Nevinson, -Beach Thomas, Percival Phillips, H. M. Tomlinson, Robin Littlewood -the dramatic critic; Ernest Perris, editor of <i>The Daily Chronicle</i>; -Bulloch, editor of <i>The Graphic</i>; all good men and true, and others -less renowned.</p> - -<p>One comrade who has “gone west,” as they used to say in time of war, -was a brilliant young Jew named Alphonse Courlander. I used to meet -him, at home and abroad, on all sorts of missions, and wherever we -were,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</a></span> we used to get away from the crowd to talk of the books we were -going to write (and for the most part never wrote!) and the latest -masterpieces we had discovered. Alphonse had more of a Latin than a -Jewish temperament, with irresistible gayety and wit, which concealed -a profound melancholy. It was when he had drunk one glass too much, or -perhaps two, that his melancholy surged up, and he used to shed tears -over his poor little naked soul. Otherwise, he had gifts of comic -speech and mimicry, which used to make me laugh outrageously, sometimes -in the most solemn places. One trick of his was to make the face of a -codfish, which was beyond all words funny, and in order to upset my -gravity, he used to do this in the presence of royalty, or at some -heavy political function, or even during a walk down Pall Mall.</p> - -<p>I remember one night in Ireland, when we supped with a party of Irish -journalists in a little eating house called Mooney’s Oyster Bar. A -young Irish girl was playing the fiddle in the courtyard outside, and -we called her in, and bribed her to play old Irish ballads, which are -so pitiful with the old tragedy of the race that Alphonse the Jew was -touched to his heartstrings and vowed that he was descended from the -kings of Ireland.</p> - -<p>He was with me during the episode in Copenhagen with Doctor Cook, in -whom he had a passionate and chivalrous belief, until I shook his faith -so much that he sent messages to his paper saying that Cook was a liar, -and then later messages to say that he wasn’t. Courlander could write -in any kind of style which impressed his imagination for a time, and -his novels ranged from imitations of Thomas Hardy and R. L. Stevenson, -to W. W. Jacobs. But his best book—really fine—was a novel on Fleet -Street called <i>Mightier Than the Sword</i>, when he wrote about the -things he knew and felt. In giving me a copy, he was generous enough -to write that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</a></span> I was its godfather, through my own novel <i>The Street -of Adventure</i>. Poor Alphonse Courlander was a victim of war’s enormous -agony, and his end was tragic, but in Fleet Street he left no single -enemy, and many friends.</p> - -<p>For several years while I was in Fleet Street, I lived opposite -Battersea Park, in a row of high dwellings stretching for about a mile, -and called Overstrand Mansions, Prince of Wales Mansions, and York -Mansions. Nearly all the people in the road were of literary, artistic, -or theatrical avocations, either hoping to arrive at fame and fortune, -or reduced in circumstances after brief glory. The former class were in -the great majority, and were youngish people, with youngish wives, and -occasionally, but not often, a baby on the balcony. G. K. Chesterton, -who lived in the Overstrand Mansions, immediately over my head—I used -to pray to God that he would not fall through—once remarked that if -he ever had the good fortune to be shipwrecked on a desert island, he -would like it to be with the entire population of the Prince of Wales -Road, whom he thought the most interesting collection of people in the -world. I thought so, too, and wrote a very bad novel about them, called -<i>Intellectual Mansions, S. W.</i> That book appeared in the time of the -militant suffragettes who were playing hell in London, and as my chief -lady character happened to be a suffragette, they claimed it as their -own, bought up the whole edition, bound it in their colors of purple, -green, and white, and killed it stone dead.</p> - -<p>I came to know G. K. Chesterton at that time, and every time I saw him -admired more profoundly his great range of knowledge, his immense wit -and fancy, his genial, jolly, and passionately sincere idealism. From -my ground-floor flat, every morning at ten I used to observe a certain -ritual in his life. There appeared an old hansom cab, with an old horse -and an old driver. This would be kept waiting for half an hour. Then G. -K. C.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</a></span> would descend, a spacious and splendid figure in a big cloak and -a slouch hat, like a brigand about to set forth on a great adventure, -and though he was bound no further than Fleet Street, it was adventure -enough, leading to great flights of fancy and derring do. After him -came Mrs. Chesterton, a little figure almost hidden by her husband’s -greatness. When Chesterton got into the cab, the old horse used to -stagger in its shafts, and the old cab used to rock like a boat in a -rough sea.</p> - -<p>At luncheon time I often used to see G. K. C. in an Italian restaurant -in Fleet Street where, with a bottle of port wine at his elbow, and a -scribbling pad at his side, he used to write one of his articles for -<i>The Daily News</i>, chuckling mightily over some happy paradox, which had -just taken shape in his brain, and totally unconscious of any public -observation of his private mirth.</p> - -<p>As literary editor of <i>The Tribune</i>, I tried to buy Chesterton away -from <i>The Daily News</i>, at double the price they paid him, but he was -proof against this temptation. “<i>The Daily News</i> has been very good -to me,” he said, “and though I loathe their point of view on many -subjects, I’m not going to desert them now.” He agreed, however, -to contribute to <i>The Tribune</i> from time to time, and as I had -arranged the matter, he had a kindly feeling toward me which led to -an embarrassing but splendid moment in my life. At a preliminary -banquet given by the proprietor of that unfortunate paper to a crowd -of distinguished people who utterly neglected to buy it, G. K. -Chesterton sat, as one of the chief guests, at the high table. I had -been obscurely placed at the back of the room, and this distressed the -noble and generous soul of my good friend. When he was asked to speak, -he made some general and excellent observations, and then uttered such -a panegyric of me that I was dissolved in blushes, especially when he -raised his glass and asked the company to drink to me. Some of them, -including the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</a></span> proprietor, were not altogether pleased with this -demonstration in my favor, but, needless to say, I cherish it.</p> - -<p>Among my happy recollections of G. K. C. is one day at luncheon hour -when he was “guyed” by a group of factory girls in Fleet Street, and -took their playfulness with jovial humor, careless of his dignity; and -an evening at the Guildhall when King Albert of Belgium was the guest, -and I encountered Chesterton afterward wandering in the courtyard like -the restless ghost of a roistering cavalier, afraid to demand his hat -from the flunkeys, because he had not the necessary shilling with which -to tip them.</p> - -<p>Chesterton is one of the great figures of literary England, and will -live in the history of our own time as one of the wittiest and wisest -men, worthy of a place in the portrait gallery of the immortals. His -great figure, his overflowing humor, his splendid simplicity of faith -in the ancient code of liberty and truth, put him head and shoulders -above the standardized type of little “intellectuals” with whom the -world is crowded.</p> - -<p>I have the pleasantest recollections of “Intellectual Mansions,” -Battersea Park, but, after living there for four years or so, I -moved over the bridge to the little house I have already mentioned, -in Holland Street, Kensington, a few yards away from the old world -Paradise, Kensington Gardens. It was a little house in a little street, -which I still think the most charming in London, with fine old Georgian -mansions mixed up with little old shops, so that an admiral lived -next to a chimney sweep, and that great artist, Walter Crane, was two -doors or so removed from an oil and colorman, who sold everything from -treacle to paraffin. We had everything in Holland Street that adds to -the charm of life—a public house at the corner, a German band which -played all the wrong notes once a week, just as it ought to do, and a -Punch and Judy show. </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</a></span></p> - -<p>A near neighbor and close friend of mine at that time was E. W. -Hornung, the author of <i>Raffles</i> and many better books not so famous. -He was the brother-in-law of Conan Doyle, whose enormous success with -Sherlock Holmes probably set his mind working on the character of that -gentlemanly thief, Raffles, with whom, personally, I had no sympathy at -all.</p> - -<p>Hornung and I used to “jaw” about books and writing, and, as an obscure -journalist and unsuccessful author, I used to stand in awe of his fine -house, his powerful motor car, his son at Eton. He was a heavily built -man, with a lazy manner and a certain intolerance of view which made -him despise Socialists, radicals, or any critics of the British Empire -and the old traditions, but I came to know the underlying sweetness -and sentiment of his character, and his passion of patriotism. He used -to drive me sometimes to places like Richmond Park and Windsor Forest, -and there we used to walk about under the trees, discussing the eternal -subject of books. Deep peace was about us in those old woods. Neither -he nor I imagined in our wildest flights of fancy that one day he would -be living in a hole in the ground under the ruins of Arras, and that -life and death would knock all thought of books out of our minds.</p> - -<p>His boy was his greatest pride, a fine lad, fresh from Eton, and -steeped in the old traditions which Hornung thought gave the only grace -to the code of an English gentleman. (He had no patience with any -other school of thought.) The boy stood one day on the curbstone in -High Street Kensington, on a day after war had been declared and the -streets were placarded with posters, “Your King and Country Need You.” -He raised his hat to my wife, and said, “Do you think I ought to join -up?” He joined up, like all boys of his age, and, like most of them in -the list of second lieutenants, at that time, was killed very soon. His -letters from the front were full of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</a></span> faith and pride. He loved his men, -the splendor of being an officer, the thought of the great adventure -ahead for England’s sake. He did not live into the times of disillusion -and the dull routine of mud and misery....</p> - -<p>His father was broken-hearted. His only idea now was how to get out to -the front, in spite of being too old for soldiering, and too heavy, and -too asthmatical. It was my idea that he should join the Y.M.C.A., and -he seized it gladly as a chance of service and heart healing. I met him -in his hut at Arras, serving out tea to muddy Tommies, finding a man, -now and then, to his enormous joy, who knew his son. Always he was in -the spiritual presence of that boy of his. For the sake of that, and -for the men’s sake, he endured real agonies of physical discomfort in -a drafty hut, with a stove which would not burn, and cocoa as his only -drink. The fastidious author of <i>Raffles</i>, who had been particular -about his creature comforts, and careful of the slightest draft!</p> - -<p>He started a lending library for soldiers in the trenches, and I lent -him a hand with it now and then. It was in a hut on the ruins of the -Town Hall of Arras and because of the daily bombardment, he slept at -night in a dugout below an avalanche of stones. I promised to give a -lecture to his men on the history of Arras, and “mugged it up” from -old books in an old château. The date was announced, and posted up on -a placard. It was the 21st of March, 1918! No British soldier needs -reminding of the meaning of that date. It was when 114 German divisions -attacked the British line and all hell was let loose, and, for a time, -the bottom seemed to fall out of the world.</p> - -<p>I did not deliver that lecture. I was away at the south of the line, -recording frightful happenings. But I heard afterward, from Hornung, -that through the smoke and dust of heavy shelling which churned up old -rubbish heaps of ruins in Arras, two Scottish soldiers in tin hats -loomed up to hear the lecture.... Poor Hornung survived the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</a></span> war, but -not long. His soul was eager for that meeting with his son.</p> - -<p>One visitor of mine in the little house in Holland Street, which was -often overcrowded with a mixed company of writers, artists, and odd -folk, was a distinguished little man who came only when there was no -one else about. At least, he preferred it that way, using my house -as a little retreat from the madding world. This was Monsignor Hugh -Benson, the famous preacher and novelist. The son of an Archbishop of -Canterbury, he had shocked his family by joining the Catholic Church, -in which he found perpetual adventure and delight. He loved its ritual, -its color, its legends, its romance, its history, its music, and its -faith, like a small child in a big old house constantly discovering new -wonders, mysteries, and enchanting treasures. He had the heart of a -boy, and an enthusiasm for life and work which would not let him take -any rest. As a preacher, he was constantly flying about the country -for special sermons and missions, and he preached, or, as he used to -say, “praught,” with a passion that almost choked him and tore him to -pieces. In spite of a painful little stutter, and intense shyness, he -was extraordinarily eloquent, and every sermon was crammed with hard -thinking, for he did not rely on sentiment for his effect, but on sheer -intellectual reasoning.</p> - -<p>That was only one part of his day’s work. He had an enormous -correspondence with people of all denominations or none, who used to -write to him for advice and help, and every letter he received he -answered as though his own life depended on it.</p> - -<p>At my house he used to go to his bedroom at ten o’clock to deal with -the day’s budget. But when that was done with, he used to get out -a manuscript book and begin to enjoy himself. That was when he was -writing one of his novels—and as soon as one was finished, he began -another. </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</a></span></p> - -<p>“My dearest dream of Heaven,” he told me once, “is to be writing a -novel which goes well and is never finished. What more perfect bliss -than that?”</p> - -<p>Among his other passions—and all he liked he loved—was music, and -he used to strike wonderful chords on my piano, and one particular -combination of notes which he called the “deep sea chord,” because, if -you shut your eyes and listened, you could hear deep waters rushing -overhead!</p> - -<p>He killed himself by overwork, and I heard of his death when I was -crossing a field outside Dixmude, which was a blazing ruin, in the -autumn of the first year of war.</p> - -<p>He used to envy my place in Fleet Street, and say that if he were not a -priest, he would like to be a journalist.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</a></span></p> - -<h2>XIII</h2> - -<p>It is most astonishing as a reminder of the rapid progress of -mechanical science during the past twenty-one years that a journalist -like myself, still young, and almost a babe compared with veterans -of Fleet Street still on active service, should have seen the first -achievements in aviation, the first motor cars plying for hire in the -streets, and the first moving pictures—three inventions that have -changed our human destiny and mentality in an incalculable way, and the -last not least.</p> - -<p>It was, I think, in 1900 that I encountered the first motor “taxi” -in Paris, one of those rattle-bone machines which, as far as Paris -is concerned, have not improved enormously since that time. But it -seemed nothing short of a miracle then, and it was not until several -years later than they ousted the dear old hansom of London, which now -survives only as a historical relic.</p> - -<p>It is difficult to think back to the time when the klip-klop of horses’ -hoofs was the most characteristic noise of London by night, when one -sat in quiet rooms above the street. It had a sound of its own, and a -touch of romance which is missed by the older generation, accustomed -now to the honking of motor horns. The younger generation cannot -imagine life without that trumpeting.</p> - -<p>I remember being sent by my paper to describe a night journey in a -motor car as a new and exciting adventure, as it certainly was to me -at that time when I traveled down to the Lands End, and saw, for the -first time, the white glare of headlights on passing milestones and -bewildered cattle, and passed through little sleeping villages where -the noise of our coming was heard as a <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</a></span>portent, by people who jumped -out of bed and stared through the window blinds. In those days a man -who owned a car was regarded as a very rich and adventurous fellow, -as well as something of a freak, and he was ridiculed with immense -enjoyment by pedestrians when he was discovered, frequently, lying in -the mud beneath his machine which had hopelessly broken down. Indeed, -many people had a passionate hostility to motorists and motoring, and -a great friend of mine so hated the sight of an automobile that he -used to throw stones after them. He was a rich man, with carriages and -horses, which he vowed he would never abandon for “a filthy, stinking -motor car.” Now he never moves a yard without one. I am the only -consistent enemy of motor cars left in the world. I hate them like -poison.</p> - -<p>For professional purposes, however, I have been a great motorist, and -I suppose that during the four and a half years of war I must have -covered sixty thousand miles. I have hired motors in England, France, -Italy, Portugal, Spain, Germany, Austria, Poland, Russia, Turkey, Asia -Minor, and the United States. I have had every sort of accident that -may happen to a motorist this side of death. Wheels have come off and -gone rolling ahead of me down steep hills. Axles have broken beneath -me. I have been dashed into level crossing gates, I have escaped an -express train by something like three inches, and I have had my car -smashed to bits by a collision with a lorry which laid my right arm out -of action for three months.</p> - -<p>Yet I was not such a “hoodoo” as a motorist as a delightful friend of -mine named Coldstream. Whenever he sat in a motor car he used to expect -something to happen to it, and it always did. The door handle would -drop off, just as a preliminary warning. Then one of the cylinders -would miss fire, as another sign of impending disaster. Then the back -axle would break, or <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</a></span>something would happen to prevent any further -journey. Once, going with him from Arras to Amiens, we put two motor -cars out of action, and then borrowed an ambulance, about ten miles -from Amiens. After the first four miles it broke down hopelessly, and, -finally, we had to walk the rest of the way.</p> - -<p>Moving pictures have caused something like a revolution in social life, -and on balance I believe they have been and are an immense boon to -mankind—and womankind, especially in small country towns and villages -which, until that invention, had no form of entertainment beyond an -occasional magic-lantern show, or “penny reading.” They bring romance -and adventure to the farm laborer, the errand boy, the village girl, -and the doctor’s daughter, and despite a lot of foolish stuff shown -on the screen, give a larger outlook on life, and some sense of the -beauty and grace of life, to the great masses. They give them also -a comparison of the present with the past, and of one country with -another. Perhaps in showing the contrast between one class and another, -in extremes of luxury and penury, they are creating a spirit of social -discontent which may have serious consequence—but that remains to be -seen.</p> - -<p>I was an actor, for journalistic purposes, in one of the first film -dramas ever produced in England. The first scene was an elopement by -motor car, and the little company of actors and actresses assembled in -the front garden of a large empty mansion in a suburb in the southeast -of London, namely Herne Hill. The heroine and the gentleman who played -the part of her irate father entered the house, and disappeared.</p> - -<p>Meanwhile a number of business men of Herne Hill, on their way to -work in the city, as well as various tradesmen and errands boys, were -astonished by the sight of two motor cars, half concealed behind the -bushes in the drive, and by the group of peculiar-looking people, -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[Pg 166]</a></span>apparently engaged in some criminal enterprise. They were still more -astonished and alarmed at the following events:</p> - -<p>(1) A good-looking youth advanced toward the house from a hiding place -in the bushes, and threw pebbles at a window of the house.</p> - -<p>(2) The window opened, and a beautiful girl appeared and wafted kisses -to the boy below. Then disappeared.</p> - -<p>(3) The front door opened, and the beautiful girl rushed into the arms -of the boy. After ardent embraces, he came with her to one of the motor -cars, placed her inside, and drove off at a furious pace.</p> - -<p>(4) Another window in the house opened, and an elderly gentleman looked -out, waving his arms in obvious indignation, bordering on apoplexy.</p> - -<p>(5) Shortly afterward, he rushed out of the front door after the -departing motor car (which had made several false starts), with -clenched fists, and the words, “My God! My God!... My daughter! My -daughter!”</p> - -<p>By this time the Herne Hill inhabitants gathered at the gate were -excited and distressed. One gentleman shouted loudly for the police. -Another chivalrously remarked that he was no spoil-sport, and if the -girl wanted to elope, it was none of their business. A fox terrier -belonging to the butcher boy, ran, barking furiously, at the despairing -father, who was still panting down the drive. Then the usual policeman -strolled up and said, “What’s all this ’ere?” Explanation and laughter -followed. Nothing like it had ever been seen before in respectable -Herne Hill, but they had heard of the cinema and its amazing drama. So -this was how it was done! Well, well!</p> - -<p>Astonishing things happened in that early film drama, as old as the -hills now, but novel and sensational then. The irate father giving -chase in another powerful motor,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</a></span> (which moved at about ten miles an -hour) was arrested by bogus policemen with red noses, thrown off the -scent by comic tramps, and finally blown up in an explosion of the car, -creating terror in a Surrey village, which thought that anarchists were -loose. After many further incidents the runaway couple were married -in a little old church—I walked in front of the camera as one of the -guests—while two of the actors were posted as spies to give warning -of any approach of the country clergyman. He, dear man, appeared in -the opposite direction, and was horrified to find a wedding going on -without his knowledge, and an unknown parson (who had dressed behind -a hedge) officiating in the most unctuous way. For me it was a day of -unceasing laughter, for there was something enormously ludicrous about -the surprise of the passers-by, who could not guess at what was the -real meaning of the mock drama. Now it is a commonplace, and no one is -surprised when a company of film actors takes possession of the road.</p> - -<p>Looking back upon the almost miraculous progress of aviation, it seems -to me, and to many others, that humanity rose very high and fell very -low when it discovered at last the secret of flight. For thousands -of years, perhaps from the days when primitive man stood in a lonely -world and watched the easy grace, the swift and joyous liberty of the -birds above his head, there has been in the soul of man the dream of -that power to fly. Men lost their lives in vain attempts, as far back -as the myth of Icarus, whose waxed wings melted in the sun. Scientists -studied the mechanism of birds, tethered their imagination to rising -kites, sought vainly for the power to lift a heavy body from the earth. -At last it was found in the petrol-driven engine, and men were seen to -rise higher than the clouds, and to travel through the great spaces -of the sky like gods. A pity that this achievement came just in time -for world war, and that the power and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</a></span> beauty of flight was used for -dropping death upon crowded cities and the armies of youth, crouching -in ditches beneath those destroying dragons!</p> - -<p>I had no clear vision of that, in spite of the wonderful prophecy of -H. G. Wells, when I watched the first feeble attempts of the early -aviators in England and France. Those first aviation meetings did not -promise mastery of the air except by the eye of faith. For hours, and -sometimes for days, we waited on the edge of flat fields while men like -Graham White, Latham, Blériot, Hamel, and other pioneers whose names, -alas! I have forgotten—there is something terrible and tragic in that -quick forgetfulness of heroic adventure—tinkered with their machines, -stared at the wind gauge, would not risk the light breeze that blew, -or rose a little, after running like lame ducks around the field, and -crashed again like wounded birds. Death took a heavy toll of them. -There was hardly one of those early meetings in which I did not see one -or more fatal accidents.</p> - -<p>I was close to the Hon. Charles Rolls, a very gallant and splendid -fellow, when he fell. That was at the meeting in Bournemouth which I -have mentioned before, when the Mayor challenged noonday itself in -an artificial nose, and everybody seemed bewitched by some spell of -midsummer madness. There was a flower carnival in progress and pretty -girls all in white and sprigged muslin, mounted on floral cars, flung -confetti and bouquets at the crowd, who pelted them back. From the -flying field, while this was going on, Charles Rolls rose in his -machine to perform an evolution which had been set as a competition. It -was a death trap at that period of flying, for he had to fly four sides -of a small square, and then alight in the center of it. No breeze was -stirring, or very little, and the sky was cloudless. But rising sharply -to form one side of the square, Rolls’s machine side slipped and fell -like a stone. His body lay there for a moment<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[Pg 169]</a></span> before the spectators -were conscious of tragedy. Then they rushed toward him.... A few yards -away, the floral cars continued their procession, and the pretty girls -pelted the laughing crowds with blossoms.</p> - -<p>That was later than the beginning of flight. The first time I realized -the almost limitless possibilities of heavier-than-air machines was at -Doncaster, when Colonel Cody was among the competitors. The Doncaster -meeting had been a great failure from the public point of view. There -was very little flying, owing to bad weather and elementary aëroplanes. -The aviators sulked in their tents, and the gloomy atmosphere was -deepened by some financial troubles of the organizers, so that the -gate money was seized to liquidate their debts. At least, that was the -rumor, as I remember it. But there was one cheerful man, ever ready -with a friendly word and jest. That was Colonel Cody who, after many -kite-flying experiments, on behalf of the British government, which -had failed to give him any financial aid, was putting the finishing -touches to a homemade biplane, with the help of his son. It was a -monstrous and clumsy affair. It had great struts of bamboo, an enormous -spread of wing space, and a petrol tank weighing half a ton. This -structure, which was tied up with string, and old wire, and bits of -iron, was nicknamed St. Paul’s Cathedral, and Noah’s Ark, and all -kinds of ridiculous names, by correspondents who did not believe in -its powers of flight. But they loved to talk to old Cody, dressed like -“Buffalo Bill” (though he was no relation of the original Colonel Cody -of showman fame), with long hair which he used to wind up under his -hat and fasten with an enormous bodkin with which he also used to pick -his teeth. I laughed loud and long at the first sight of his immense -aëroplane, and refused to credit his childlike assertion that it would -fly like a bird. But one morning early, he enlisted volunteers to haul -it out of its hangar and set its engine going<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</a></span> with the noise of seven -devils. “Poor old Cody!” said a friend of mine. “One might as well try -to fly with a railway engine!”</p> - -<p>Hardly were the words out of his mouth, than the great thing rose, -and not like a bird, but gracefully and gently as a butterfly, was -wafted above our heads, and flew steadily across the field. We chased -it, shouting and cheering. It seemed to us like a miracle. It was a -miracle—man’s conquest of flight.</p> - -<p>Presently, after three minutes, I think, “something happened.” The -great aëroplane staggered back, flagged, and took a nose-dive to earth, -where it lay with its engine dug deep into the soil and a confusion -of twisted wires and broken canvas about it. With two or three other -men—among them a brilliant and well-remembered journalist, Harold -Ashton—I ran forward, breathlessly, and helped to drag Cody from -beneath the wreckage, dazed and bloody, but not badly hurt. His first -words were triumphant: “What did I tell you, boys? It flew like a bird!”</p> - -<p>It was patched up again, and flew again, until Cody was killed. He was -truly one of the heroic pioneers, obstinate in faith, heavily in debt, -unhelped by any soul, except that son of his who believed in “the old -dad.” It was he who cured me of scepticism. After seeing his heavy -machine fly around the course, I knew that the game had been won, and -that one day, not one man, but many, might be carried in an aëroplane -on great strong wings.</p> - -<p>Edgar Wallace, war correspondent, novelist, poet, and great-hearted -fellow, was at Doncaster with Harold Ashton and others, and I remember -we played poker, which was new to me, after the day’s work. The -landlord of the inn in which we stayed watched the game for a few -minutes, and saw Wallace scoop the pool with a royal flush. The old -man’s eyes fairly bulged in his head. “It’s<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[Pg 171]</a></span> a great game, that!” he -remarked, and insisted on taking a hand. Wallace had phenomenal luck -with his hands and so raked the landlord’s money out of his pockets -that he fled in dismay. “It’s a devil’s game!” was his final verdict. -However, that has nothing to do with the triumph of flight, except on -the part of the landlord.</p> - -<p>Another revelation of progress rapidly achieved happened at Blackpool, -which coincided with the Doncaster meeting. I went on from one to the -other and found the weather at Blackpool frightful, from the point of -view of flying. Rain poured down heavily, and the wind was violent—so -savage, indeed, across the flat fields of the flying ground that it -uprooted the poles of the press tent and made the canvas flap like -clothes hung out to dry on a gusty day. Before this pavilion finally -collapsed in the gale, I used it as a writing place, and remember -sitting there with Bart Kennedy, with our collars tucked up, trying to -keep our paper dry and our tempers cool. Bart Kennedy who, as a young -man, had tramped about the world, not as a literary adventurer but as -a real vagabond of the old style, earning his bread by casual labor, -discovered in later life the gift of words, which he used in a crude, -forceful, ungrammatical, but somewhat biblical, style to describe his -experiences of life in the wild places of the world, and the philosophy -which he had extracted therefrom. He posed as a rebel and a man of -primitive soul in the artificial environment of civilization, and was -adopted by the Harmsworth Press as an amusing freak. Although he was -conscious of his own pose, and played it for all it was worth, it was -based on sincerity. He was truly a rebel and a natural man, with the -honesty, brutality, simplicity, and courage of the backwoodsman. In -that tent at Blackpool, I remember his talking to a carpenter who was -trying to fix the tent poles.</p> - -<p>“Say, old friend, have you ever heard of Jack Cade?”</p> - -<p>The carpenter scratched his head, thoughtfully. </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[Pg 172]</a></span></p> - -<p>“Can’t say I remember any lad of that name. He isn’t one of my pals.”</p> - -<p>“He was a carpenter like you,” said Bart Kennedy. “Lived five hundred -years ago, and tried to gain liberty for the workingmen of England. An -honest rebel, was Jack Cade. Why don’t you fellows learn the spirit of -revolt? You’re all as tame as sheep, without the pluck of a louse.”</p> - -<p>The collapse of the tent interrupted this dialogue, in which “Bart,” -as we called him, endeavored to raise rebellion against the British -Constitution.</p> - -<p>There was “half a gale,” as seamen would have called it, with the wind -at sixty miles an hour, and to the amazement of the spectators, who had -given up all hopes of watching a flight that day, an aviator mounted -into the fury of the storm. It was Latham, the most dare-devil of the -early adventurers of flight, the most passionate and ill-tempered -of them. I think it was a kind of rage which made him go up that -afternoon. He was “fed up” with waiting for moderate weather, and with -the little ladies who surrounded him with adulation and rivalry, as -many of those aviators were surrounded by girls who were their hero -worshipers and their harpies. It was the most astounding flight that -had been seen up to that time. Latham’s machine was like a frail craft -in a rough sea. The wind furies shrieked, and tried to tear this thing -to pieces. It staggered and strained, and seemed to be tossed like a -bit of paper in that wild wind. At times the power of the engine seemed -to be exactly equaled by the force of the wind, and it remained aloft, -making no progress but shuddering, as it were, until Latham wrenched it -round and evaded the direct blast. He flew at a terrific speed, with -the wind behind him, rising and dipping with tilted wings, like a sea -gull in a storm. The correspondents on the press stand went a little -mad at the sight and rose and cheered hoarsely, with a sense of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</a></span> fear, -because this man seemed to be courting death. We expected him to crash -at any moment. One voice rose above all the others, and roared out -words which I have never forgotten. “You splendid fool! Come down! Come -down!”</p> - -<p>It was Barzini, the Italian correspondent, the most brilliant -descriptive writer in the world. Like an Italian of the Medici family, -with long nose and olive skin and dark liquid eyes, Latham’s heroic -exploit stirred him to a passion of emotion, and tears poured down his -face. His description of that flight was one of the finest things I -have ever read.</p> - -<p>One of the most exciting episodes of those early days of record -making was when Graham White competed with Paulhan in a race from -London to Manchester. With Ernest Perris, the news editor of <i>The -Daily Chronicle</i>, and Rowan, one of the correspondents, I set out in -a powerful motor car to follow the flight, which began shortly before -dark. Graham White’s plan was to fly by night—the first time such an -exploit had been attempted—and he thought that our headlights might -help as some guide outside London. We lost him almost at once, and -after a wild motor ride at a breakneck pace in the darkness, decided -that we should never see him again. He had probably hit a tree, and was -lying dead in some field. Many other correspondents had motored out, -but we lost them all, and halted at the side of a lonely road where we -heard voices shouting to each other in French.</p> - -<p>“Perhaps they are Graham White’s mechanics,” I said to Perris.</p> - -<p>This guess proved to be right, and upon inquiry from the men, we found -that Graham White had had engine trouble, and had alighted in some -garden not far from where we stood.</p> - -<p>It was a little country village, though I cannot <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[Pg 174]</a></span>recollect its name -or whereabouts, and after tramping across fields, we saw a house with -lights shining from all its windows. It was the village rectory, remote -from the world and all the excitements of life, until, out of the -darkness, a great bird had dropped into the garden, with the noise of -a dragon. From the wings of the bird a young man, dirty, half-dazed, -freezing cold, and drunk with fatigue, staggered out, banged at the -door, and asked for food and a place to sleep. The clergyman’s wife -and the clergyman’s daughter rose to the occasion, as Englishwomen do -in times of crisis. They dressed themselves, made some coffee, cooked -some boiled eggs, lighted big fires, and unfroze the bird man. He was -already abed, after a plea to be called at the first gleam of dawn, -when we arrived. Presently other motorists arrived, all cold and hungry -and muddy. The country rectory was invaded by these wild-looking people -and the clergyman’s pretty daughter, with shining eyes, served us -all with coffee and eggs, and seemed to enjoy the excitement as the -greatest thing that had happened in her life. I have no recollection -of the clergyman. I dare say the poor man was bewildered by the sudden -tumult in his house of peace, and left everything to his capable wife -and the swift grace of his little daughter.</p> - -<p>Before the dawn Graham White was down from his bed, thoroughly -bad-tempered and abominably rude, for which there was ample excuse, as -word was brought that Paulhan was well ahead, although he, too, had -dropped into a field. Perris and I urged him not to fly again before -daybreak, but he told us to go to the devil, and insisted on getting -away in the darkness. We took to the car again, waited until we heard -the roar of Graham White’s engines, and saw him pass overhead like a -great black bat. Then we chased him again, and lost him again. He came -to earth with more engine trouble in a ploughed field not long after -dawn. A little crowd of people<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</a></span> gathered round him, and I saw some of -the correspondents who had started from London at the same time as -ourselves—now disheveled, pale, and dirty in the bleak dawn. One young -man, belonging to the old <i>Morning Leader</i>, I think, carried a red silk -cushion. His car lay overturned in a ditch, but he still clung to the -cushion, he told me, as his one hold on the actuality of life, which -seemed nothing but a mad dream.</p> - -<p>Another historic event was the All-round-England race, which became a -duel between two famous Frenchmen, Vedrennes and Beaumont. The first -named was a rough, brutal, foul-mouthed mechanic, with immense courage -and skill. The second was a naval officer of most charming and gallant -personality. Beaumont came back to Brooklands after his successful and -wonderful flight, only a few minutes ahead of Vedrennes. A great crowd -of men and women, in which there were a number of pretty ladies who had -motored out early from London, had assembled at Brooklands to cheer -the winner, but, as always among English crowds, their sympathy was -excited by the man who had just missed the first prize. When Vedrennes -appeared in sight, there was a rush to meet him. He stepped out of -his machine, and looked fiercely around. When some one told him that -Beaumont had arrived first, he raised both his clenched fists and cried -out a foul and frightful oath—fortunately in French. Then he burst -into tears, and, looking round in a dazed way, asked if there was any -woman who would kiss him. A little Frenchwoman in the crowd stepped -shyly out, and Vedrennes flung his greasy arms about her and kissed -her emotionally. It was characteristic of the French soul that in the -moment of his tragic disappointment he should have sought a woman’s -arms, like a boy who goes to his mother in distress. I have never -forgotten that little episode, and I have seen similar things in time -of war. </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[Pg 176]</a></span></p> - -<p>It was Alfred Harmsworth and <i>The Daily Mail</i> which put up all the -prizes for these record-making flights, and the man who was afterward -Lord Northcliffe deserved all the honor he gained for his generous and -farseeing encouragement of aviation. It was he who offered a big prize -for a cross-Channel flight, which then sounded almost beyond the bounds -of possibility. Latham was the first favorite for that prize, and was -determined to gain it. His first attempt was a failure, and he fell -into the sea, and was picked up smoking a cigarette as he clung to the -wreckage of his plane. After that, he established himself at the other -side of the Channel, at a little place called Sangatte, near Calais, -and waited for some improvements to his engine, and favorable weather.</p> - -<p>Another competitor and pioneer, named Blériot, was tinkering about with -a monoplane on the same strip of coast, but nobody seemed to think much -of his chances.</p> - -<p><i>The Daily Mail</i> had an immense staff of correspondents on both sides -of the Channel, and a wireless installation by which they could signal -to each other. Without any assistance of that kind, I had to keep my -eye on both sides of the Channel, which I crossed almost every day -for about a fortnight. Latham was vague about the possibilities of -his start. He might go any morning at dawn. But morning after morning -passed, and the French destroyers which had been lent by the French -government to patrol the Channel, in case he fell in again, prepared -to steam away. Several correspondents—English and French—used to -spend the night on a Calais tugboat lying off Sangatte, and I joined -them there the night before Latham assured us all that he would go next -day. Something happened at that time to Latham—I think his nerve gave -way temporarily, owing to the strain of waiting and continued engine -trouble. He went about looking depressed and wretched, and he was as -white as a sheet after an interview with the commander of a French<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[Pg 177]</a></span> -destroyer, who informed him that he could wait no longer.</p> - -<p>I crossed over to Dover, deciding that the English side might be the -best place to wait, after all, especially as nobody seemed likely to -cross. That very morning Blériot came over in his aëroplane like a -bird, and there was not a soul to see him come. <i>The Daily Mail</i> staff -were in bed and asleep, and I and other men of other papers were, by -a lucky fluke, first on the scene to greet the man who had done the -worst thing that has ever been done to England—though we did not guess -it at the time. For, by flying across the Channel, he robbed us for -all time of our island security and made that “silver streak,” which -has been our safeguard from foreign foes, no more than a puddle which -might be crossed in a few minutes along the highway of the air. After -Blériot came the bombing Gothas of the German army, and now, without -air defense, we lie open to any enemy as an easy target for his bombs -and poison gas.</p> - -<p>It was in the war that I completed my studies of aviation and its -conquest. On mornings of great slaughter, scores of times, hundreds of -times, I saw our boys fly out as heralds of a battle. Day after day, -year after year, I saw that war in the air which became more intense, -which crowded the sky with single combats and great tourneys, as the -numbers of squadrons were increased by the Germans and ourselves. I saw -the enemy’s planes and our own shot down, so that the battlefields were -littered with their wreckage.</p> - -<p>In fair weather and foul they went out on reconnaissance, signaled to -the guns, fought each other to the death. The mere mechanical side -of flight had no more secrets, it seemed. The little “stunts” of the -pioneer days, the records of speed and height, were made ridiculous -by the audacities and exploits of aviation in war. Our young men were -masters of the machine, and flight seemed as<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[Pg 178]</a></span> natural and easy to them -as to the birds who were scared at their swift rush of wings. They flew -through storms of shrapnel, skimmed low above enemy trenches, dropped -flaming death into cities and camps. The enemy was not behindhand in -courage and skill, not less lucky in human target practice, rather -more ruthless in bomb dropping over civilian populations whose women -and babes were killed in their beds. After tax collecting by bombing -aëroplanes in Mesopotamia, we cannot be self-righteous now. The beauty -and the power of flight came very quickly to mankind after Cody went up -in that old homemade ’bus, and crashed after a few moments of ecstasy. -And mankind has used it as a devil’s gift.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[Pg 179]</a></span></p> - -<h2>XIV</h2> - -<p>During one of those periods when I deliberately broke the chains of -regular journalism in order to enjoy the dangerous liberty of a free -lance, I made a bid for fortune by writing some one-act plays, and one -three-act play.</p> - -<p>I had gained some knowledge of stage technique and of that high mystery -known as “construction,” as a dramatic critic, when, for six months, -I acted for William Archer, the master critic, during his absence -in the United States. This knowledge, I may say at once, was not of -the slightest use to me, because technique cannot take the place of -inspiration—Barrie and others have exploded its traditions—and I -suffered the usual disappointments of the novice in that most difficult -art.</p> - -<p>To some extent I had the wires greased for me by my brother, Cosmo -Hamilton, and it was his influence, and his expert touches to my little -drama “Menders of Nets,” which caused it to be produced at the Royalty -Theater, with a distinguished cast, including the beautiful Beryl Faber -and that great actor Arthur Holmes-Gore. It was well received, and I -had visions of motor cars and other fruits of success, which suddenly -withered when the announcement was made that the play was to be -withdrawn after a few performances. What had happened was an ultimatum -presented to Otho Stuart, the manager of the Royalty Theater, by Albert -Chevalier who, in the same bill, was playing another one-act drama, -called “The House.” My “Menders of Nets” played for something over an -hour, and ended in a tragic scene in a fisherman’s cottage. When the -curtain rang up again for Albert<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[Pg 180]</a></span> Chevalier, the second play began with -gloom and tragedy in the same key as mine, and the audience had had -enough of this kind of atmosphere. “Either ‘Menders of Nets’ must be -changed,” said Chevalier, “or I withdraw ‘The House.’” That, anyhow, -was the explanation given to me, and off came my piece.</p> - -<p>This blow was followed by another, more amazing. Three other one-act -plays of mine were accepted by a gentleman reputed to be enormously -rich, who took one of the London theaters for a “triple bill” season. -Unfortunately, before the production of my little plays, he was -overwhelmed in debt, abandoned his theatrical schemes, and departed for -the Continent with the only copies of my three efforts, which I have -not seen or heard of from that day to this.</p> - -<p>Drama seemed to me too hazardous an adventure for a man who has to pay -the current expenses of life, and I turned to other forms of writing to -keep the little old pot boiling on the domestic hearth. I became for a -time a literary “ghost.”</p> - -<p>It is ironical and amusing that three books of mine which achieved -considerable financial success and obtained great and favorable -publicity were published under another man’s name. He wanted <i>kudos</i>, -and I wanted a certain amount of ready cash, in order to pay the rent -and other necessities of life. I agreed readily to write a book for -him—and afterward two more—for a certain fixed sum. As it happened, I -think he not only obtained the <i>kudos</i>, but a fair profit as well. As I -had been well paid, I was perfectly content.</p> - -<p>Some friends of mine, to whom I have mentioned this secret, without -giving away the name of the man who assumed the title of author, charge -me with having been guilty of an immoral and scandalous transaction. My -conscience does not prick me very sharply. As far as I was concerned, -I was guilty of no deceit, and no dishonesty.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[Pg 181]</a></span> I provided a certain -amount of work, for which I was adequately paid, on condition that my -name was not attached to it. Journalists do the same thing day by day, -and the editor of the journal gets the credit. It is the other man who -must have felt uneasy and conscience-stricken, sometimes, because he -was a masquerader. But his sense of humor, his charm of personality, -and his generosity, made me take a lenient view of his literary -camouflage.</p> - -<p>I wrote another book, for another man, but in that case he was far more -entitled to the credit, because it was actually his narrative, and the -record of his own amazing adventures told to me, partly in French and -partly in broken English. This was a story of the sea, called <i>Fifteen -Thousand Miles in a Ketch</i>, by Captain Raymond Rallier du Baty, -published in England by Nelson’s.</p> - -<p>This young Frenchman is one of the most charming and courageous souls -I have ever met, and I look back with pleasure to the days when we -used to motor out to Windsor Forest and there, under the old oaks, -he used to spread out his charts and describe his amazing voyage in -a little fishing ketch, with his brother and a crew of six, from -Boulogne-sur-mer to Sidney, in Australia, stopping six months on the -way at the desert island of Kerguelen in the South Pacific, where they -lived like primitive men of the Paleolithic age, fighting sea lions -with clubs, to obtain their blubbers, and having strange and desperate -adventures in their exploration of this mountainous island. The -narrative I wrote from his spoken story was widely and enthusiastically -reviewed, and I remember <i>The Spectator</i> went so far as to say that “it -was worthy to have a place on the bookshelf by the side of Robinson -Crusoe.”</p> - -<p>Raymond du Baty, that handsome, brown-eyed, quiet, and noble young -seaman of France, felt the call of the wild again after my acquaintance -with him, and returned<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[Pg 182]</a></span> to the desert island for further exploration. -After six months of solitude cut off from all the world and its news, -a steamer came to the island and brought with it tidings of a world -gone mad. It was Armageddon. Germany and Austria, Turkey and Bulgaria -were at war with France, Great Britain, and Russia. Other nations were -getting dragged in. The fields of Europe were drenched in the blood of -the world’s youth. France was sorely stricken, but holding out with -heroic endurance....</p> - -<p>Imagine the effect of that news on a young Frenchman who had heard -no whisper of it, until its horror burst with full force upon him in -his island of eternal peace! He abandoned Kerguelen and went back to -France. Within a fortnight he had gained his pilot’s certificate as an -aviator, and was flying over the German lines with shrapnel bursting -about his wings.</p> - -<p>That, however, is later history, and takes me away from that second -period of free lancing in London when I did many different kinds of -work, and, on the whole, enjoyed the game.</p> - -<p>One little enterprise at this time which interested me a good deal -and enabled me to earn a considerable sum of money with hardly any -labor—a rare achievement!—was an idea which I proposed to <i>The Daily -Graphic</i>—for their correspondence column. My suggestion was to obtain -from well-known people their views and ideals on the subject of “The -Simple Life.” A further part of my amiable suggestion was that I should -be paid a certain fee for every column of the kind which I obtained -for the paper. The proposal was accepted, and my wife and I made a -careful selection of names, including princes and princesses, dukes and -duchesses, famous actors and actresses, society beauties, and, indeed, -celebrities of all kinds. I then drafted a letter in which I suggested, -in all sincerity, that our modern civilization had become too complex -and too materialistic, and expressed the hope<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[Pg 183]</a></span> that I might be favored -with an opinion on the possibility and advantages of a return to “The -Simple Life.”</p> - -<p>The response to these letters was amazing. Instinctively I had struck -a little note which caused a lively vibration of emotion and sympathy -in many minds. It was before the war or the shadow of war had fallen -over Europe, and when great numbers of people were alarmed by the lack -of idealism, the gross materialism, the frivolity, the decadence of -our social state. There was also a revolt of the spirit against the -artificiality of city life, a yearning for that “return to nature” -which was so strong a sentiment in France before the Revolution, -especially among the aristocratic and intellectual classes.</p> - -<p>Something of the sort was acting like yeast in the imagination -of similar classes in England and other countries. I received an -immense number of answers to my inquiry, and many of them were -extremely interesting and valuable as the revelation of that craving -for simplicity in ideals and conduct of life, and for a closer -touch with primitive nature and the beauty of eternal things. It -was characteristic, I think, that people of high rank and easy -circumstances were the warmest advocates of “The Simple Life.” The -correspondence continued for weeks and months, and my title became a -catchword on the stage, in <i>Punch</i>, and in private society. One of -the most beautiful letters I received—it contained more than three -thousand words—was from “Carmen Sylva,” describing a day in her -life as Queen of Roumania. Afterward a selection of the letters was -published in book form, and had a great success.</p> - -<p>Another task I undertook more for love than lucre (I received only -a nominal fee) was to help in the organization of the Shakespeare -Memorial Committee. A considerable sum of money had been bequeathed -by certain philanthropists for the purpose of honoring the memory of -Shakespeare and encouraging the study of his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[Pg 184]</a></span> works, by some national -memorial worthy of his genius, as the world’s tribute to his immortal -spirit. The honorary secretary and most ardent promoter of this scheme -was Israel Gollancz—since knighted—a little professor at Oxford -and London, with an immense range of scholarship in Anglo-Saxon -and mediæval literature, and an insatiable capacity for organizing -committees, societies, academies, and other groups devoted to the -advancement of learning, and, anyhow, to agreeable social intercourse -and intellectual rendezvous. Meeting the professor in a bun shop, I -became enthusiastic with the idea of the Shakespeare Memorial, and -willingly offered to help him get his first General Committee and -organize a great public meeting at the Mansion House, to place the idea -of the Memorial before the nation with an appeal for funds.</p> - -<p>This work brought me into touch with many interesting people, apart -from Sir Israel himself, for whom I have always had an affectionate -regard, and among them I remember one of the grand old men of -England—Doctor Furnivall, editor of the Leopold Shakespeare. He was -over eighty years of age when I first met him, but he had the heart of -a boy, the gayety of D’Artagnan, the Musketeer, and the debonnair look -of an ancient cavalier. Every Sunday he used, even at that age, to take -out an eight of shopgirls on old Father Thames, and once every week -he held a reception at the top of a tea shop in Oxford Street, when -scholars old and young, journalists, and pretty ladies used to crowd -round him, enamored by his silvery grace, his exquisite courtesy, the -wit that played about his words like the mellow sunshine of an autumn -day. He was always very kind to me, and I loved the sight of him.</p> - -<p>I came to know another grand old man—of another type—in connection -with that work for the Shakespeare Committee. The first time I met -Lord Roberts, that little<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[Pg 185]</a></span> white falcon of England, whom often I had -seen riding in royal processions through the streets of London, with a -roar of cheers following him, was in his house in Portland Place when -I “touched” him for a donation to the Shakespeare Fund and persuaded -him to join the General Committee. He was going to a reception that -evening, and I remember him now, as he stood before me, a little old -soldier, in full uniform, with rows and rows of medals and stars, all -a-glitter, but not brighter than his keen eyes beneath their shaggy -brows. After listening to my explanation, he spoke of his love of -Shakespeare as a man might speak of his best comrade, and declared his -willingness to do any service for his sake.</p> - -<p>The next time I saw Lord Roberts was at one of those early aviation -meetings which I have described. I stood by his side, and he chatted to -me about the marvel of this coming conquest of the air. As he spoke an -aëroplane danced over the turf and rose and soared away, and the little -old man, cheering like a schoolboy, ran after it a little way with the -rest of the crowd, as young in spirit as any man there, sixty years his -junior.</p> - -<p>Toward the end of his life a shadow darkened his spirit, though it -did not dim his eyes or the fire that still burnt in him, as when, -half a century before, he blew up the gates of Delhi and brought -relief to the beleaguered survivors. He saw very clearly the approach -of the German menace to Europe and that war in which we should be -involved, unprepared, without a national army, with untrained men. -Again and again he tried to warn the nation of its impending peril, of -the tremendous forces preparing the destruction of its youth, and he -devoted the last years of his life in another attempt to induce Great -Britain to adopt some form of compulsory military service, without -avail.</p> - -<p>I remember traveling down to his house at Ascot on the morning -following one of those speeches in the House<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[Pg 186]</a></span> of Lords. I went to -ask him to write some reminiscences for a weekly paper. He would not -listen to that, and when we sat together in a first-class carriage on -the way to town (I had a third-class ticket!) he buried himself behind -<i>The Times</i>, and was disinclined to talk. But I was inclined to talk, -because it is not often that I should sit alone with “Our Bobs,” and -when I caught his eye over the top of <i>The Times</i>, I ventured a remark -which I thought might please him.</p> - -<p>“Powerful speech of yours, sir, last night!”</p> - -<p>He put down <i>The Times</i>, and stared at me, moodily.</p> - -<p>“Do you think so? Shall I tell you what the British people think of me?”</p> - -<p>“What is that, sir?”</p> - -<p>“They think I’m a damned old fool, scare mongering and raising silly -bogies. That’s what they think of my speech.”</p> - -<p>And it was true, and to some extent I agreed with them, as I must -confess, not believing much in the German menace, and believing anyhow -that by wise diplomacy, a little tact, friendly demonstrations to a -friendly folk, we might disarm the power of the military caste and -insure peace.</p> - -<p>“All the same,” said Lord Roberts, “I talk of what I know. Germany is -preparing for war—and we have no army such as we shall need when it -happens.”</p> - -<p>It was to my brother, Cosmo Hamilton, then editor of <i>The World</i> in -London, that Lord Roberts detailed his scheme of military service. A -series of articles, published anonymously in that paper, attracted -considerable interest among the small crowd who believed in a big army -of defense, but no one knew that every word of them was dictated by -Lord Roberts to my brother, as his last message to the nation—before -the storm broke.</p> - -<p>It was fitting that the little old soldier whose life covered a great -span of our imperial history in so many wars,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[Pg 187]</a></span> which now some of us -look back to without much pride except in the ceaseless courage and -the gay adventurous spirit of our officers and men, should die, if not -on the field of battle, then at least at General Headquarters within -sound of the guns. He had been a prophet of this war. Perhaps if we had -believed him more, and if our statesmen and people had realized the -frightful menace ahead, it might never have happened. But those “ifs” -belong to the irrevocable tragedy of history.</p> - -<p>I was a war correspondent in France when he died, but I came back to -England to attend his funeral and write my tribute to this great and -gallant old man who, in spite of a life of war, or because of it, had -a great tenderness in his heart for humanity, a love of peace, and -the chivalry which belonged, at least in ideal, to the old code of -knighthood.</p> - -<p>Going back to the subject of the Shakespeare Memorial Theater, it is -amusing to me to remember an interview I had which, at the time, was -rather painful. We were anxious to obtain the support of Alverstone, -the Lord Chief Justice, on the General Committee, and I drove up in a -hansom to his house in Kensington, to put the request before him.</p> - -<p>I wore that day a “topper” and a tail coat, and looked so extremely -respectable that I impressed the critical eyes of his lordship’s -footman. He explained that Lord Alverstone had been away on circuit but -was due back very shortly that afternoon. Perhaps I might like to wait -for him. I agreed, and was shown into the Lord Chief’s study, where I -waited for something like an hour.</p> - -<p>During that time I became aware that if I were of a curious and -dishonorable mind, I might learn many strange secrets in this room. -Bundles of letters and documents were lying on the Lord Chief’s desk. -The drawers were unlocked, as I could see by papers revealed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[Pg 188]</a></span> in -them. A “crook” in this room might get hold of the seals, the writing -paper, the signature, and the private correspondence of the Lord Chief -Justice of England, and play a great game with them. It seemed to me -extraordinary that a footman should put an unknown visitor, on unknown -business, into this private room, and leave him there for nearly an -hour.</p> - -<p>The Lord Chief thought so, too. Just as I was becoming uneasy at my -position to the point of ringing the bell and going away, there was a -bang at the front door, followed by heavy footsteps in the hall. Then -I heard a deep and angry voice say, “Who is he?” A moment later the -door of the study was flung open and the great and rather terrifying -figure of Lord Alverstone strode in. He stared at me as though about to -sentence me to death, and I blenched under his gaze.</p> - -<p>“Who the devil are you?” he asked, with a growl of rage and suspicion. -“What the devil do you mean by taking possession of my study?”</p> - -<p>“Why did your footman show me in, and what do you mean by speaking -to me like that?” I answered, suddenly angered by his extraordinary -discourtesy.</p> - -<p>It was not a good introduction to the subject of Shakespeare. Nor was -it a respectful way of address to the Lord Chief Justice of England. -But my reply seemed to reassure him as to my respectability. He -breathed heavily for a moment, and then, in a mild voice, requested to -know my business. When I told him I wished to enlist his aid on the -Committee of the Shakespeare Memorial, a twinkle of humor came into his -eyes, and he asked me to sit down and have a cigar while we chatted -over the subject. He agreed to give his name and a subscription. Before -I left, he made a half apology for his burst of anger at the sight of -me.</p> - -<p>“There are lots of papers about this room.... I have to be careful.” </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[Pg 189]</a></span></p> - -<p>Then he put his heavy hand in a friendly way on my shoulder and said, -“Glad you came.”</p> - -<p>I was jolly glad to go, but I thought in case of any accident that -might happen to me later it would be useful to have the favor of the -Lord Chief. I thought so when I saw him sitting below the sword of -justice, in all his terrible power.</p> - -<p>From the little flat in Overstrand Mansions my wife and I and a small -boy aged four sent out thousands of invitations on behalf of the -committee which included his name, to a general public meeting at the -Mansion House. The small boy trundled those bundles of letters in his -wheelbarrow to the pillar box and insisted upon being lifted up to -thrust them into the red mouth of that receptacle. We stuffed it full, -to the great annoyance, I imagine, of the postman.</p> - -<p>The public meeting was a splendid success. Israel Gollancz was happy, -Beerbohm Tree was brilliant. Anthony Hope made one of his charming -speeches. Bernard Shaw was surprisingly kind to Shakespeare. There were -columns about it in the newspapers. But though many years have passed, -the Shakespeare Memorial is still in the air, the Committee is still -quarreling with one another as to the best way of using their funds, -and Sir Israel Gollancz is still honorary secretary, trying in his -genial way to compromise between a hundred conflicting plans.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[Pg 190]</a></span></p> - -<h2>XV</h2> - -<p>In September of 1912 war broke out in the Balkans and, though we knew -it not at the time, it was the overture to another war in which the -whole world would be involved.</p> - -<p>This seemed to be no more than a gathering of semi-civilized -peoples—Serbia, Bulgaria, Greece, Montenegro—joined together in -military alliance and by an old heritage of hatred against the Turk -in Europe. Behind that combination, however, there were Great Powers, -watching this affair with jealous hostility, with brooding anxiety, and -with racial, dynastic, and financial interests closely touched. Russia -was behind Serbia, whose hatred of Austria was equaled only by its fear -that Austria might attack it in the rear when it marched against the -Turks. Germany was behind the Turks, afraid of a Russian intervention. -Serbia’s claim for “an open window,” on the Adriatic would not be -tolerated by the Austrian Empire. The Greek claim to Crete and the -dream of getting back to Asia Minor would arouse the jealousy of France -and Italy. There was in this Balkan business a devil’s brew to poison -the system of international relations, and behind the scenes corrupt -interests of armament firms, Jewish money lenders, international -financiers, were working in secret, sinister ways for great stakes.</p> - -<p>Before war was actually declared, I set out for Serbia, on the way -to Bulgaria, as “artist correspondent” of <i>The Graphic</i> and <i>Daily -Graphic</i>, a title that amused me a good deal, as my artistic talent was -of a most elementary kind. All I was required to do, however, was to -provide the roughest sketches to be worked up by artists at home. </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[Pg 191]</a></span></p> - -<p>I was excited by this chance of becoming a war correspondent, which -seemed to me the crown of journalistic ambition, and the heart of its -adventure and romance. I little knew then that my squalid experience -in this Balkan campaign would be but the first faint whiff of war with -which, two years later, like most other men of my age, I was to become -familiar in its daily routine, in the midst of its monstrous melodrama.</p> - -<p>Provided with enough notebooks and sketchbooks to write and illustrate -a history of the world, and enriched with a belt of gold which weighed -heavy and chafed my waistline, I had an uneventful journey as far -as the Danube below Belgrade. Then it brightened up a little. After -my passports had been examined by a fat Serbian officer in a highly -decorated uniform, my baggage was pounced on by a band of hairy -brigands who, without paying the slightest attention to me, proceeded -to fight among themselves for my bags. They shouted and cursed each -other, exchanging lusty blows, and it was full twenty minutes before -the victors piled my baggage into a miserable cab drawn by two starved -horses, and allowed me to go, after heavy payment. My driver whipped up -his bags of bones and started off on a wild career over the roads of -Belgrade, that is to say, over rock-strewn quagmires and gaping pits. -The carriage lurched from one side to another, with its wheels deep in -the ruts, or high on piles of stones, and at times it seemed to me that -only a miracle could save me from instant death.</p> - -<p>The city of Belgrade, perched high above the Danube, with old, narrow, -filthy streets within its walls, was filled with crowds of peasants -mobilized for the war which had not yet been declared. Many of them -had come from remote villages, and looked as if they had come from the -Middle Ages. Some wore sheepskin coats with the shaggy wool inside and -the skin decorated with crude paintings or garish embroideries. Others -had woolen<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[Pg 192]</a></span> vests and a loose undergarment reaching like a kilt to -their knees. Nearly all of them wore loose gaiters, worked with red -stitches, or white woolen buskins. Others wore flat, oval sandals, -almost as big as a tennis racquet, or shoes turned up at the toes with -sharp peaks.</p> - -<p>A wild cavalcade came riding down from the hills, like the hordes of -Ghengis Khan. Their black hair was long and matted, beneath sheepskin -caps or broad-brimmed hats. Pistols bristled in their red sashes, and -they stood up, yelling, above saddles made of fagots tied to a piece of -skin, cracking long whips, and urging on hairy little horses with rope -reins and stirrups.</p> - -<p>I had not been in Belgrade more than a few hours when I was arrested as -an Austrian spy. Anxious to begin work as an “artist correspondent,” -I made a rough sketch of a crowd of reservists waiting to entrain. -Suddenly two soldiers fell upon me, took me prisoner, and hauled -me through the streets, followed by a yelling crowd. Speaking only -Serbian, they paid no heed to my protests in English, French, and -German. In the police headquarters, I had the same difficulty with the -commandant, who had one language and perfect conviction that I was an -Austrian and a spy. After a weary time, when I thought of a white wall -and a firing party, an interpreter appeared and listened to my efforts -at explanation in bad German. The sketch was what alarmed them, as well -it might have done, if they had any artistic sense. Finally, I was -allowed to go, after a close investigation of my papers.</p> - -<p>That night news came that the Montenegrins had fired the first shots in -a war that was now certain, though still undeclared, and the streets -were thronged with crowds drunk with emotion. I went to a café filled -with Serbian officers, most of whom were amateur soldiers who had been -professors, lawyers, doctors, and business men in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[Pg 193]</a></span> civil life. They -drank innumerable toasts, shouted and cheered, even wept a little.</p> - -<p>At my table one, who spoke English, raised his glass and said, “Here’s -to our first meal in Constantinople!” Later, having drunk much wine, he -confided to me in a whisper, that he was deeply anxious. No one knew -the power of the Turk, and he added gloomily, “War is an uncertain -thing.”</p> - -<p>There was an immense rally of correspondents, photographers, and cinema -men in Belgrade, all desperate to get to the front with the Serbians, -or the Bulgarians, or the Greeks. Some of the “old guard” were there, -like Frederic Villiers, Henry Nevinson, and Bennett Burleigh, who -had been in many campaigns before I was born. Frederic Villiers had -a wonderful kit, with a glorious leather coat, and looked a romantic -old figure. His pencil, his pocket knife, his compass, were fastened -to his waist belt by steel chains. He still played the part of the war -correspondent familiar in romantic melodrama. Among the younger crowd -was Percival Phillips, afterward my comrade from first to last in a -greater and longer war. It was then that I first become acquainted -with his rapid way on a typewriter, on which he rattled out words like -bursts of machine-gun fire.</p> - -<p>After waiting about Belgrade for some days, I left Serbia and traveled -to Sofia, the capital of Bulgaria, where I hoped to be attached to the -Bulgarian army. It was a horrible experience. Before the train started -there was a wild stampede by a battalion of reservists and Bulgarian -peasants. I narrowly escaped getting jabbed by long bayonets, as the -men scrambled on to the train, storming the doorways and clambering on -to the roof. When at last I got on board, I found myself wedged in the -corridor between piles of baggage, peasants, and soldiers. I had only -a piece of cheese and a little drop of brandy, and I cursed myself for -my folly when I found<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[Pg 194]</a></span> that the journey was likely to take two days. We -stopped at every wayside station, and were then turned out at night on -the platform at Sarabrot, hungry, chilled to the bone, with a biting -wind and hard frost, and without a place in which to lay our heads.</p> - -<p>Here we waited all night till dawn, and the one room in which there -was shelter from the wind was crowded to suffocation by peasants lying -asleep on their bundles, and was filled with a foul, sickening heat. -One fantastic figure stood among the Serbians with their peaked caps, -leather coats, and baggy white breeches. He wore a frock coat and tall -hat, and looked as though he had just stepped out of the Rue de Rivoli. -He was a French journalist on his way to the front!</p> - -<p>Outside the station door there was, all night long, the tramp of -soldiers, as battalion after battalion of Serbian troops marched up -to entrain for the front. Officers moved up and down the ranks with -lanterns which threw pallid rays of light upon these gray-clad men. -Presently a long troop train came into Sarabrot, and the soldiers were -packed into open trucks, so tightly that they could not move. Their -bayonets made a quickset hedge above each truck. They were utterly -silent. There was no laughing or singing now. These young peasants were -like cattle being carried to the slaughterhouses.</p> - -<p>It was a night of queer conversations for me. One man slouched up in -the dim light, and said, “I guess you’re an Englishman, anyhow?” I -returned the compliment, saying, “You’re an American, of course?” But I -was wrong. He was a Bulgarian who had been in America for a few years -and had now come back, in a thin flannel suit, and a straw hat, from a -township in the Western states.</p> - -<p>“I heard the call,” he told me, “and I’m ready to take my place in the -firing line. I’ll be glad to give hell to the Turks.” </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[Pg 195]</a></span></p> - -<p>I was as dirty as a Bulgarian peasant, and exhausted with hunger, when -at last I reached Sofia.</p> - -<p>Still war had not been declared, but its spirit reigned in Sofia. -Outside the old white mosque, with its tall and slender minaret—the -one thing of beauty which had been inherited from the Turks—there -passed all day long companies of soldiers, heavily laden in their field -kit, and bands of Macedonian volunteers. Through the streets there was -the rumble of bullock wagons and forage carts, drawn by buffaloes. On -the plain of Slivnitza, the old battle ground between the Bulgars and -Serbians, there were great camps of the Macedonians who drilled all day -long, and at intervals shouted strange war cries, and flung up their -fur caps, while, from primitive bagpipes, there came a squealing as -though a herd of pigs were being killed. In the ranks stood many young -girls, dressed in the rough sheepskin jackets and white woolen trousers -of their men folk, and serving as soldiers. Bullocks and buffaloes -roamed in the outskirts of their camps, and when darkness crept down -the distant mountains the light of camp fires turned a lurid glare upon -the scene.</p> - -<p>One night in Sofia a few of us heard that the Turkish Ambassador had -handed in his papers, and driven to the station, where a train was -waiting for him. That meant war. A few hours later King Ferdinand -signed a manifesto, proclaiming it to his people, and then delayed its -publication for twenty-four hours while he stole away from his capital, -leaving his flag flying above the palace, to his headquarters at Stara -Zagora. It was as though he was frightened of his people.</p> - -<p>He need not have been. Those Bulgarian folk, whose sons and brothers -were already on their way to the front, behaved as all people do when -the spell of war first comes to them, before its disillusion and its -horror. They greeted it as joyful tidings. The great bell of the -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[Pg 196]</a></span>cathedral boomed out above the peals of innumerable bells with vaguely -clashing notes. That morning in the cathedral, a Te Deum was sung -before Queen Eleanor and all the Ministers of State. It was market day, -and thousands of women had come in from the country districts, with -market produce and great milk cans slung across their shoulders on big -poles, glistening like quicksilver in the brilliant sunlight. In their -white headdresses, short embroidered kirtles, and lace petticoats, -they made a pretty picture as they pressed toward the great cathedral. -The square was filled with Macedonian peasants, in their sheepskins -and white woolen trousers, standing bareheaded and reverent before the -cathedral doors. There were remarkable faces among them, belonging to -young men with long flaxen hair, parted in the middle and waving on -each side, like pictures of John the Baptist. Others were old, old -fellows, with brown, rugged faces, white beards, and bent backs, who, -in their ragged skins and fur caps, looked like a gathering of Rip van -Winkles down from the mountains....</p> - -<p>After exasperating delays, the correspondents of all countries—a -wild horde—who had come to describe this war, as though its bloody -melodrama had been staged as a spectacle for a dull world, were allowed -to proceed to Stara Zagora, where King Ferdinand had established his -headquarters. A special train was provided for this amazing crowd, -accompanied by the military <i>attachés</i>, and a large number of Bulgarian -staff officers. The journey was uneventful, except for a strange sign -in the heavens, which seemed a portent of ill omen for the Bulgarians. -As night came over the Rhodope Mountains, there rose a crescent moon -with one bright star in the curve of its scimitar. It was the Turkish -emblem, and the Bulgarian officers, who had been chatting gayly in the -corridor, became silent and moody.</p> - -<p>In the town of Stara Zagora, which my humorous<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[Pg 197]</a></span> friend Ludovic Nodeau -called invariably Cascara Sagrada, I came in touch for the first time -with the spirit of the Near East. It was Oriental in its architecture, -in its dirt, in its smell, and in its human types. Turkish minarets -rose above the huddle of houses. Turkish houses, with their lattice -casements and ironwork grilles, high up in whitewashed walls, were -among the Bulgarian hovels, shops, and churches. Mohammedan women, -closely veiled, came into the market place, and young Turks and old -squatted round the fountains, sat cross-legged inside their wooden -booths, and smoked their <i>narghile</i> in dirty little cafés.</p> - -<p>A strange people from the farther East dwelt in a village of their -own outside the town—a village of houses so low that I was a head -taller than their roofs when I walked down its streets, like Gulliver -in Lilliput. Their doorways were like the holes of dog kennels and the -inhabitants crawled in and out on their hands and knees. It was a gypsy -village, swarming with wild-looking men—black-haired, sunburned to the -color of terra cotta, wonderfully handsome—and with women and young -girls clad in tattered gowns of gaudy color, with bare arms and legs, -and the breast revealed. Children, stark naked, played among heaps of -filth, and savage dogs leaped at every stranger, as they did when I -went with two friends inside the village. A tall girl, beautiful as -an Eastern houri, beat back the dogs and led us to the king of this -Romany tribe, an old, old villain who made signs for money and was not -satisfied with what I gave him. Presently he called to some women, -and they brought out a girl of some fifteen years, like a little wild -animal, with the grace and beauty of a woodland thing. She was for -sale; and I could have bought her and taken her as my slave, for five -French francs. I was tempted to do so, but did not quite know how I -should get her back to my little house in Holland Street, Kensington, -as a Christmas<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[Pg 198]</a></span> present to my wife. Also, I was not certain whether my -wife would like to adopt her. I declined the offer, therefore, but gave -the old man the five francs as a sign of friendship—and as a bribe of -safety.</p> - -<p>We were surrounded, now, by a crowd of tall young Gypsies with long -sticks, and I did not like the way they eyed us. Luckily, a Bulgarian -police officer rode through the village, and at the sight of him, -the Gypsies scuttled like rabbits in their holes. We kept close -to his saddle until we were beyond the village, and by expressive -gesticulation the man made us understand that, in his judgment, the -place behind us was not a safe spot for Christian gentlemen.</p> - -<p>One little trouble of mine, and of friends of mine, in Stara Zagora, -was the question of food. There was one pretty good restaurant, set -apart for the military <i>attachés</i> and high staff officers, but after -they had dined well, while we hung around, sniffing their fat meats, -there was nothing left for us. We were reduced to eating in a filthy -little place, where the food was vile, and the chief method of washing -plates was by the tongues of the hungry serving wenches, as I saw, -through the kitchen door. Our billeting arrangements, also, left much -to be desired, and with two inseparable companions, Horace Grant, of -the <i>Daily Mirror</i>, and a young Italian photographer named Console, I -slept in a pestilential house, so utterly foul that I dare not describe -it. One little additional discomfort, to me, was the merry gamboling of -a tribe of mice, who played hide and seek over my body as I lay in a -coffinlike bed, and cleaned their whiskers on the window sill.</p> - -<p>We were heartily glad to move forward from General Headquarters to the -Turkish village of Mustapha Pasha, on the river Maritza, which had just -been captured by the Bulgarians on their way to the siege of Adrianople.</p> - -<p>My most dominant memory of this village, which was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[Pg 199]</a></span> the headquarters of -the Bulgarian Second Army, may be summed up in the two words, mud and -oxen. The “roads” were just quagmires, in which endless teams of oxen, -with some buffaloes, dragging interminable batteries of heavy guns, -ammunition wagons, and forage, wallowed deep. Stones, piled loosely, -about a foot broad, at the edge of the track, made the only dry -foothold for those who walked. But the Bulgarian army trudged through -the slime, battalion after battalion, with flowers on their rifles, led -forward by priests, dancing and waving their arms in an ecstasy of war -fever, inspired by hatred of the Turk. The oxen snarled and snuffled, -and constantly I had to avoid being tramped down by holding on to -their curly horns or thrusting myself away from their wet nozzles. -Strange groups of volunteers followed the army—family groups, with -old grandfathers and grandmothers and grandma-aunties, with uncles and -cousins and brothers, laden with tin pots and bundles, and armed with -old sporting guns and country knives, and any kind of weapon useful for -carving up a Turk.</p> - -<p>One night, when the guns were furious round Adrianople, and the sky was -lurid with bursting shells, I saw a division of Serbian cavalry pass -through Mustapha Pasha. They had traveled far, and every man was asleep -on his horse, which plodded on in the track of an old peasant with a -lantern. I shall never forget the sight of those sleeping riders in the -night.</p> - -<p>Horace Grant, Console, and I were billeted in a farmhouse a mile or -so outside Mustapha Pasha, kept by a tall, bearded Bulgarian peasant -with his wife and mother, and three dirty little children. We slept -on divans, as hard as boards, and fed on gristly old chickens killed -beyond the doorposts. The family regarded us as though we had come from -a far planet—mysterious beings, of incomprehensible ways—and our -ablutions in the mornings, when we stripped to the waist and washed in -a pail,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[Pg 200]</a></span> filled them with deep wonderment. It was our local reputation -as “The men who wash their bodies” which liberated us from military -arrest.</p> - -<p>On the way to Mustapha Pasha and back again to our farmhouse, we had -to pass a cemetery which was used as a camp. It was never a pleasant -journey at night, because we stumbled over loose boulders, fell into -three feet of mud, and were attacked by packs of wolflike dogs whose -fierce eyes shone through the darkness. One night I felt a prick in -the shoulder, and found I had run up against the sword of a Bulgarian -officer who was feeling his way along the wall in pitch darkness. But -it was when the Bulgarians were suddenly replaced by Serbians that we -were challenged by a sentry and arrested by the guard, which rushed -out at the sound of his shots. They could make nothing of us, and -suspected the worst, until some peasants in the neighborhood came up -and identified us as three men strangely addicted to cold water, but -under the protection of Bulgarian headquarters.</p> - -<p>Along the valley of the Maritza, on the way to Adrianople, which was -closely invested, the Turkish villages had been fired, and we saw -the smoke rising above the flames, and then tramped through their -ruins. Looting was strictly forbidden, under pain of death, but in one -village old men and women were prowling about in a ghoullike way, and -filling sacks with bits of half-burnt rubbish. Suddenly an old woman -began to scream, and we saw her struggling with a Bulgarian soldier -who threatened to run his bayonet through her body. The others fled, -leaving their sacks behind.</p> - -<p>That night, in a dirty little eating house, a Hungarian correspondent -protested to his friends against the ruthless way in which the Bulgars -had burned those Turkish homesteads. Upon leaving the restaurant he -was arrested by military police and flung into a filthy jail, with the -warning that he would rot to death there unless he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[Pg 201]</a></span> changed his opinion -about the burning of the villages, and agreed that the Turks had -fired them on their retreat. He decided to change his opinion. Later, -however, he was riding alone when he was set upon by Bulgarian police, -who seized his horse, flung him into a ditch, and kicked him senseless. -It was a warning against careless table conversation.</p> - -<p>We soon discovered that, instead of being treated as war -correspondents, we were in a position more like that of prisoners of -war. Strict orders were issued that we were not to go beyond a certain -limit outside Mustapha Pasha, and the severity of the censorship was -so great that my harmless descriptive articles about the scenes behind -the lines, as well as my feeble sketches, were mostly canceled. I have -to confess that I became a rebel against these orders, and, with my two -companions, not only broke bounds, day after day, but smuggled through -my articles at a risk which I now know was extremely rash. I hired a -carriage with three scraggy horses, a chime of bells, and a Bulgarian -giant, at enormous expense. It had once belonged to a Bulgarian priest, -and was so imposing that when we drove out to the open country, toward -Adrianople, we used to be saluted by the Bulgarian army.</p> - -<p>I remember driving one day to a spur of hills overlooking the city -of Adrianople, from which we could see the six minarets of the Great -Mosque, and the high explosives bursting above its domes and rooms. A -German—Doctor Bauer—and an Austrian—von Zifferer—accompanied us, -and we picnicked on the hill with an agreeable excitement at getting -even this glimpse of the “real business.” I played a game of chess with -von Zifferer, who carried a pocket set, and this very charming young -Austrian accepted my lucky victory with good nature, and then asked a -question which I always remembered:</p> - -<p>“How long will it be before you and I are on opposite sides of a -fighting line?” </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[Pg 202]</a></span></p> - -<p>It was not very long.</p> - -<p>My experiences as a war correspondent in Bulgaria were farcical. I saw -only the back wash of the bloody business—and I have a secret and -rather wicked suspicion that the war correspondent of the old type did -not see so much as his imaginative dispatches and thrilling sketches -suggested to the public, nor one-thousandth part as much as that little -body of men in the World War, who had absolute liberty of movement, and -the acknowledged right of going to any part of the front, at any time. -In Bulgaria, all we saw of the war was its slow-moving tide of peasant -soldiers, trudging forward dejectedly, the tangled traffic of guns and -transport, the misery—unimaginable and indescribable—of the wounded -and the prisoners, stricken with cholera, packed, like slaughtered -cattle, into railway trucks, tossed in heaps on straw-filled ox wagons, -jolted to death over the ruts and boulders of unmade roads: Horrible -pictures which gave me a little apprenticeship, but not much, for the -sights of the war that was to come.</p> - -<p>One little scene comes to my mind vividly. It was at dawn, in a way -side station. King Ferdinand had arrived with his staff. The fat old -man with piggy eyes was serving out medals to heroes of the siege -of Adrianople. They were all wounded heroes, some of them horribly -mutilated, so that, without arms or legs, they were carried by soldiers -into the presence of the King. Others hobbled up on crutches, white -and haggard. Others were blind. I could not see any pleasure in their -faces, any sense of high reward, when they listened to Ferdinand’s -gruff speech while he fastened a bit of metal to their breasts. In the -white mist of dawn they looked a ghastly little crowd of broken men.</p> - -<p>I have already told, in a previous chapter, how old Fox Ferdinand -conversed with me on the bridge over the Maritza at Mustapha Pasha. -His friendliness then did<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[Pg 203]</a></span> not allow me to escape his wrath a few -days later, when he saw me considerably outside the area to which -correspondents were restricted, and he sent over a staff officer -to tell me that I should be placed under arrest unless I withdrew -immediately.</p> - -<p>I was arrested, and locked up for a time, with Horace Grant and -Console, for the crime of accompanying a colleague to the railway -station at Mustapha Pasha! That was when S. J. Pryor, of <i>The Times</i>, -was leaving G.H.Q. to go back to Sofia. Being, as I thought, the proud -owner of a carriage and three horses, to say nothing of my Bulgarian -giant, I offered to give him with his luggage a lift to the station. He -accepted gladly, but at the hour appointed I discovered that carriage, -horses, giant, and all had disappeared from their stables. As I found -out later, they had been “pinched” by G.H.Q. Pryor had not too much -time to get his train, and Grant and Console and I volunteered to carry -some of his bags. We arrived in time, but were immediately confronted -by a savage Bulgarian general, who spluttered with fury, called up -some hairy savages with big guns, and ordered them to lock us up in -a baggage shed. Little S. J. Pryor was extremely distressed at this -result of our service to him, but he could not delay his journey.</p> - -<p>My friends and I were liberated from the shed after some hours of -imprisonment, and conducted, under mounted escort, to Mustapha Pasha. -A few nights later we were informed that we had been expelled from -General Headquarters and must proceed back to filthy old “Cascara -Sagrada.” I had a violent scene with the Bulgarian staff officer and -censor who conveyed this order, and told him that I intended to stay -where I was, unless I was forcibly removed by the Bulgarian army!</p> - -<p>He took me at my word, and that night, when Grant and I were finishing -a filthy but comforting meal in our old farmhouse, far outside the -village, there was a heavy<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[Pg 204]</a></span> clump at the door, followed by the entry of -six hairy-looking ruffians with fixed bayonets. One of them removed his -sheepskin hat and plucked from his matted hair a small piece of paper, -which was a written order for our expulsion signed by the General in -Command of the Second Army.</p> - -<p>I shall never forget Console at the moment of their arrival. Having -finished his supper, he was lying asleep on the divan, but, suddenly -awakened, sat up with all his hair on end, and grabbed a large loaded -revolver from beneath his pillow. We did not allow him to indulge in a -private massacre, but adopted a friendly demeanor to our guards—for we -were their prisoners, all right—and gave them mugs of peasant wine as -a token of good will. After a frightful scramble for our belongings, -which were littered all over the room, we accompanied the hairy men to -an ox wagon, where we sat in the straw, jolted in every limb and in -every tooth, for the three miles back to the old station.</p> - -<p>On the way we passed a battalion of Serbian infantry, and one of the -officers carried on a cheery conversation with me in German. When he -heard that I was a correspondent of <i>The Graphic</i>, he was delighted and -impressed.</p> - -<p>“Come with us!” he shouted. “We will show you some good fighting!”</p> - -<p>“I would like to,” I answered, “but I am a prisoner of these -Bulgarians.”</p> - -<p>He thought I was joking, and laughed loudly.</p> - -<p>Guarded by our soldiers—they were really a simple and sturdy little -crowd of good-natured peasants—we were taken across a railway line to -a dark train. Our guards laughed, shook hands, pushed us gently into -the train, and said, “<i>Dobra den, Gospodin!</i>”</p> - -<p>Then we had a surprise. The train was pitch dark, but not empty. It was -filled with correspondents of all<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[Pg 205]</a></span> nationalities, who, like ourselves, -had been expelled! They were without food or drink or light; they had -been there for half a day and part of a night; and they were furious.</p> - -<p>That journey was a comedy and a tragedy. The train moved away some time -in the night, and crawled forward that day and night toward “Cascara -Sagrada,” as Nodeau called that town of filth. We starved, parched -with thirst, cramped together. But we laughed until we cried over the -absurdity of our situation and a thousand jests.</p> - -<p>Marinetti, the arch Futurist, was there, and after making impassioned -love to a Bulgarian lady who could not understand his Italian or -French, he recited his great Futurist poem, “L’Automobile,” very softly -at first, then with his voice rising higher, as the “automobile” -gained speed, until it was like the bellow of a bull. In a wayside -station, soldiers came running toward our carriage, with their bayonets -handy, thinking some horrible atrocity was in progress. Marinetti was -delighted with the success of Futurist poetry in Bulgaria!</p> - -<p>At Stara Zagora I found wires were being pulled in London and Sofia, on -my behalf, through the means of S. J. Pryor, who was a loyal friend, -and one of the dearest men in the world. (He is my “Bellamy” in <i>The -Street of Adventure</i>.) In a few days, Grant, Console, and I, alone -among the expelled crowd, received permits to return to the Bulgarian -headquarters, where our reappearance created consternation among the -staff officers and censors, who thought they were well rid of us.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[Pg 206]</a></span></p> - -<h2>XVI</h2> - -<p>In 1912, to which year I have now come in these anecdotes of -journalistic life, England was not without troubles at home and abroad, -but nothing had happened, or seemed likely to happen (except in the -imagination of a few anxious and farseeing people), to touch more than -the surface of her tranquillity, to undermine the foundations of her -wealth, or to menace her security as a great imperial Power.</p> - -<p>It was a very pleasant place for pleasant people, if they had a social -status above that of casual, or sweated, labor. The aristocracy of -wealth still went through the social ritual of the year, in country -houses and town houses, from the London season to Cowes, from the -grouse moors to the Riviera, agreeably bored, and finding life, on the -whole, a good game, unless private passion wrecked it.</p> - -<p>The great middle class, with its indeterminate boundaries, was happy, -well-to-do, with a comfortable sense of ease and security, apart from -the ordinary anxieties, tragedies, failures, of private and domestic -life. People with “advanced” and extraordinary views made a lot of -noise, but it hardly broke into the hushed gardens of the country -houses of England. Labor was getting clamorous, with mock heroic -threats of revolution, but was no real menace to the forces of law and -order. Women were beginning to put forward claims to political equality -with men, but their extravagance of talk had not yet been translated -into wild action. The spirit of England was, in the mass, rooted to -its old traditions, and its social habits were not overshadowed by any -dread.</p> - -<p>As a descriptive writer and professional onlooker of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[Pg 207]</a></span> life (writing -history and fiction in my spare time), I had, perhaps, some deeper -consciousness than most people outside my trade, of dangers brewing in -the cauldron of fate. I touched English life in most of its phases, -high and low, and was aware, vaguely, perhaps a little morbidly, of -undercurrents beating up strongly below all this fair surface of -tranquility. As I shall tell later, I came face to face with three -bogies of threatening aspect. One was Ireland in insurrection. Another -was industrial conflict in England, linked up with that Irish menace. -A third was war with Germany. Meanwhile, I chronicled the small beer -of English life, and described its social pageantry—royal visits, -the Derby, Henley, Fourth of June at Eton, the Eton and Harrow match, -Ascot, Cowes, the Temple Flower Show, garden fêtes, Maud Allen’s -dancing, the opera, the theater, fancy dress balls.</p> - -<p>There was a new passion for “dressing-up,” in that England before the -war. It seemed as though youth, and perhaps old age, desired more color -than was allowed by modern sumptuary laws.</p> - -<p>I attended a great fancy dress ball at the Albert Hall—one of many, -but the most magnificent. All “the quality” was there, the most -beautiful women in England, and the most notorious. I went, superbly, -as Dick Sheridan, in pale blue silk, with lace ruffles, a white wig, -white silk stockings, buckled shoes, a jeweled sword. It was strange -how different a man I felt in those clothes. The vulgarity of modern -life seemed to fall from me. I was an eighteenth-century gentleman, not -only in appearance, but in spirit. I was my own great grandfather!</p> - -<p>London that night was a queer sight anywhere within a mile of -Kensington. Sedan chairs, carried by sturdy porters in old liveries, -conveyed little ladies in hooped dresses and high wigs. Columbines -flitted by with Pierrots. Out of taxicabs and hansoms and old -growlers came parties of troubadours, English princesses with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[Pg 208]</a></span> horned -headdresses, Spanish toreadors, Elizabethan buccaneers, Stuart -cavaliers.</p> - -<p>At the ball I saw the faces of my friends strangely transfigured. -They, too, were their own ancestors. One of those I encountered -that night was a fellow journalist named “Rosy” Leach. He swaggered -in the form of a Stuart gentleman, and said, “What a game is this -life!” The next time I met him was when he wore another kind of fancy -dress—khaki-colored—with high boots caked up to the tabs in the mud -of the Somme fields. “Death is nothing,” he said, after we had talked -a while. “It’s what goes before—the mud and the beastliness.” He was -killed in one of those battles, like many others of those who danced -with Columbine and the ladies of the gracious past.</p> - -<p>This dressing-up phase was not restricted to London, or rich folks. -There was a joyous epidemic of pageants, in which many old towns and -villages of England dramatized their own history and acted the parts -of their own ancestors. I was an enthusiast of this idea, and still -think that for the first time since the Middle Ages it gave the people -of England a chance of revealing their innate sense of drama and color -and local patriotism. In most of these pageants the actors made their -own costumes, and went to old books to learn something of ancient -fashions, heraldry, arms and armor, and the history of things that -had happened on their own soil and in their own cathedrals, churches, -guild houses, and ruined castles, whose stones are haunted with old -ghosts. The children in these pageants made fields of living flowers. -Youth was lovely in its masquerade. Some of the pictures made by the -massed crowds were unforgetable, as in the Oxford pageant, when Charles -held his court again, and in the St. Albans pageant, when the English -archers advanced behind flights of whistling arrows. If one had any -sense of the past, one could not help being stirred by the <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[Pg 209]</a></span>continuity -of English life, its unbroken links with ancient customs, its deep -roots in English soil. At Bury St. Edmunds there was a scene depicting -the homage of twenty-two gentlemen to Mary Tudor. Each actor there bore -the same name and held the same soil as those who had actually bowed -before the Tudor lady. It is why tradition is strong in the character -of our race, and steadies it.</p> - -<p>There was a comic and pitiful side to these shows, mainly caused by -the weather, which was pitiless, so that often the pageant grounds -were quagmires, and ancient Britons, Roman soldiers, Saxon princesses, -Stuart beauties, had to rush for shelter from rain storms which -bedraggled them. But that was part of the game.</p> - -<p>London dreamed not at that time of darkened lights, prohibited hours -for drink, the heavy hand of war upon the pleasures and follies -of youth. Was there more folly than now? Perhaps vice flaunted -more openly. Perhaps temptation spread its net with less need of -caution—though I doubt whether there has been much change in morals, -despite the park pouncing of policemen. There was more gayety in -London, more lights in London nights, more sociability, good and bad, a -great freedom of spirit, in those days before the war. So it seems to -us now.</p> - -<p>I was never one of the gilded youth, but sometimes I studied them in -their haunts, not with gloomy or reproving eyes, being tolerant of -human nature, and glad of laughter.</p> - -<p>One wild night began when the policeman on point duty in Piccadilly -Circus thought that the last revelers had gone home in the last taxis, -but he was a surprised man when life seemed to waken up again and there -was the swish of motor cars through the circus and bands of young men -walking in evening dress, not, apparently, on their way to bed, but -just beginning some new adventure.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[Pg 210]</a></span> They advanced upon the Grafton -Galleries singing a little ballad that marks the date:</p> - -<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div>“Hullo, hullo, hullo!</div> -<div>It’s a different girl again!</div> -<div>Different hair, different clothes,</div> -<div>Different eyes, different nose....”</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>This affair had been kept a dead secret from press and public. It was a -“glorious stunt” which had for its amiable object the introduction of -all the prettiest girls of the theater world to all the smartest bloods -of the universities and clubs. It was entitled the Butterfly Ball.</p> - -<p>Certainly there were some astoundingly beautiful girls at this -assembly, and not a few of them. The university boys were, for a time -abashed by so much loveliness. But they brightened up, especially when -the most famous sporting peer of England—Lord Lonsdale—led off the -dance with a little girl dressed, rather naughtily, as a teetotum. -By the time I left—a kind of Pierrot looking on at the gayety of -life—there was a terrific battle in progress between groups of boys -and girls, with little white rolls of bread as their ammunition. Not -commendable. Not strictly virtuous, nor highly proper, but in its -wildness there was the spirit of a youth which, afterward, was heroic -in self-sacrifice.... So things happened in London before the war.</p> - -<p>A series of articles appearing in <i>The Daily Mail</i>, by Robert -Blatchford, once a Socialist and still on the democratic side of -political life, disturbed the sense of security in the average mind -by a slight uneasiness. Not more than that, because the average mind -had its inherited faith in our island inviolability and the power of -the British Navy. There were articles entitled “Am Tag,” which is bad -German, and they professed to reveal a <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[Pg 211]</a></span>determination in the military -and naval castes of Germany to destroy the British fleet, invade -England, and smash the British Empire.</p> - -<p>Some of the evidence brought forward seemed childish in its absurdity. -There were not many facts to a wealth of rhetoric. But they created a -newspaper sensation, and were pooh-poohed by the government, as we now -know, with utter insincerity—for there were members of that government -who knew far more than Blatchford how deep and widespread was German -hostility to Great Britain, and how close Europe stood to a world war.</p> - -<p>One fantastic little incident connected with those articles of -Blatchford’s amused me considerably at the time, though afterward I -thought of it as a strange prophecy.</p> - -<p>I called on W. T. Stead one day in his office of <i>The Review of -Reviews</i>, which afterward I was to edit for a year. It was just -before lunch time, and Stead had an engagement with Spender of <i>The -Westminster Gazette</i>. But he grabbed me by the arm, in his genial way, -and said, “Listen to this for a minute, and tell me what you think of -it.”</p> - -<p>It appeared that he had been rather upset by Blatchford’s articles. -He could not make up his mind whether they were all nonsense or had -some truth at the back of them. He decided to consult the spirit world -through “Julia,” his medium.</p> - -<p>“We rang up old Bismarck, Von Moltke, and William II of Prussia. ‘Look -here,’ I said, ‘Is there going to be war between Germany and England?’”</p> - -<p>The spirits of these distinguished Germans seemed uncertain. Bismarck -saw a red mist approaching the coast of England. Von Moltke said the -British fleet had better keep within certain degrees of latitude -and longitude—which was kind of him! One of the trio—I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[Pg 212]</a></span> forget -which—said there would be war between Germany and England. It would -break out suddenly, without warning.</p> - -<p>“When?” asked W. T. Stead.</p> - -<p>A date was given. <i>It was the month of August.</i> The year was not named.</p> - -<p>I laughed heartily at Stead’s anecdote, especially when he told me the -effect this announcement had upon him. He was so disturbed that he went -round to the Admiralty, interviewed Lord Fisher, who was a friend of -his, and revealed the dread message that the German fleet was going to -attack in August. (It was then May, 1912).</p> - -<p>Fisher leaned back in his chair, smiled grimly, and said, “<i>No such -luck, my boy!</i>”</p> - -<p>In August of that year I was engaged in trouble which did not seem -connected with Germany, though I am inclined to think now that German -agents were watching it very closely—especially one German baron who -posed as a journalist and was always reporting on industrial unrest -in Great Britain, wherever it happened to break out. I had met him at -Tonypandy, in Wales, during the miners’ riots down there, and I met him -again in Liverpool, which was now in the throes of a serious strike.</p> - -<p>It was the nearest thing to civil war I have seen in any English city. -I have forgotten the origin of the strike—I think it began with the -dockers—but it spread until the whole of the transport service was at -a standstill, and the very scavengers left their work. The Mersey was -crowded for weeks with shipping from all the ports of the world, laden -with merchandise, some of it perishable, which no hands would touch. No -porters worked in the railway goods yards, so that trains could not be -unloaded. There was no fresh meat, and no milk for babes. Not a wheel -turned in Liverpool. It was like a besieged city, and presently, in hot -weather, began to stink in a <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[Pg 213]</a></span>pestilential way, because of the refuse -and muck left rotting in the streets and squares.</p> - -<p>This refuse, among which dead rats lay, was so filthy in one of the -best squares of Liverpool outside the hotel where I was staying, that a -number of journalists, and myself, borrowed brooms, sallied out, swept -up the rubbish heaps, and made bonfires of them, surrounded by a crowd -of angry men who called us “scabs” and “blacklegs,” and threatened -to “bash” us, if we did not stop work. We stuck to our job, and were -rewarded by a clapping of hands from ladies and maidservants in the -neighboring windows, so that our broomsticks seemed as heroic as the -lances of chivalry.</p> - -<p>Some bad things happened in Liverpool. The troops were stoned by mobs -of men who were becoming sullen and savage. Shops were looted. I saw no -less than forty tramcars overturned and smashed one afternoon in that -sunny August, because they were being driven by men who had refused to -strike.</p> - -<p>On that afternoon I saw something of mob violence, which I should -have thought incredible in England. A tramcar was going at a rapid -pace, driven by a man who was in terror of his life because of a mob -on each side of the road, threatening to stone him to death. Inside -the car were three women and a baby. A fusillade of stones suddenly -broke every window. Two of the women crouched below the window frames, -and the third woman, with the baby, utterly terrified, came on to the -platform outside, and prepared to jump. A stone struck her on the head, -and she dropped the baby into the roadway, where it lay quite still. -A gust of hoarse laughter rose from the mob, and not one man stirred -to pick up the baby. Terrible, but true. It was left there until a -woman ran out of a shop.... Wedged behind the men, but a witness of -all that happened, I was conscious then of a cruelty lurking in the -vicious elements of our great<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[Pg 214]</a></span> cities which, before, I had not believed -to exist in England of the twentieth century. If ever there were -revolution in England, it would not be made with rose water.</p> - -<p>The troops and police were patient and splendid in their discipline, -despite great provocation at times. Now and again, when the mob -started looting or stone throwing, the police made baton charges, -which scattered crowds of young hooligans like chaff before them, and -they thrashed those they caught without mercy. At such times I had to -run like a hare, for there is no discrimination in treatment of the -innocent.</p> - -<p>One afternoon the troops were ordered to fire on a crowd which made an -attempt to attack an escort of prisoners, and there was a small number -of casualties. That night I had an exciting narrative to dictate over -the telephone to the office of <i>The Daily Chronicle</i>. But, in the -middle of it, the sub-editor, MacKenna, who was taking down my message, -said, “Cut it short, old man! Something is happening to-night more -important than a strike in Liverpool. <i>The German fleet is out in the -North Sea, and the British fleet is cleared for action!</i>”</p> - -<p>When I put down the telephone receiver, I felt a shiver go down my -spine; and I thought of Stead’s preposterous story of war in August. -Had it happened?</p> - -<p>There was nothing in next day’s papers. Some iron censorship closed -down on that story of the German fleet, true or false.... As we now -know, it was true. The German fleet did go out on that night in August, -but finding the British fleet prepared, they went back again. It was in -August of another year that Germany put all to the great hazard.</p> - -<p>The thoughts of the English people were not obsessed with the German -menace. For the most part they knew nothing about it, apart from -newspaper “scares,” which<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[Pg 215]</a></span> they pooh-poohed, and no member of the -government, getting anxious now in secret conversations, took upon -himself the duty of preparing the nation for a dreadful ordeal.</p> - -<p>England was excited by two subjects of sensational interest and -increasing passion—the mania of the militant suffragettes, and the -raising of armed forces in Ireland, under the leadership of Sir Edward -Carson, to resist Home Rule.</p> - -<p>I saw a good deal of both those phases of political strife in England -and Ireland. The suffragette movement kept me in a continual state of -mental exasperation, owing to the excesses of the militant women on -one side, and the stupidity and brutality of the opponents of women’s -suffrage on the other. I became a convinced supporter of “Votes for -Women,” partly because of theoretical justice which denied votes to -women of intellect, education, and noble work, while giving it to -the lowest, most ignorant, and most brutal ruffians in the country, -partly because of a sporting admiration—in spite of intellectual -disapproval—of cultured women who went willingly to prison for their -faith, defied the police with all their muscular strength, risked the -brutality of angry mobs (which was a great risk), and all with a gay, -laughing courage which mocked at the arguments, anger, and ridicule of -the average man.</p> - -<p>Many of the methods of the “militants” were outrageous, and loosened, I -think, some of the decent restraints of the social code, for which we -had to pay later in a kind of sexual wildness of modern young women. -But they were taunted into “direct action” by Cabinet Ministers, and -exasperated by the deliberate falsity and betrayal of members of -Parliament, who had pledged themselves at election time to support the -demand of women for the suffrage, by constitutional methods.</p> - -<p>A number of times I watched the endeavors of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[Pg 216]</a></span> “militants” to -present a petition to the Prime Minister or invade the Houses of -Parliament. Always it was the same scene. The deputation would march -from the Caxton Hall through a narrow lane in the midst of a vast -crowd, and then be scattered in a rough and tumble scrimmage when -mounted police rode among them.</p> - -<p>Often I saw a friend of mine walking by the side of these deputations, -as a solitary bodyguard. It was H. W. Nevinson, the war correspondent, -with his fine ruddy face and silvered hair, a paladin of woman suffrage -as of all causes which took “liberty” for their watchword. The crowd -was less patient of men sympathizers of militant women than with -the women themselves, and Nevinson was roughly handled. At a great -demonstration at the Albert Hall, he fought single-handed against a -dozen men stewards who fell upon him, when he knocked down a man who -had struck a woman a heavy blow. Nevinson, though over fifty at the -time, could give a good account of himself, and some of those stewards -had a tough time before they overpowered him and flung him out.</p> - -<p>Round the Houses of Parliament, on those nights of attack, there were -strong bodies of police who played games of catch-as-catch-can with -little old ladies, frail young women, strong-armed and lithe-limbed -girls who tried to break through their cordon. One little old cripple -lady used to charge the police in a wheel chair. Others caught hold -of the policemen’s whistle chains, and would not let go until they -were escorted to the nearest police station. One night dozens of women -chained and padlocked themselves to the railings of the House of -Commons, and the police had to use axes to break their chains.</p> - -<p>There was a truly frightful scene, which made me shiver, one night, -when those “militants” refused to budge before the mounted police and -seized hold of their bridles and stirrup-leathers. The horses, scared -out of their wits<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[Pg 217]</a></span> by these clinging creatures, reared, and fell, but -nothing would release the grip of those determined and reckless ladies, -though some of them were bruised and bleeding.</p> - -<p>The patience and good humor of the police were marvelous, but I was -sorry to see that they made class distinctions in their behavior. They -were certainly very brutal to a party of factory girls brought down -from the North of England. I saw them driven into a narrow alley behind -Westminster Hospital, and the police pulled their hair down, wound it -round their throats, and flung them about unmercifully. It was not good -to see.</p> - -<p>I had several talks at the time with the two dominant leaders of the -militant section, Mrs. Pankhurst and her daughter Christabel, and I -was present at their trial, when they were indicted for conspiracy to -incite a riot. Mrs. Pankhurst’s defense was one of the most remarkable -speeches I have ever heard in a court of law, most eloquent, most -moving, most emotional. Even the magistrate was moved to tears, but -that did not prevent him from setting aside an unrepealed statute -of Charles II (which allowed a deputation of not more than thirteen -to present a petition, without let or hindrance, to the King’s -ministers) and sentencing Mrs. Pankhurst and her daughter to two years’ -imprisonment.</p> - -<p>I saw Christabel Pankhurst during the course of the trial, and she -asked me whether I thought she would be condemned. I told her “Yes,” -believing that she had the strength to hear the truth, and afterward, -when she asked me how much I thought she would get, I said “Two years.” -I had an idea from her previous record that she was ready for martyrdom -at any cost, but to my surprise and dismay, she burst into tears. -Her defense and cross-examination of witnesses were also marred by -continual tears, so that it was painful to listen to her. Her spirit -seemed quite broken, and she never took part again in any militant -demonstrations, although she was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[Pg 218]</a></span> liberated a short time after the -beginning of her imprisonment. She worked quietly at propaganda in Paris.</p> - -<p>One nation watched the mania of the “wild, wild women” with a growing -belief in England’s decadence, as it was watching the Irish affairs, -and industrial unrest. German agents found plenty to write home about.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[Pg 219]</a></span></p> - -<h2>XVII</h2> - -<p>One day in 1913, I was asked by Robert Donald to call on a Canadian -professor who had been engaged in “a statistical survey of Europe,” -whatever that may mean, and might have some interesting information to -give.</p> - -<p>When he received me, I found him a little, mild-eyed man, with -gold-rimmed spectacles, behind which I presently discovered the look -of one obsessed by a knowledge of some terrific secret. That was after -he had surprised me by declining to talk about statistics, and asking -abruptly whether I was an honest young man and a good patriot. Upon my -assuring him that I was regarded as respectable by my friends and was -no traitor, he bade me shut the door and listen to something which he -believed it to be his duty to tell, for England’s sake.</p> - -<p>What he told me was decidedly alarming. In pursuit of his “statistical -survey of Europe” on behalf of the Canadian and American governments, -he had spent two years or so in Germany. He had been received in a -courteous way by German professors, civil servants, and government -officials, at whose dinner tables he had met German celebrities, and -high officers of the German army. They had talked freely before him -after some time, and there was revealed to him, among all these people, -a bitter, instinctive, relentless, and jealous hatred of England. -They made no secret that the dominant thought in their souls was the -necessity and inevitability of a conflict with Great Britain, in -order to destroy the nation which stood athwart their own destiny as -their greatest commercial competitor, and as the one rival of their -own<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[Pg 220]</a></span> sea power, upon which the future of Germany was based. For that -conflict they were preparing the mind of their own people by intensive -propaganda and “speeding up” the output of their naval and military -armament. “England,” said my little informant, “is menaced by the most -fearful struggle in history, but seems utterly ignorant of this peril, -which is coming close. Is there no one to warn her people, no one to -open their eyes to this ghastly hatred across the North Sea, preparing -stealthily for their destruction? Will you not tell the truth in your -paper, as I now tell it to you?”</p> - -<p>I told him it would be difficult to get such things published, and -still more difficult to get them believed. I had considerable doubt -myself whether he had not exaggerated the intensity of hatred in -Germany, and, in any case, the possibility of their daring to challenge -Great Britain, as long as our fleet maintained its strength and -traditions. But I was disturbed. The little man’s words coincided -with other warnings I had heard, from Lord Roberts, from visitors to -Germany, from Robert Blatchford—to say nothing of W. T. Stead and his -German “spooks.” ... Robert Donald, of <i>The Daily Chronicle</i>, laughed -at my report of the conversation. “Utter rubbish!” was his opinion, and -he refused to print a word.</p> - -<p>“Go to Germany yourself,” he said, “and write a series of articles -likely to promote friendship between our two peoples and undo the harm -created by newspaper hate-doctors and jingoes. Find out what the mass -of the German people think about this liar talk.”</p> - -<p>So I went to Germany, with a number of introductions to prominent -people and friends of England.</p> - -<p>It was not the first time I had visited Germany, because the previous -year, I think, I had been to Hamburg with a party of journalists, and -we were received like princes, fêted sumptuously, and treated with an -amazing display of public cordiality. There was private courtesy, too,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[Pg 221]</a></span> -most kind and amiable, and I always remember a young poet who took me -to his house and introduced me to his beautiful young wife who, when -I said good-by, gathered some roses from her garden, put them to her -lips, and said, “Take these with my love to England.”</p> - -<p>But something had happened in the spirit of Germany since that -time. The first “friend of England” to whom I presented a letter of -introduction was a newspaper editor in Düsseldorf, a man of liberal -principles who had taken a great part in arranging an exchange of -visits between German and British business men. He knew many of the -Liberal politicians in England and could walk into the House of Commons -more easily than I could.</p> - -<p>He seemed to be rather flustered when I called upon him and explained -the object of my visit, and he left me alone in his study for a while, -on pretext of speaking to his wife. I think he wanted me to read -his leading article, signed at the foot of the column, in a paper -which he laid deliberately on his desk before me. I puzzled through -its complicated argument in involved German, and through its fog of -rhetoric there emerged a violent tirade against England.</p> - -<p>When he came back, I tackled him on the subject.</p> - -<p>“I understood that you were an advocate of friendly relations between -our two peoples? That article doesn’t seem to me very friendly or -helpful.”</p> - -<p>He flushed a hot color, and said, “My views have undergone a change. -England has behaved abominably.”</p> - -<p>The particular abomination which he resented most deeply was the -warning delivered by Lloyd George—of all people in England!—that -Great Britain would support French interests in Morocco, and would -not tolerate German aggression in that region. That was at the time -of the Agadir incident. The British attitude in that affair, said the -Düsseldorf editor, was a clear sign that Great Britain challenged the -right of Germany to develop<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[Pg 222]</a></span> and expand. That challenge could not be -left unanswered. Either Germany must surrender her liberty and deny -her imperial destiny, at the dictation of Britain, or show that her -power was equal to her aspirations. That, anyhow, was the line of his -argument, which we pursued at great length over pots of lager beer, in -a restaurant where we dined together.</p> - -<p>I encountered the same argument, and more violent hostility, from a -high ecclesiastic in Berlin, who was a great friend of the Kaiser’s and -formerly a professed lover of England. He was a tall, thin, handsome -man, who spoke English perfectly, but was not very civil to me. -Presently, as we talked of the relations between our two nations, he -paced up and down the room with evident emotion, with suppressed rage, -indeed, which broke at last through his restraint.</p> - -<p>“English policy,” he said, “cuts directly across our legitimate German -rights. England is trying to hem in Germany, to hamper her at every -turn, to humiliate her in every part of the world, and to prevent her -economic development. During recent days she has not hesitated to -affront us very deeply and deliberately. It is intolerable!”</p> - -<p>He spoke of an “inevitable war” with startling candor, and when I said -something about the duty of all Christian men, especially of a priest -like himself, to prevent such an unbelievable horror, he asked harshly -whether I had come to insult him, and touched the bell for my dismissal.</p> - -<p>Such conversations were alarming. Yet I did not believe that they -represented the general opinion of the great mass of German people. -I was only able to get glimpses here and there in Düsseldorf and -Frankfort, Hanover, Leipzig, Berlin, and Dresden of middle-class and -working-class thought, but wherever I was able to test it in casual -conversation with business men, railway porters, laborers, hotel -waiters, and so on, with whom I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[Pg 223]</a></span> exchanged ideas in my very crude -German, or their remarkably good English (in the case of commercial men -and waiters), I found utter incredulity regarding the possibility of -war between England and Germany, and a contempt of the sword-rattling -and “shining armor” of the Kaiser and the military caste.</p> - -<p>I was, for instance, in a company of commercial men at <i>Abendessen</i> -in a hotel at Leipzig, when the topic of conversation was the Zabern -affair, in which Lieutenant von Förstner had drawn his sword upon -civilians—and a cripple—who had jeered at him for swaggering down -the sidewalk like a popinjay. The Crown Prince had sent him a telegram -of approbation for his defense of his uniform and caste. But, one and -all, the commercial men with whom I sat expressed their loathing of -this military arrogance, and were indignant with those who defended its -absurdity. I remember the German who sat next to me had been a designer -in a porcelain factory in the English potteries for many years. With -him I talked quietly of the chance of war between England and Germany. -“What is the real feeling of the ordinary folk in Germany?” I asked. He -answered with what I am certain was absolute sincerity—though he was -wrong, as history proved. He told me that, outside the military caste, -there was no war feeling in Germany, and that the idea of a conflict -with England was abhorrent and unbelievable to the German people. “If -there were to be war with England,” he said, “we should weep at the -greatest tragedy that could befall mankind.”</p> - -<p>There were many people I met who held that view, without hypocrisy, and -their sincerity at that time is not disproved because when the tocsin -of war was sounded, the fever of hate took possession of them.</p> - -<p>It was Edward Bernstein, the leader of the Socialists, who warned me of -the instability of the pacifist faith professed by German democrats. -“If war breaks out,”<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[Pg 224]</a></span> he said, “German Socialists will march as one man -against any enemy of the Fatherland. Although theoretically they are -against war, neither they nor any other Socialists have reached a plane -of development which would give them the strength to resist loyalty to -the Flag and the old code of patriotism, when once their nation was -involved, right or wrong.”</p> - -<p>I tried to get the ideas of German youth on the subject of war with -England, and I had an excellent opportunity and an illuminating -conversation with the students of Leipzig University. A group of these -young men, who spoke excellent English, allowed me to question them, -and were highly amused and interested.</p> - -<p>“Do you hate England?” I asked.</p> - -<p>There was a rousing chorus of “Yes!”</p> - -<p>“Why do you hate England?”</p> - -<p>One young man acted as spokesman for the others, who signified their -assent from time to time. The first reason for hatred of England, he -said, was because when a German boy was shown the map of the world and -when he asked what all the red “splodges” on it signified, he was told -that all that territory belonged to England. That aroused his natural -envy. Later in life, said this young man, he understood by historical -reading that England had built up the British Empire by a series of -wars, explorations, and commercial adventures which gave her a just -claim to possession. They had no quarrel with that. They recognized -the strength and greatness of the English people in the past. But -now they saw that England was no longer great. She was decadent and -inefficient. Her day was done. They hated her now as a worn-out old -monster who still tried to grab and hold, and prevent other races -from developing their genius, but had no military power with which to -defend their possessions. England was playing a game of bluff. Germany, -conscious of her newborn greatness, her immense<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[Pg 225]</a></span> industrial genius, -her vital strength, needing elbow room and free spaces of the earth, -would not allow a degenerate people to stand across her path. Germany -hated England for her arrogance, masking weakness, and her hypocritical -professions of friendship, which concealed envy and fear.</p> - -<p>All this was said, at greater length, with admirable good humor and no -touch of personal discourtesy. But it made me thoughtful and uneasy. -The boy was doubtless exaggerating a point of view, but if such talk -were taking place in German universities, it boded no good for the -peace of the world.</p> - -<p>I returned to England, perplexed, and not convinced, one way or the -other. As far as I could read the riddle of Germany, public opinion -was divided by two opposing views. The military caste, the old Junker -crowd, and their satellites, ecclesiastical and official, with, -probably the Civil Service, were beating up the spirit of aggression, -and playing for war. The great middle class, and the German people in -the mass, desired only to get on with their work, to develop their -commerce, and to enjoy a peaceful home life in increasing comfort. -The question of future peace or war lay with the view which would -prevail. I believed that, without unnecessary provocation on the part -of England, rather with generous and friendly relations, the peaceful -disposition of the German people would prevail over the military caste -and its intensive propaganda....</p> - -<p>I was wrong, and the articles I wrote in an analytical but friendly -spirit were worse than useless, though I am still convinced that the -German people as a whole did not want war, until their rulers persuaded -them that the Fatherland was in danger, called to their patriotism, and -let loose all the primitive emotions, sentiments, ideals, passions, and -cruelties which stir the hearts of peoples, when war is declared. </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[Pg 226]</a></span></p> - -<p>After that visit to Germany, I went several times to Ireland, and -although there seemed to be no link between these two missions, I -am certain now that in the mind of German agents, politicians, and -military strategists, the situation in Ireland was not left out of -account in their estimate of war chances. With labor “unrest” from the -Clyde to Tonypandy, with suffragette outrages revealing a weakness and -lack of virility (from the German point of view) in English manhood, -and with Ireland on the edge of civil war which would involve great -numbers of British troops, England was losing her power of attack and -defense. So as we know, German agents, like the Baron von Zedlitz, were -writing home in their reports.</p> - -<p>Sir Edward Carson, afterward Lord Carson, with F. E. Smith, afterward -Lord Birkenhead (so does England reward her rebels!) were arranging a -bloody civil war in Ireland, which, but for a Great War, would have -spread to England, without let or hindrance from the British government.</p> - -<p>When the Home Rule Bill, under Asquith’s premiership, was nearing its -last stages, Carson raised an army of Ulstermen and invited every -Protestant and Unionist to take a solemn oath in a holy league and -covenant to resist Home Rule to the very death. I was an eyewitness -of many remarkable and historic scenes when “King Carson,” as he was -called in irony by Irish Home Rulers, inspected his troops, made a -triumphal progress through Ulster, stirring up old fires of racial and -religious hatred.</p> - -<p>There was a good deal of play-acting about all this, and Carson was -melodramatic in all his speeches and gestures, with a touch of Irving -in the rendering of his pose as a grim and resolute patriot and leader -of Protestant forces, but there was real passion behind it all, and -the sincerity of fanaticism. If it came to the ordeal of battle, these -young farmers and shopkeepers who paraded in battalions before Carson -and his <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[Pg 227]</a></span>lieutenants, marching with good discipline, a strong and -sturdy type of manhood, would fight with the courage and ruthlessness -of men inspired by hatred and bigotry.</p> - -<p>The British government pooh-poohed Carson’s “army” and described it as -an unarmed rabble. But a very brief inquiry convinced me that large -quantities of arms were being imported into Belfast and distributed -through Ulster. There was hardly a pretense at secrecy, and the Great -Western Railway authorities showed me boxes bearing large red labels -with the word “Firearms” boldly printed thereon. The proprietor of one -of the Belfast hotels led me down into his cellars and showed me cases -of rifles stacked as high as the ceiling. He told me they came from -Germany. I went round to the gunsmith shops, and I was told that they -were selling cheap revolvers “like hot cakes.” There was hardly a man -in Ulster who had not got a firearm of some kind or other. “It’s good -for business,” said one of the gunsmiths, laughing candidly, “but one -of these days the things will go off, and there will be the devil to -pay. Why the British government allows it is beyond understanding.”</p> - -<p>The British government did not acknowledge the truth of it. I made a -detailed report of my investigations to Robert Donald, who passed it -on to Winston Churchill, and his comment was the incredulous remark, -“Gibbs has had his leg pulled.” But it was Churchill’s leg that was -pulled, very badly, and he must have had a nasty shock when there were -full descriptive reports of a gun-running exploit, done with perfect -impunity, by the conspiracy of Ulster officers and leaders, military -advisers, and men of all classes, down to the jarveys of the jaunting -cars. Carson had armed his troops—with German rifles and ammunition.</p> - -<p>In view of later history, there must have been some gentlemen of Ulster -whose consciences were twinged by those dealings with Germany, and by -allusions made in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[Pg 228]</a></span> the heat of political speeches to their preference -for the German Emperor rather than a Home-rule House of Parliament in -Dublin.</p> - -<p>Religious fanaticism was at the back of it all in the minds of the -rank and file. Catholic laborers were chased out of the shipyards -by their Protestant fellow workers, and hardly a day passed without -brutal assaults on them, as was proved by the list of patients in the -hospitals suffering from bashed heads and bruised bodies. I saw with my -own eyes gangs of Ulster Protestants fall upon Catholic citizens and -kick them senseless. Needless to say, there was retaliation when the -chance came, and woe betide any Ulsterman who ventured alone through -the Catholic quarter.</p> - -<p>The mediæval malignancy of this vendetta was revealed to me among a -thousand other proofs by a draper’s assistant in a shop down the Royal -Avenue. I was buying a collar stud or something, and recognizing me as -an Englishman, he began to talk politics.</p> - -<p>“If they try to put Home Rule over us,” he said, “I shall fight. I’m a -pretty good shot, and if a Catholic shows his head, I’ll plug him.”</p> - -<p>He pulled out a rifle, which he kept concealed behind some bundles of -linen, and told me he spent his Saturday afternoons in target practice.</p> - -<p>“What do you think of this? Good shooting, eh?”</p> - -<p>He pulled out a handful of pennies and showed me how at so many paces -(I forget the range) he had plugged the head of His Majesty, King -George V. It seemed to me a queer way of proving his loyalty to the -British crown and Constitution.</p> - -<p>Carson’s way of loyalty was no less strange. By what method of -logic this great lawyer could justify, as a proof of loyalty and -patriotism, his raising of armed forces to resist an Act of Parliament -passed by the King with the consent of the people, passes my simple -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[Pg 229]</a></span>understanding. I can understand rebellion against the law and -the Crown, for Liberty’s sake, or for passion’s sake, or for the -destruction of civilization, or for the enforcement of any kind of -villainy. But I cannot understand rebellion against the law and the -Crown in order to prove one’s passionate loyalty to the law, and one’s -ardent devotion to the King.</p> - -<p>Nor can I understand how those who condemn the “direct action” of -Labor in the way of general strikes and other methods of demanding -“rights” (as Lords Carson and Birkenhead and Londonderry condemned such -revolutionary threats), can uphold as splendid heroism the menace of -bloody civil war by a minority which refused to accept the verdict of -the government and peoples of Great Britain and Ireland.</p> - -<p>Sir Edward Carson was an honest man, a great gentleman in his manner, -a great lawyer in repute, but his blind bigotry, some dark passion -in him, made him adopt a line of action which has caused much blood -to flow in Ireland and made one of the blackest chapters in modern -history. For it was the raising of the Ulster Volunteers which led to -the raising of the Irish Republican Army, and the armed resistance to -Home Rule which led to Sinn Fein, and a thousand murders. It might have -led, and very nearly led to civil war in England as well as in Ireland. -When the British Officers in the Curragh Camp refused to lead their -troops to disarm Ulster, and resigned their commissions rather than -fulfil such an order, the shadow of civil war crept rather close, and -there were politicians in England who were ready to risk it, as when -Winston Churchill raised the cry, “The Army versus the People.”</p> - -<p>But another shadow was creeping over Europe, and fell with a chill -horror upon the heart of England, when, as it were out of the blue sky -of a summer in 1914, there came the menace of a war which would call -many great<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[Pg 230]</a></span> nations to arms, and deluge the fields of Europe in the -blood of youth. Ireland—suffragettes—industrial unrest, how trivial -and foolish even were such internal squabbles when civilization itself -was challenged by this abomination!</p> - -<p>In June of 1914—June!—there was a great banquet given in London to -the editors of German newspapers, where I renewed acquaintance with -a number of men whom I had met the previous year in Germany. Lord -Burnham, of <i>The Daily Telegraph</i>, presided over the gathering, and -made an eloquent speech, affirming the unbreakable ties of friendship -between our two peoples. There were many eloquent speeches by other -British journalists, expressing their admiration for German character, -science, art, and social progress. A distinguished dramatic critic was -emotional at the thought of the old kinship of the German and English -peoples. The German editors responded with equal cordiality, with -surpassing eloquence of admiration for English liberty, literature, -and life. There was much handshaking, raising of glasses, drinking of -toasts.... It was two months before August of 1914.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[Pg 231]</a></span></p> - -<h2>XVIII</h2> - -<p>Fleet Street in the days before the declaration of war was like the -nerve center of the nation’s psychology, and throbbed with all the -emotions of fear, hysteria, incredulity, and patriotic fever, deadened -at times by a kind of intellectual stupor, which took possession of her -people.</p> - -<p>It was self-convicted of stupendous ignorance. None of those leader -writers, who for years had written with an immense assumption of -knowledge, had revealed this imminence of the world conflict. Some of -them had played a game of party politics with “the German menace,” and -had used it as a stick for their political opponents. <i>The Daily Mail</i>, -favoring a big navy, and more capital ships, had led the chorus of “We -want eight and we won’t wait.” <i>The Daily News</i>, favoring disarmament, -had denied the existence of any aggressive spirit in Germany. According -to the political color of the newspapers, Liberal or Tory, the question -of German relations had been written up by the leader writers and news -had been carefully selected by the foreign news editors. But the public -had never been given any clear or authoritative guidance; they had -never been warned by the press as a whole, rising above the political -game, that the very life of the nation was in jeopardy, and that all -they had and were would be challenged to the death. Murder trials, -suffragette raids, divorce court news, the social whirligig, the -passionate folly in Ireland, had been the stuff with which the press -had fed the public mind to the very eve of this crash into the abyss of -horror.</p> - -<p>Even now, when war was certain, the press said, “It is<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[Pg 232]</a></span> impossible!” as -indeed the nation did, in its little homes, because their imagination -refused to admit the possibility of that monstrous cataclysm. And when -war was declared, the press said, “It will be over in three months.” -Indeed, men I knew in Fleet Street, old colleagues of mine, said, “It -will be over in three weeks!” Their theory seemed to be that Germany -had gone mad and that with England, France, and Russia attacking on all -sides, she would collapse like a pricked bladder.</p> - -<p>Looking back on that time, I find a little painful amusement in the -thought of our immeasurable ignorance as to the meaning of modern -warfare. We knew just nothing about its methods or machinery, nor about -its immensity of range and destruction.</p> - -<p>After the first shock and stupor, news editors began to get busy, as -though this war were going to be like the South-African affair, remote, -picturesque, and romantic. They appointed a number of correspondents to -“cover” the various fronts. They engaged press photographers and cinema -men. War correspondents of the old school, like Bennett Burleigh, H. W. -Nevinson, and Frederick Villiers, called at the War Office for their -credentials, collected their kit, and took riding exercise in the Park, -believing that they would need horses in this war on the western front, -as great generals—dear simple souls—believed that cavalry could ride -through German trenches.</p> - -<p>The War Office kept a little group of distinguished old-time war -correspondents kicking their heels in waiting rooms of Whitehall, -week after week, and month after month, always with the promise that -wonderful arrangements would be made for them “shortly.” Meanwhile, and -at the very outbreak of war, a score of younger journalists, without -waiting for War Office credentials, and disobeying War Office orders, -dashed over to France and Belgium, and plunged into the swirl and -backwash of this<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[Pg 233]</a></span> frightful drama. Some of them had astounding and -perilous adventures, in sheer ignorance, at first, of the hazards they -took, but it was not long before they understood and knew, with a shock -that changed their youthful levity of adventure into the gravity of men -who have looked into the flames of hell, and the torture chamber of -human agony. Henceforth, between them and those who had not seen, there -was an impassable gulf of understanding....</p> - -<p>Owing to the rigid refusal of the War Office, under Lord Kitchener’s -orders, to give any official credentials to correspondents, the -British press, as hungry for news as the British public whose little -professional army had disappeared behind a deathlike silence, printed -any scrap of description, any glimmer of truth, any wild statement, -rumor, fairy tale, or deliberate lie, which reached them from France or -Belgium; and it must be admitted that the liars had a great time.</p> - -<p>A vast amount of lying was done by newspaper men who accepted the -official statements of French Ministers, hiding the frightful truth of -the German advance. It was an elaboration of the French <i>communiqués</i> -which in the first weeks of the war were devoid of truth. But a great -deal of imaginative lying was accomplished by young journalists, who -at Boulogne, Calais, Dunkirk, Ghent, or Paris, invented marvelous -adventures of their own, exaggerated affairs of outposts into -stupendous battles, and defeated the Germans time and time again in -verbal victories, while the German war machine was driving like a knife -into the hearts of Belgium and France.</p> - -<p>Reading the English newspapers in those early days of the war, with -their stories of starving Germany, their atrocity-mongering, their -wild perversions of truth, a journalist proud of his profession must -blush for shame at its degradation and insanity. Its excuse and defense -lie in the psychological storm that the war created in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[Pg 234]</a></span> soul of -humanity, from which Fleet Street itself—very human—did not escape; -in the natural agony of desire to find some reason for hopefulness; in -the patriotic necessity of preventing despair from overwhelming popular -opinion in the first shock of the enemy’s advance; and in the desperate -anxiety of all men and women whose heritage and liberties were at -stake, to get some glimpse behind the heavy shutters of secrecy that -had been slammed down by military censorship.</p> - -<p>I was one of those who did not wait for official permits, and plunged -straightway into the vortex of the war game. In self-defense I -must plead that I was not one of the liars! I did not manufacture -atrocities, and had some temperamental difficulty in believing those -that were true, because I believed in the decency of the common -man, even in the decency of the German common man. I did not invent -imaginary adventures, but found tragedy enough, and drama enough, in -the things I saw, and the truth that I found. As I had two companions -most of the time in those early days, whose honor is acknowledged by -all who know them—H. M. Tomlinson and W. M. Massey—their evidence -supported my own articles which, like theirs, revealed something to our -people of the enormous history that was happening.</p> - -<p>Strangely, as it now seems to me, I was appointed artist correspondent -to <i>The Graphic</i>, as I had been in the Bulgarian war, and I actually -made some sketches of French mobilization and preparations for war, -which were redrawn and published. But my old paper, <i>The Daily -Chronicle</i>, desired my services and I changed over to them, and -abandoned the pencil for the pen, with <i>The Graphic’s</i> consent, a few -days after the declaration of war.</p> - -<p>I had crossed over to Paris on the night the reservists had been called -to the colors in England, although so far war had not been declared by -England or France. But<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[Pg 235]</a></span> the fleet was cleared for action, and ready, -and that night destroyers were out in the English Channel and their -searchlights swept our packet boat, where groups of Frenchmen who -had been clerks, hairdressers, and shop assistants in England were -singing “The Marseillaise” with a kind of religious ecstasy, while -in the saloon a party of Lancashire lads were getting fuddled and -promising themselves “a good time” on a week-end trip to Paris, utterly -unconscious of war and its realities.</p> - -<p>In <i>The Daily Chronicle</i> office in Paris, where I had done night duty -so often, my friend and colleague, Henri Bourdin, was white to the lips -with nervous emotion, and constantly answered telephonic inquiries from -French journalists: “Is England coming in? Nothing official, eh? Is it -certain England will come in? You think so? Name of God! why doesn’t -England say the word?”</p> - -<p>It was the consuming thought in all French minds. They were desperate -for an answer to their questions. Because of the delay, Paris was -suspicious, angry, ready for an outbreak of passion against the English -tourists, who were besieging the railway stations, and against English -journalists, who were in a fever of anxiety.</p> - -<p>I saw the unforgetable scenes of mobilization in Paris, which made -one’s very heart weep with the tragedy of those partings between men -and women, who clung to each other and kissed for the last time—so -many of them for the last time—and on the night of August 2nd I went -with the first trainload of reservists to Belfort, Toul, and Nancy. All -through the night, at every station in which the train stopped, there -was the sound of marching men, and the song of “The Marseillaise”:</p> - -<p class="center">“<i>Formez vos bataillons!</i>”</p> - -<p>The youth of France was trooping from the fields and workshops, -not in ignorance of the sacrifice to which they were called, not -light-heartedly, but with a simple and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[Pg 236]</a></span> splendid devotion to their -country which now, in remembrance, after the years of massacre and of -disillusion, still fills me with emotion....</p> - -<p>I do not intend here to give a narrative of my own experiences of war. -I have written them elsewhere, and what do they matter, anyhow, in -those years when millions of men faced death daily and passed through -an adventure of life beyond all power of imagination of civilized men? -I will rather deal with the subject of the Press in war, and with the -peculiar difficulties and work of the correspondents, especially in the -early days.</p> - -<p>For the first few months of the war we had no status whatever. Indeed, -to be quite plain, we were outlaws, subject to immediate arrest (and -often arrested) by any officer, French or British, who discovered us in -the war zone. Kitchener refused to sanction the scheme, which had been -fully prepared before the war, for the appointment of a small body of -war correspondents whose honor and reputation were acknowledged, and -gave orders that any journalist found in the field of war should be -instantly expelled and have his passport canceled. The French were even -more severe, and sent out stern orders from their General Headquarters -for the arrest of any journalist found trespassing in the zone of war.</p> - -<p>For some time, however, it was impossible to enforce these rules. The -German advance through Belgium and Northern France was only a day or -two, or an hour or two behind the stampede of vast populations in -flight from the enemy. The roads were filled with these successive -tides of refugees. The trains were stormed by panic-stricken folk, -and even the troop trains found room in the corridors and on the -roofs for swarms of civilians, men and women. Dressed in civilian -clothes, unshaved and unwashed, like any of these people, how could a -correspondent be distinguished or arrested? Who was going to bother -about him? Even the spy mania which<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[Pg 237]</a></span> seized France very quickly and -feverishly did not create, for some time, a network of restriction -close enough to catch us. I traveled for weeks in the war zone on a -pass stamped by French headquarters, permitting me to receive the daily -<i>communiqué</i> from the War Office in Paris. I had dozens of other passes -and <i>permis de séjour</i> from local authorities and police, which enabled -me to travel with perfect facility, provided I was able to bluff the -military guards at the railway stations, who were generally satisfied -with those bunches of dirty passes and official-looking stamps. There -was, too, a dual control in France, and a divergence of views regarding -war correspondents. The civil authorities—prefects, mayors, and -police—favored our presence, desired to let us know the suffering and -heroism of their people, and welcomed us with every courtesy, because -we were English and their allies. Often they turned a blind eye to -military commands, or were ignorant of the orders against us.</p> - -<p>Massey, Tomlinson, and I, working together in close comradeship, in -those first weeks of war, traveled in Northern France and Belgium -with what now seems to me an amazing freedom. We were caught up in -the tide of flight from French and Belgian cities. We saw the retreat -of the French army through Amiens, from which city we escaped only a -short time before the entry of Von Kluck’s columns. We came into the -midst of the British retreat at Creil, where Sir John French had set -up his headquarters; mingled with the crowds of English and Scottish -stragglers, French infantry and engineers, who were falling back on -Paris, before the spearheads of the German invasion, with a world of -tragedy behind them, yet with a faith in victory that was mysterious -and sublime. We had no knowledge of the enemy’s whereabouts and set -out in simple ignorance for towns already in German hands, or alighted -at stations threatened with immediate capture. So it was at Beauvais, -where we<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[Pg 238]</a></span> were the only passengers in a train that pulled over a bridge -where a cuirassier stood by bags of dynamite ready to blow it up, and -where the last of the civilian population had trudged away from streets -strewn with broken glass. Only by a strange spell of luck did we escape -capture by the enemy, toward whose line we went, partly in ignorance -of the enormous danger, partly with foolhardy deliberation, and always -drugged with desire to see and know the worst or the best of this -frightful drama.</p> - -<p>We were often exhausted with fatigue. On the day we came into a -deserted Paris, stricken with an agony of apprehension that the Germans -would enter, I had to be carried to bed by Tomlinson and Massey, as -helpless as a child. A few days later, Massey, a strong man till then, -but now ashen-faced and weak, could not drag one leg after another. We -had worn down our nervous strength to what seemed like the last strand, -yet we went on again, in the wagons of troop trains, sleeping in -corridors, the baggage rooms of railway stations, or carriages crammed -with French <i>poilus</i>, who told narratives of war with a simplicity and -realism that froze one’s blood.</p> - -<p>We followed up the German retreat from the Marne, when the bodies -of the dead were being buried in heaps and the fields were littered -with the wreckage of battle, and then went north to Dunkirk, bombed -every day by German aëroplanes, but crowded with French <i>fusiliers</i>, -<i>marins</i>, Arabs, British aviators of the Royal Navy, and Belgian -refugees. Here I parted for a time with Massey and Tomlinson, and in -a brief experience as a stretcher bearer with an ambulance column -attached to the Belgian army, saw into the flaming heart of war, at -Dixmude, Nieuport, and other places, where I became familiar with the -sight of death, dirty with the blood of wounded men, and sick with the -agony of this human shambles—a story which I have told in my book, -<i>The Soul of the War</i>. </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[Pg 239]</a></span></p> - -<p>Other men, old friends of mine in Fleet Street, were having similar -adventures, taking the same, or greater, hazards, dodging the military -authorities with more or less luck. Hamilton Fyfe, then of <i>The Daily -Mail</i> and now editor of <i>The Daily Herald</i>, was caught in a motor car -by a patrol of German Uhlans, and only escaped becoming a prisoner of -war by an amazing freak of fortune. George Curnock, also of <i>The Daily -Mail</i>, was arrested by the French as a spy, and very nearly shot. A -little group of correspondents—among them Ashmead Bartlett—were flung -into the <i>Cherche Midi</i> prison and treated for a time like common -criminals. I happened to fall into conversation with a French officer, -who had actually arrested them. He was strongly suspicious of me, and -asked whether I knew these gentlemen, all of whose names he had in -his pocket book. I admitted that I had heard of one or two of them by -repute, and expected to be arrested on the spot. But this officer had -been French master at an English public school and was anxious, for -some reason, to get an uncensored letter to the head master. I told him -I was going to England, and offered to take it.... I was not arrested -that time.</p> - -<p>Another adventurer was young Lucian Jones, son of the famous -playwright, Henry Arthur Jones. He made frequent trips to the Belgian -front and was one of the last to leave Antwerp after the siege, which -was not a pleasant adventure when heavy shells smashed the houses on -every side of him. As he made no disguise whatever of his profession -and purpose, he was sent back to England and forbidden to show his face -again. He took the next boat back, and was again arrested and flung -into a dirty prison. His editor, who received word of his plight, sent -a message to General Bridges, asking for his release, and obtained the -brusque answer, “Let the fellow rot!”—only it was a stronger word than -“fellow.”</p> - -<p>One great difficulty we had in those days was to get<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[Pg 240]</a></span> our messages -back to our newspapers. Sometimes we intrusted them to any chance -acquaintance who was making his way to England. Several times we -had to get back to the coast, in those terrible refugee trains, to -bribe some purser on a cross-Channel steamer. When that became too -dangerous—because it was strictly forbidden by the military and -naval authorities—we made the journey to London, handed in our -messages, and hurried back again the same day to France. The mental -state of our newspaper colleagues exasperated us. They seemed to have -no understanding whatever of what was happening on the other side, -no conception of that world of agony. “Had a good time?” asked a -sub-editor, hurrying along the corridor with proofs—and I wanted to -choke him, because of his placid unconsciousness of the things that had -seared my eyes and soul.</p> - -<p>I could not bear to talk with men who still said, “It will be over in -three months,” and who still believed that war was a rather jolly, -romantic adventure, and that our little professional army was more -than a match for the Germans who were arrant cowards and no better -than sheep. In Fleet Street, at that time, there was no vision of what -war meant to the women of France and Belgium, to the children of the -refugees, to the mothers and fathers of the fighting men. It had not -touched us closely in those first weeks of war.</p> - -<p>My vexation was great one morning, after one of these journeys home, -when I missed the train to Dover, and my good comrades Massey and -Tomlinson—by just a minute. Perhaps I should never see them again. -They would be lost in the vortex.</p> - -<p>“Take a special train,” said my wife.</p> - -<p>The idea startled me, not having the mentality or resources of a -millionaire.</p> - -<p>“It’s worth it,” said my wife, who is a woman of big ideas. </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[Pg 241]</a></span></p> - -<p>I turned to the station master, who was standing at the closed gates of -the continental platform.</p> - -<p>“How long would it take you to provide a special train?”</p> - -<p>He smiled.</p> - -<p>“No longer than it would take you to pay over the money.”</p> - -<p>“How much?”</p> - -<p>“Twenty-two pounds.”</p> - -<p>I consulted my wife again with raised eyebrows, and she nodded.</p> - -<p>I went into a little office, half undressed, and pulled out of my -belt a pile of French gold pieces. By the time they had been counted -and a receipt given—no more than three minutes—there was a train -with an engine and three carriages, a driver and a guard, ready for -me on the line to Dover. My small boy (as he was then) gazed in awe -and admiration at the magic trick. I waved to him as the train went -off with me. I was signaled all down the line, and in the stations we -passed porters and officials stared and saluted as the train flashed -by. Doubtless they thought I was a great general going to win the war! -At Dover I was only one minute behind the express I had lost. Massey -and Tomlinson were pacing the platform disconsolately at the loss of -their comrade. They could not believe their eyes when I walked up and -said “Hello!” So we went back to a new series of adventures.</p> - -<p>I used with success, three times running, another method of getting my -“dispatches” to Fleet Street. After the third time some intuition told -me to change the plan. At that time, as all through the war, a number -of King’s messengers—mostly men of high rank and reputation—traveled -continually between British G.H.Q. and the War Office, with private -documents from the Commander-in-Chief. Three times did I accost one of -these officers—a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">[Pg 242]</a></span> different man each time—in an easy and confidential -manner.</p> - -<p>“Are you going back to Whitehall, Sir?”</p> - -<p>“Yes. What can I do for you?”</p> - -<p>“I shall be much obliged if you will put this letter in your bag, and -deliver it at the War Office.”</p> - -<p>“Certainly, my dear fellow!”</p> - -<p>My letter was addressed to <i>The Daily Chronicle</i>, care of the War -Office, and, much to the surprise of my editor, was punctually -delivered, by a War-Office messenger. But my intuition was right. After -the third time the editor of <i>The Daily Chronicle</i> received word from -the War Office that if Gibbs sent any more of his articles by King’s -messenger, they would be destroyed.</p> - -<p>The method of delivery became easier afterward, because the newspapers -organized a series of their own couriers between England and France, -and that system served until the whole courier service was rounded up -and forbidden to set foot in France again.</p> - -<p>It was amazing that my articles, and those of my fellow correspondents, -were allowed to appear in the newspapers, in spite of military -prohibition. But the press censorship, which had been set up by the -government under the control of F. E. Smith, now Lord Birkenhead, -was not under direct military authority, and was much more tolerant -of correspondents who evaded military regulations. I wrote scores of -columns during the first few months of the war, mostly of a descriptive -character, and very few lines were blacked out by the censors. So far -from being in the black books of the press censorship as established -at that time, I was sent for by F. E. Smith, who thanked me for my -narratives and promised to give personal attention to any future -dispatches I might send. This was at the very time when Kitchener -himself gave orders for my arrest, after reading a long article of mine -from the Belgian front. </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">[Pg 243]</a></span></p> - -<p>I was also received several times by Sir William Tyrrell, Secretary -to the Foreign Office, who questioned me about my knowledge of the -situation and begged me to call on him whenever I came back, although -he knew that orders had been given to cancel my passport and that I -was in the black book, for immediate arrest, at any port. It was Sir -William Tyrrell, indeed, who, with great kindness provided me with a -new passport after I had fallen into very hot water indeed.</p> - -<p>It was F. E. Smith who read, approved, and even strengthened by a -phrase or two, a sensational dispatch written by my friend Hamilton -Fyfe and a colleague named Moore, which revealed for the first time -to the British nation the terrible ordeal and sacrifice of the little -Regular Army in the retreat from Mons. It was too sensational, perhaps, -in its account of “broken divisions,” and “remnants of battalions”; and -its tone was too tragic and despairing, so that there was one black -Sunday in England which will never be forgotten by those who lived -through it, because there seemed no hope for the British Army, or for -France.</p> - -<p>As it happened, Massey, Tomlinson, and I had covered the same ground -as Fyfe and his companion, had seen the same things, and had agonized -with the same apprehension. But owing largely, as I must honestly and -heartily say, to the cool judgment and fine faith of Tomlinson, our -deduction from those facts and the spirit of what we wrote was far -more optimistic—and future history proved us to be right—so that -they helped to restore confidence in England and Scotland, when they -appeared on Monday morning, following Fyfe’s terrible dispatch.</p> - -<p>But Fyfe did a great service to the nation and the Allies, by the truth -he told, somewhat overcolored as it was. It awakened Great Britain from -its false complacency. It revealed to the nation, for the first time, -the awful truth that our little Regular Army, magnificent<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">[Pg 244]</a></span> as it was, -could not withstand the tremendous weight of the German advance on the -left flank of the French, was not sufficient to turn the scales of -victory in favor of France, and was in desperate need of reinforcements -from the untrained manhood at home. It shook the spirit of England -like an earthquake, and brought it face to face with the menace of its -life and liberties. For if France went down, we should follow.... The -recruiting booths were stormed by the young manhood of England and -Scotland, who had not joined up because they had believed that myth: -“The war will be over in three months.”</p> - -<p>There was tremendous anger in the War Office at the publication of that -article by Fyfe and Moore, and F. E. Smith, as the press censor, was -severely compromised.</p> - -<p>The truth was that the military mind was obsessed with the necessity of -fighting this war—“our war” as the regulars called it—in the dark, -while the nonmilitary mind knew that such a policy was impossible, and -might be disastrous, in a war costing such a frightful sum of life, and -putting such a strain upon the nation’s heart and spirit.</p> - -<p>Looking back on my experiences as an unauthorized correspondent in -that early part of the war, I must confess now that I was hardly -justified in evading military law, and that I might have been found -guilty, justly, of a serious crime against the Allied cause. By some -frightful indiscretion (which I did not commit) I or any other of those -correspondents might have endangered the position of our troops, or the -French army, by giving information useful to the enemy.</p> - -<p>The main fault, however, lay with the War Office, and especially with -Lord Kitchener, whose imagination did not realize that this war could -not be fought in the dark, as some little affair with Indian hillmen -on the northwest frontier. The immense anxiety of the nation, with its -army fighting behind the veil while the fate of civilization<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">[Pg 245]</a></span> hung in -the balance, could not and would not be satisfied with the few lines of -official <i>communiqués</i> which told nothing and hid the truth....</p> - -<p>Gradually the net was drawn tighter, until, in the first months of -1915, it was impossible for any correspondent to travel in the war zone -without arrest. I had come home to get a change of kit, as my clothes -were caked with blood and mud, after supporting wounded men in Belgium. -It was then that I heard of Kitchener’s orders for my arrest and was -greeted with surprise and apprehension by Robert Donald and the staff -of <i>The Daily Chronicle</i>, who had sent over two messengers (who had -never reached me) to warn me of my peril.</p> - -<p>Next time I went to France I was provided with wonderful credentials -as a special commissioner of the British Red Cross, with instructions -to report on the hospital and medical needs of the army in the field. -These documents were signed by illustrious names, and covered with -red seals. I was satisfied they would pass me to any part of the -front.... I was arrested before I left the boat at Havre and taken by -two detectives to General Williams, the camp commander. He raged at me -with an extreme violence of language, took possession of my passport -and credentials, and put me under open arrest at the Hotel Tortoni, -in charge of six detectives. Here I remained for ten days or so, -unable to communicate my ignominious situation to the authorities of -the Red Cross, upon whose authority I had come. Fortunately I became -good friends with the detectives, who were excellent fellows, and with -whom I used to have my meals. It was by the kindness of one of them -that I was able to send through a message to the editor of <i>The Daily -Chronicle</i>, and shortly afterward General Williams graciously permitted -me to return to England.</p> - -<p>It looked as though my career as a war correspondent had definitely -closed. I had violated every regulation. I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246">[Pg 246]</a></span> had personally angered Lord -Kitchener. I was on the black books of the detectives at every port, -and General Williams solemnly warned me that if I returned to France, I -would be put up against a white wall, with unpleasant consequences.</p> - -<p>Strange as it appears, the military authorities blotted out my sins -when at last they appointed five official war correspondents with a -recognized status in the British armies on the Western Front. No longer -did I have to dodge staff officers, and disguise myself as a refugee. -In khaki, with a green armlet denoting my service, I could face -generals, and even the Commander-in-Chief himself, without a quiver, -and with my four comrades was recognized as an officer and a gentleman, -with some reservations.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">[Pg 247]</a></span></p> - -<h2>XIX</h2> - -<p>The appointment and work of five official war correspondents (of -whom I was one from first to last) caused an extraordinary amount of -perturbation at British General Headquarters. Staff officers of the -old Regular Army were at first exceedingly hostile to the idea, and to -us. They were deeply suspicious that we might be dirty dogs who would -reveal military secrets which would imperil the British front. They -had a conviction that we were “prying around” for no good purpose, and -would probably “give away the whole show.”</p> - -<p>Fear, personal and professional, was in the minds of some of the -generals, it is certain. We found that many of the regulations to which -we were subject—until we broke them down—were much more to safeguard -the reputation and cover up the mistakes of the High Command than to -prevent the enemy from having information which might be of use to -him. They were afraid of the British public, of politicians, and of -newspapers, and were profoundly uneasy lest we should dig up scandals, -raise newspaper sensations, and cause infernal trouble generally.</p> - -<p>I can quite sympathize with their nervousness, for if newspapers had -adopted ordinary journalistic methods of sensation mongering, the -position of the Army Command would have been intolerable. But this must -be said for the newspaper press in the Great War—whatever its faults, -and they were many—proprietors and editors subordinated everything -to a genuine and patriotic desire to “play the game,” to support the -army, and to avoid any<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248">[Pg 248]</a></span> criticism or controversy which might hamper the -military chiefs or demoralize the nation.</p> - -<p>As far as the five war correspondents were concerned, we had no other -desire than to record the truth as fully as possible without handing -information to the enemy, and to describe the life and actions of our -fighting men so that the nation and the world should understand their -valor, their suffering, and their achievement. We identified ourselves -absolutely with the armies in the field, and we wiped out of our minds -all thought of personal “scoops,” and all temptation to write one -word which would make the task of officers and men more difficult or -dangerous. There was no need of censorship of our dispatches. We were -our own censors.</p> - -<p>That couldn’t be taken for granted, however, by G.H.Q. They were -not sure at first of our mentality or our honor. The old tradition -of distrust between the army and the rest was very strong until the -New Army came into being, with officers who had not passed through -Sandhurst but through the larger world. They were so nervous of us in -those early days that they appointed a staff of censors to live with -us, travel with us, sleep with us, read our dispatches with a mass of -rules for their guidance, and examine our private correspondence to our -wives, if need be with acid tests, to discover any invisible message we -might try to smuggle through.</p> - -<p>We had to suffer many humiliations in that way, but fortunately we had -a sense of humor and laughed at most of them. Gradually also—very -quickly indeed—we made friends with many generals and officers -commanding divisions, brigades, and battalions, broke down their -distrust, established confidence. They were surprised to find us decent -fellows, and pleased with what we wrote about the men. They became -keen to see us in their trenches or their headquarters. They wanted to -show us their particular “peepshows,” they invited us to see special<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">[Pg 249]</a></span> -“stunts.” Their first hostility evaporated, and was replaced by cordial -welcome, and they laughed with us, and sometimes cursed with us, at -the continued restrictions of G.H.Q., which forbade the mention of -battalions and brigades (well known to the enemy) whose heroic exploits -we described.</p> - -<p>For some time G.H.Q., represented by General Macdonagh, Chief of -Intelligence, under whose orders we were, maintained a narrow view -of our liberties in narration and description. Hardly a week passed -without some vexatious rule to cramp our style by prohibiting the -mention of facts far better known to the Germans than to the British, -whose men were suffering and dying without their own folk knowing the -action in which their sacrifice was consummated.</p> - -<p>The heavy hand of the censorship fell with special weight upon us -during the battle of Loos. General Macdonagh himself used the blue -pencil ruthlessly, and I had no less than forty pages of manuscript -deleted by his own hand from my descriptive account. Again it seemed -to us that the guiding idea behind the censorship was, to conceal -the truth not from the enemy, but from the nation, in defense of the -British High Command and its tragic blundering. That was in September -of 1915, and we became aware at that time that the man most hostile -to our work was not Sir John French, the Commander-in-Chief, but Sir -Douglas Haig, at that time in command of the First Corps. He drew a -line around his own zone of operations beyond which we were forbidden -to go, and the message which conveyed his order to us was not couched -in conciliatory language. It was withdrawn under the urgent pressure -of our immediate chiefs, and I was allowed to go to the Loos redoubt -during the progress of the battle, with John Buchan who had come out -temporarily on behalf of <i>The Times</i>.</p> - -<p>The tragic slaughter at Loos, its reckless and useless<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250">[Pg 250]</a></span> waste of life, -its abominable staff work, and certain political intrigues at home, led -to the recall of Sir John French and the succession of Sir Douglas Haig -as Commander-in-Chief.</p> - -<p>For a time we believed that our doom was sealed, knowing his strong -prejudice against us, and in the first interview we had with him, -he did not conceal his contempt for our job. But with his new -responsibility he was bound to take notice of the increasing demand -from the British government and people for more detailed accounts of -British actions and of the daily routine of war. It became even an -angry demand, and Sir Douglas Haig yielded to its insistence. From -that time onward we were given full liberty of movement over the whole -front, and full and complete privileges, never before accorded to war -correspondents, to see the army reports during the progress of battle, -and day by day; while Army Corps, Divisions, and Battalion headquarters -were instructed to show us their intelligence and operation reports -and to give us detailed information of any action on their part of the -front.</p> - -<p>The new Chief of Intelligence, General Charteris, who succeeded -General Macdonagh, devoted a considerable amount of time to our little -unit, and in many ways, with occasional tightening of the reins, was -broad-minded in his interpretation of the censorship regulations. It -may be truly said that never before in history was a great war, or any -war, so accurately and fully reported day by day for at least three -years, subject to certain reservations which were abominably vexatious -and tended to depress the spirit of the troops and to arouse the -suspicion of the nation.</p> - -<p>The chief reservations were the ungenerous and unfair way in which -the names of particular battalions were not allowed to be mentioned, -and the suppression of the immense losses incurred by the troops. -The last <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251">[Pg 251]</a></span>restriction was necessary. It would be disastrous in the -course of a battle to give information to the enemy (who read all our -newspapers) of the exact damage he had done at a particular part of -the line. Nothing would be more valuable to an attacking army than -that knowledge. In due course the losses became known to the nation by -the publication of the casualty lists, so that it was only a temporary -concealment.</p> - -<p>With regard to the mention of battalions, I am still convinced that -there was needless secrecy in that respect, as nine times out of ten -the German Intelligence was aware of what troops were in front of them, -along all sectors. Scores of times, also, mention was made of the -Canadians and Australians, where no reference was permitted to English, -Scottish, Irish, or Welsh battalions, so that the English especially, -who from first to last formed sixty-eight per cent of the total -fighting strength, and did most fighting and most dying, in all the -great battles, were ignored in favor of their comrades from overseas. -To this day many people in Canada and the United States believe that -the Canadians bore the brunt of all the fighting, while Tommy Atkins -looked on at a safe distance. The Australians have the same simple -faith about their own crowd. But splendid beyond words as these men -were, it is poor old Tommy Atkins of the English counties, and Jock, -his Scottish cousin, who held the main length of the line, took most of -the hard knocks, and fought most actions, big and little. Anybody who -denies that is a liar.</p> - -<p>Our victory over the censorship, and over the narrow and unimaginative -prejudice of elderly staff officers, was due in no small measure -to—the censors. That may sound like a paradox, but it is the simple -truth. I have already said that each correspondent had a censor -attached to him, a kind of jailer and spy, eating, sleeping, walking, -and driving. Blue pencil in hand, they read<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_252" id="Page_252">[Pg 252]</a></span> our dispatches, slip by -slip, as they were written, and our letters to our wives, our aunts, -or our grandmothers. But these men happened to be gentlemen, and -broad-minded men of the world, and they very quickly became our most -loyal friends and active allies.</p> - -<p>They saw the absurdity of many of the regulations laid down for -their guidance in censoring our accounts, and they did their best -to interpret them in a free and easy way, or to have them repealed, -if there was no loophole of escape. Always they turned a blind eye, -whenever possible, to a vexatious and niggling rule, and several of -them risked their jobs, and lost them, in putting up a stiff resistance -to some new and ridiculous order from G.H.Q. They went with us to the -front, and shared our fatigues and our risks, and smoothed the way for -us everywhere by tact and diplomacy and personal guarantees of our good -sense and honor.</p> - -<p>The first group of censors who were attached to our little organization -were as good as we could have wished if we had had a free choice of the -whole British Army.</p> - -<p>Our immediate chief was a very noble and charming man. That was Colonel -Stuart, a regular soldier of the old school, simple-hearted, brave -as a lion, courteous and kind. He led us into many dirty places and -tested our courage in front-line trenches, mine shafts, and bombarded -villages, with a smiling unconcern which at least taught us to hide any -fear that lurked in our hearts, as I freely confess it very often did -in mine. He was killed one day by a sniper’s bullet, and we mourned the -loss of a very gallant gentleman.</p> - -<p>Attached to us, under his command, was an extraordinary fellow, and -splendid type, famous in the two worlds of sport and letters by name of -Hesketh Prichard. Many readers will know his name as the author of <i>The -Adventures of Don Q.</i>, <i>Where Black Rules White</i>, and other books. He -was a big game hunter, a great cricketer,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253">[Pg 253]</a></span> and an all-round sportsman, -and he stood six foot four in his stockings, a long lean Irishman, with -a powerful, deeply lined face, an immense nose, a whimsical mouth, and -moody, restless, humorous, tragic eyes. He hated the war with a deadly -loathing, because of its unceasing slaughter of that youth which he -loved, his old comrades in the playing fields and his comrades’ sons. -Often he would come down in the morning, when the casualty lists were -long, with eyes red after secret weeping. He had a morbid desire to go -to dangerous places and to get under fire, because he could not bear -the thought of remaining alive and whole while his pals were dying.</p> - -<p>Often he would unwind his long legs, spring out of his chair, and say, -“Gibbs, old boy, for God’s sake let’s go and have a prowl round Ypres, -or see what’s doing Dickebush way.” There was always something doing in -the way of high explosive shells, and once, when my friend Tomlinson -and I were with Prichard in the ruin of the Grand Place in Ypres, a -German aëroplane skimmed low above our heads and thought it worth -while to bomb our little lonely group. Perhaps it was Hesketh’s G.H.Q. -arm-band which caught the eye of the German aviator. We sprawled under -the cover of ruined masonry, and lay “doggo” until the bird had gone. -But there was always the chance of death in every square yard of Ypres, -because it was shelled ceaselessly, and that was why Hesketh went there -with any companion who would join him—and his choice fell mostly on me.</p> - -<p>He left us before the battles of the Somme, to become chief sniper of -the British army. With telescopic sights, and many tricks of Red Indian -warfare, he lay in front-line trenches or camouflaged trees, and waited -patiently, as in the old days he had lain waiting for wild beasts, -until a German sniper showed his head to take a shot at one of our -men. He never showed his head twice when Hesketh Prichard was within -a thousand yards.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254">[Pg 254]</a></span> Then Prichard organized sniping schools all along -the front, until we beat the Germans at their own game in that way of -warfare.</p> - -<p>He survived the war, but not with his strength and activity. Some “bug” -in the trenches had poisoned his blood, and when I saw him last he -lay, a gaunt wreck, in the garden of his home near St. Albans, where -his father-in-law was Earl of Verulam—Francis Bacon’s old title. In a -letter he had written to me was the tragic phrase, “<i>Quantum mutatus -ab illo</i>”—How changed from what once he was!—and as I looked at him, -I was shocked at that change. The shadow of death was on him, though -his beautiful wife tried to hide it from him, and from herself, by -a splendid laughing courage that masked her pity and fear. He was a -victim of the war, though he lived until the peace.</p> - -<p>Another man who was attached to the war correspondent’s unit in that -early part of the war was Colonel Faunthorpe, famous in India as a -hunter of tigers—he had shot sixty-two in the jungle—and as a cavalry -officer, pigsticker, judge, and poet. When, after the war, Faunthorpe -went for a time to the British Embassy in Washington (making frequent -visits to New York), American society welcomed him as the Englishman -whom they had been taught to expect and had never yet seen. Here he -was at last, as he is known in romance and legend—tall, handsome, -inscrutable, with a monocle, a marvelous gift of silence, a quiet, -deep, hardly revealed sense of humor, and a fine gallantry of manner to -pretty women and ugly ones. He left a trail of tender recollection and -humorous remembrance from New York to San Francisco.</p> - -<p>Faunthorpe, behind his mask of the typical cavalry officer, had (and -has), as I quickly perceived, a subtle mind, a lively sense of irony, -and a most liberal outlook on life. He had a quiet contempt (not always -sufficiently disguised) for the limited intelligence of G.H.Q. (or of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255">[Pg 255]</a></span> -some high officers therein), he was open in his ridicule of journalists -in general and some war correspondents in particular, and he regarded -his own job in the war, as censor and controller of photographs, as -one of the inexplicable jests of fate. But he stood by us manfully -in a time of crisis when, at the beginning of a series of battles, a -venerable old gentleman, an “ancient” of prehistoric mind, was suddenly -produced from some lair in G.H.Q., and given supreme authority over -military censorship, which he instantly used by canceling all the -privileges we had won by so much work and struggle.</p> - -<p>With the Colonel’s full consent, we went “on strike” and said the war -could go on without us, as we would not write a single word about -the impending battles until all the new restrictions were removed. -This ultimatum shocked G.H.Q. to its foundations—or at least the -Intelligence side of it. After twenty-four hours of obstinate -command, the ancient one was sent back to his lair, our privileges -were restored, but Colonel Faunthorpe was made the scapegoat of our -rebellion, and deposed from his position as our chief.</p> - -<p>We deplored his departure, for he had been great and good to us. One -quality of his was a check to our restlessness, nervousness, and -irritability in the wear and tear of this strange life. He had an -infinite reserve of patience. When there was “nothing doing” he slept, -believing, as he said, in the “conservation of energy.” He slept -always in the long motor drives which we made in our daily routine -of inquiry and observation. He slept like a babe under shell fire, -unless activity of command were required, and once awakened to find -high explosive shells bursting around his closed car, which he had -parked in the middle of a battlefield, while his driver was painfully -endeavoring to hide his body behind a mud bank.... Colonel Faunthorpe -is now “misgoverning the unfortunate Indians”—it is his own phrase—as -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_256" id="Page_256">[Pg 256]</a></span>Commissioner at Lucknow, with command of life and death over millions -of natives whom he understands as few men now alive.</p> - -<p>India was well represented in the group of censors attached to our -organization, for we had two other Indian officials with us—Captains -Reynolds and Coldstream, both men of high education, great charm of -character, and unfailing sense of humor. For Reynolds I had a personal -affection as a wise, friendly, and humorous soul, with whom I tramped -in many strange places where death went ravaging, always encouraged by -his cool disregard of danger, his smiling contempt for any show of fear.</p> - -<p>Coldstream was a little Pucklike man, neat as a new pin, damnably -ironical of war and war correspondents, whimsical, courteous, sulky -at times, like a spoiled boy, and lovable. He is back in India, like -Reynolds and Faunthorpe, helping to govern our Empire, and doing it -well.</p> - -<p>Our commanding officers and censors changed from time to time. It was -a difficult and dangerous position to be O. C. war correspondents, for -such a man was between two fires—our own resentment (sometimes very -passionate) of regulations hampering to our work, and the fright and -anger of G.H.Q. if anything slipped through likely to create public -criticism or to encourage the enemy, or to depress the spirit of the -British people.</p> - -<p>Colonel Hutton Wilson, who was our immediate chief for a time, was a -debonair little staff officer with the narrow traditions of the Staff -College and an almost childlike ignorance of the press, the public, and -human life outside the boundaries of his professional experience, which -was not wide. He was amiable, but irritating to most of my colleagues, -with little vexatious ways. Personally I liked him, and I think he -liked me, but he had a fixed idea that I was a rebel, and almost a -Bolshevik.</p> - -<p>Later in the war he was succeeded by Colonel the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_257" id="Page_257">[Pg 257]</a></span> Honorable Neville -Lytton, the grandson of Bulwer Lytton, the great novelist, and the -brother of the present Lord Lytton. Neville Lytton was, and is, a -man of great and varied talent, as painter, musician, and diplomat. -In appearance as well as in character he belongs to the eighteenth -century, with a humorous, whimsical face, touched by side whiskers, -and a most elegant way with him. He is a gentleman of the old school -(with a strain of the gypsy in his blood), who believes in “form” above -all things, and the <i>beau geste</i> in all situations of life or in the -presence of death. When I walked with him one day up the old duckboards -under shell fire, he swung his trench stick with careless grace, made -comical grimaces of contempt at the bursting shells, and said, “Gibbs, -if we have to die, let’s do it like gentlemen! If we’re afraid (as we -are!) let’s look extremely brave. A good pose is essential in life and -war.”</p> - -<p>At the soul of him he was a Bohemian and artist. His room, wherever we -were, was littered with sketches, sheets of music, poems in manuscript, -photographs of his portraits of beautiful ladies. Whatever the agony -of the war around us, he loved to steal away alone or with one of -his assistant officers, my humorous friend Theodore Holland (“little -Theo” and “Theo the Flower,” as he called himself), well known as a -composer, and play delightful little melodies from Bach and Gluck on an -eighteenth-century flute.</p> - -<p>In the early part of the war Lytton had served as a battalion officer -in the trenches, with gallantry and distinction, and then was put in -charge of a little group of French correspondents, whom he controlled -with wonderful tact and good humor. He spoke French with the <i>argot</i> -of Paris, and understood the French temperament and humor so perfectly -that it was difficult to believe that he was not a Frenchman, when he -was in the midst of his little crowd of excitable fellows who regarded -him<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_258" id="Page_258">[Pg 258]</a></span> as a “<i>bon garçon</i>” and “<i>un original</i>” with such real affection -that they were enraged when he was transferred to our command.</p> - -<p>Another distinguished and unusual type of man—one of the greatest -“intellectuals” of England, though unknown to the general -public—joined us as assistant censor, halfway through the war. This -was C. E. Montague, editor of <i>The Manchester Guardian</i>. At the -outbreak of war he dyed his white hair black, enlisted as a “Tommy,” -served in the trenches, reached the rank of sergeant, and finally was -blown up in a dugout. When he joined us he had taken the dye out of his -hair again and it was snow-white, though he was not more than fifty -years of age.</p> - -<p>It was absurd for Montague to be censoring our dispatches, ordering -our cars, looking after our mess, soothing our way with headquarter -staffs, accompanying us as a silent observer to battlefields and -trenches and “pill-boxes” and dugouts. He could have written any man of -us “off our heads.” He would have been the greatest war correspondent -in the world. He writes such perfect prose that every sentence should -be carved in marble or engraved on bronze. He had the eye of a hawk -for small detail, and a most sensitive perception of truth and beauty -lying deep below the surface of our human scene. Compared with Montague -our censor—hating his job, deeply contemptuous of our work, loathing -the futility of all but the fighting men, with a secret revolt in his -soul against the whole bloody business of war, yet with a cold white -passion of patriotism (though Irish)—we were pigmies, vulgarians, and -shameless souls. His bitterness has been revealed in a book called -<i>Disenchantment</i>—very cruel to us, rather unfair to me, as he admits -in a letter I have, but wonderful in its truth.</p> - -<p>There was one other man who joined our organization as one of the -censors, to whom I must pay a tribute of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_259" id="Page_259">[Pg 259]</a></span> affection and esteem. This -was a young fellow named Cadge, unknown to fame, always silent and -sulky in his manner, but with a level head, a genius for doing exactly -the right thing at the right time, and a secret sweetness and nobility -of soul which kept our little “show” running on greased wheels and made -him my good comrade in many adventures. Scores of time he and I went -together into the dirty places, into the midst of the muck and ruin of -war, across the fields where shells came whining, along the trenches -where masses of men lived in the mud, under the menace of death.</p> - -<p>A strange life—like a distant dream now!—but made tolerable at -times, because of these men whose portraits I have sketched, and whose -friendship was good to have.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260">[Pg 260]</a></span></p> - -<h2>XX</h2> - -<p>The four and a half years of war were, of course, to me, as to all men -who passed through that time, the most stupendous experience of life. -It obliterated all other adventures, impressions, and achievements. I -went into the war youthful in ideas and sentiment. I came out of it old -in the knowledge of human courage and endurance and suffering by masses -of men, and utterly changed, physically and mentally. Romance had given -way to realism, sentiment of a weak kind to deeper knowledge and pity -and emotion.</p> - -<p>Our life as war correspondents was not to be compared for a moment in -hardness and danger and discomfort to that of the fighting men in the -trenches. Yet it was not easy nor soft, and it put a tremendous, and -sometimes almost intolerable, strain upon our nerves and strength, -especially if we were sensitive, as most of us were, to the constant -sight of wounded and dying men, to the never-ending slaughter of our -country’s youth, to the grim horror of preparations for battle which we -knew would cause another river of blood to flow, and to the desolation -of that world of ruin through which we passed day by day, on the -battlefields and in the rubbish heaps which had once been towns and -villages.</p> - -<p>We saw, more than most men the wide sweep of the drama of war on the -Western front. The private soldier and the battalion officer saw the -particular spot which he had to defend, knew in his body and soul the -intimate detail of his trench, his dugout, the patch of No-Man’s Land -beyond his parapet, the stink and filth of his own neighborhood with -death, the agony of his wounded pals.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_261" id="Page_261">[Pg 261]</a></span> But we saw the war in a broader -vision, on all parts of the front, in its tremendous mass effects, as -well as in particular places of abomination. Before battle we saw the -whole organization of that great machine of slaughter. After battle we -saw the fields of dead, the spate of wounded men, the swirling traffic -of ambulances, the crowded hospitals, the herds of prisoners, the -length and breadth of this frightful melodrama in a battle zone forty -miles or more in length and twenty miles or more in depth.</p> - -<p>The effect of such a vision, year in, year out, can hardly be -calculated in psychological effect, unless a man has a mind like a -sieve and a soul like a sink.</p> - -<p>Our headquarters were halfway between the front and G.H.Q., and we were -visitors of both worlds. In our château, wherever we might be—and we -shifted our locality according to the drift of battle—we were secluded -and remote from both these worlds. But we set out constantly to the -front—every day in time of active warfare—through Ypres, if Flanders -was aflame, or through Arras, if that were the focal point, or out from -Amiens to Bapaume and beyond, where the Somme was the hunting ground, -or up by St. Quentin to the right of the line. There was no part of the -front we did not know, and not a ruined village in all the fighting -zone through which we did not pass scores of times, or hundreds of -times.</p> - -<p>We trudged through the trenches, sat in dugouts with battalion -officers, followed our troops in their advance over German lines, -explored the enemy dugouts, talked with German prisoners as they -tramped back after capture or stood in herds of misery in their -“cages,” walked through miles of guns, and beyond the guns, saw -the whole sweep and fury of great bombardments, took our chance of -harassing fire and sudden “strafes,” climbed into observation posts, -saw attacks and counterattacks, became familiar with the detail of the -daily routine of <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_262" id="Page_262">[Pg 262]</a></span>warfare on the grand scale, such as, in my belief, -the world will never see again.</p> - -<p>We were visitors, also, to the other world—the world behind the lines, -in G.H.Q., in Army Corps and Divisional Headquarters, in training -schools and camps, and casualty clearing stations and billets in the -“rest” areas, remote from the noise and filth of battle. From the -private soldier standing by a slimy parapet to the Commander-in-Chief -in his comfortable château, we studied all the psychological strata of -the British armies in France, as few other men had the chance of doing.</p> - -<p>But all the time we were between two worlds, and belonged to neither, -and though I think our job was worth doing (and the spirit of the -people would have broken if we had not done it) we felt at times (or -I did) that the only honest job was to join the fighting men and die -like the best of British manhood did. Our risks were not enough to -make us honest when so many were being killed, though often we had the -chance of death. So it seemed to me, often, then; so it seems to me, -sometimes, now.</p> - -<p>We had wonderful facilities for our work. Each man had a motor car, -which gave him complete mobility. On days of battle we five drew lots -as to the area we would cover, and with one of the censors, who were, -as I have said, our best comrades, set out to the farthest point at -which we could leave a car without having it blown to bits. Then often -we walked, to get a view of the battlefield, amid the roar of our own -guns, and in the litter of newly captured ground. We got as far as -possible into the traffic of supporting troops, advancing guns, meeting -the long straggling processions of “walking wounded,” bloody and -bandaged prisoners, stepping over the mangled bodies of men, watching -the fury of shell fire from our own massed artillery, and the enemy’s -barrage fire.</p> - -<p>Then we had to call at Corps Headquarters—our daily routine—for the -latest reports, and after many hours,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_263" id="Page_263">[Pg 263]</a></span> motor back again to our own -place to write fast and furiously. Dispatch riders took our messages -(censored by the men who had been out with us that day) back to -“Signals” at G.H.Q., from which they were telephoned back to the War -Office in London, who transmitted them to the newspapers.</p> - -<p>The War Office had no right of censorship, and our dispatches were -untouched after they had left our quarters. Nor were our newspapers -allowed to alter or suppress any word we wrote.</p> - -<p>It may surprise many people to know that we were not in the employ of -our own newspapers. The dispatches of the five men on the Western front -(apart from special Canadian and Australian correspondents attached to -their own Corps) were distributed by arrangement with the War Office to -all countries within the Empire, under the direction of an organization -known as The Newspaper Proprietors Association, who shared our expenses.</p> - -<p>From first to last we were read, greedily and attentively by millions -of readers, but I tell the painful truth when I say that many of -them were suspicious of our accounts and firmly believed that we -concealed much more than we told. That distrust was due, partly, to -the heavy-handed censorship in the early days of the war, when our -first accounts were mutilated. Afterward, when the censorship was very -light so that nothing was deleted except very technical detail and, too -often, the names of battalions, that early suspicion lasted.</p> - -<p>During long spells of trench warfare, without any great battles but -with steady and heavy casualties, the British public suspected that we -were hiding enormous events. They could not believe that so many men -could be killed unless big actions were in progress. Also, when great -battles had been fought, and we had recorded many gains, in prisoners -and guns, and trench positions, the lack of decisive result seemed to -give the lie to our optimism. </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_264" id="Page_264">[Pg 264]</a></span></p> - -<p>Again, the cheerful way in which one or two of the correspondents -wrote, as though a battle was a kind of glorified football match, -exasperated the troops who knew their own losses, and the public who -agonized over that great sum of death and mutilation.</p> - -<p>Personally, I cannot convict myself of overcheerfulness or the -minimizing of the tragic side of war, for, by temperament as well as -by intellectual conviction, I wrote always with heavy stress on the -suffering and tragedy of warfare, though I coerced my soul to maintain -the spiritual courage of the nation and the fighting men—sometimes -when my own spirit was dark with despair.</p> - -<p>To our mess, between the two worlds, came visitors from both. It was -our special pleasure to give a lift in one of our Vauxhalls to some -young officer of the fighting line and bring him to our little old -château or one of our billets behind the lines and help him to forget -the filth and discomfort of trenches and dugouts by a good dinner in -a good room. They were grateful for that, and we had many friends in -the infantry, cavalry, Tank corps, machine guns, field artillery and -“heavies” to whom we gave this hospitality.</p> - -<p>When Neville Lytton became our chief, we even rose to the height of -having a military band to play to our guests after dinner on certain -memorable nights, and I remember a little French interpreter, himself a -fine musician, who, on one of those evenings when our salon was crowded -with officers tapping heel and toe to the music, raised his hands in -ecstasy and said, “This is like one of the wars of the eighteenth -century when slaughter did not prevent elegance and the courtesies of -life.”</p> - -<p>But in the morning there was the same old routine of setting out for -the stricken fields, the same old vision of mangled men streaming -back from battle, prisoners huddled like tired beasts, and shell fire -ravaging the enemy’s line, and ours. </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_265" id="Page_265">[Pg 265]</a></span></p> - -<p>Army, Corps, and Divisional Generals, occasionally some tremendous -man from G.H.Q., like our supreme chief, General Charteris, favored -us with their company, and discussed every aspect of the war with us -without reserve. Their old hostility had utterly disappeared, their old -suspicion was gone, and for three years we possessed their confidence -and their friendship.</p> - -<p>In a book of mine—“Realities of War,” published in the United States -under the title of “Now It Can Be Told”—I have been a critic of the -Staff, and have said some hard and cruel things about the blundering -and inefficiency of its system. But for many of the Generals and Staff -officers in their personal character I had nothing but admiration and -esteem. Their courage and devotion to duty, their patriotism and honor, -were beyond criticism, and they were gentlemen of the good old school, -with, for the most part, a simplicity of mind and manner which doesn’t, -perhaps, belong to our present time. Yet I could not help thinking, as -I still think, that those elderly gentlemen who had been trained in -the South-African school of warfare, had been confronted with problems -in another kind of war which were beyond their imagination and range -of thought or experience. Even that verdict, however, which is true, -I believe, of the High Command, must be modified in favor of men who -created a New Army, marvelously perfect as a machine. Our artillery, -our transport, our medical service, our training, were highly -efficient, as the Germans themselves admitted. The machine was as good -as an English-built engine, and marvelous when one takes into account -its rapid and enormous growth in an untrained nation. It was in the -handling of the machine that criticism finds an open field—and it’s an -easy game, anyhow!</p> - -<p>Apart from Generals, staff officers, and battalion officers who came to -our mess, there were other visitors,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_266" id="Page_266">[Pg 266]</a></span> now and then, from that remote -world which had been ours before the war—the civilian world of England.</p> - -<p>During the latter part of the war all sorts of strange people were -invited out for a three-days’ tour behind the lines, with a glimpse -or two of the battlefields, in the belief that they would go back as -propagandists for renewed effort and strength of purpose and “the will -to win.” A guest house was established near G.H.Q., to which were -invited politicians, labor leaders, distinguished writers, bishops, and -representatives of neutral countries.</p> - -<p>In their three-days’ visit they did not see very much of “the real -thing,” but enough to show them the wonderful spirit of the fighting -men and the enormous organization required for their support, and the -unbroken strength of the enemy. Now and then these visitors to the -guest house came over to our mess, more interested to meet us, I think, -than Generals and officers at the Base, because they could get from us, -in a more intimate way, the truth about the war and its progress.</p> - -<p>Among those apparitions from civil life, I remember, particularly, -Bernard Shaw, because it was due to a freakish suggestion of mine that -he had been invited out. It seemed to me that Shaw, of all men, would -be useful for propaganda, if the genius of his pen were inspired by the -valor and endurance of our fighting men. Anyhow, he would, I thought, -tell the truth about the things he saw, with deeper perception of its -meaning than any other living writer.</p> - -<p>Bernard Shaw, in a rough suit of Irish homespun, and with his beard -dank in the wet mist of Flanders, appeared suddenly to my friend -Tomlinson as a ghost from the pre-war past. His first words were in the -nature of a knock-out blow.</p> - -<p>“Hullo, Tomlinson! Are all war correspondents such bloody fools as they -make themselves out to be?”</p> - -<p>The answer was in the negative, but could not avoid<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_267" id="Page_267">[Pg 267]</a></span> an admission, like -the answer yes or no to that legal trick of questioning: “Have you -given up beating your wife?”</p> - -<p>Bernard Shaw was invited, by suggestion amounting to orders from -G.H.Q., to lunch with various Generals at their headquarters. I -accompanied him two or three times, and could not help remarking the -immense distinction of his appearance and manners in the company of -those simple soldiers. Intellectually, of course, he was head and -shoulders above them, and he could not resist shocking them, now and -then, by his audacity of humor.</p> - -<p>So it was when an old General who had sat somewhat silent in his -presence (resentful that this “wild Irishman” should have been thrust -upon his mess) enquired mildly how long he thought the war would last.</p> - -<p>“Well, General,” said Shaw, with a twinkle in his eye, “we’re all -anxious for an early and dishonorable peace!”</p> - -<p>The General’s cheeks were slightly empurpled, and he was silent, -wondering what he could make of this treasonable utterance, but there -was a loud yelp of laughter from his A.D.C.’s at the other end of the -table.</p> - -<p>Before entering the city of Arras, in which shells were falling -intermittently, Shaw, whose plays and books had had a great vogue in -Germany, remarked with sham pathos, “Well, if the Germans kill me -to-day, they will be a most ungrateful people!”</p> - -<p>I accompanied him on various trips he made—there was “nothing doing” -on the front just then, and he did not see the real business of -war—and in conversation with him was convinced of the high-souled -loyalty of the man to the Allied Cause. His sense of humor was only a -playful mask, and though he was a Pacifist in general principles, he -realized that the only course possible after the declaration of war was -to throw all the energy of the nation into the bloody struggle, which -must be one of life or death to the British race. </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_268" id="Page_268">[Pg 268]</a></span></p> - -<p>“There is no need of censorship,” he told me; “while the war lasts we -must be our own censors. All one’s ideas of the war are divided into -two planes of thought which never meet. One plane deals with the folly -and wickedness of war. The other plane is the immediate necessity of -beating the Boche.”</p> - -<p>He has surprising technical knowledge of aviation, and talked with our -young aviators on equal terms regarding the science of flight. He was -also keenly interested in artillery work. Unfortunately his articles, -written as a result of his visit, were not very successful, and the -very title, “Joy-riding at the Front,” offended many people who would -not tolerate levity regarding a war whose black tragedy darkened all -their spirit.</p> - -<p>Sir J. M. Barrie was another brief visitant. He dined at our mess one -night, intensely shy, ill-at-ease until our welcome reassured him, and -painfully silent. Only one gleam of the real Barrie appeared. It was -when one of my colleagues asked him to write something in the visitors’ -book. He thought gloomily for a moment, and then wrote: “<i>Beware of -a dark woman with a big appetite</i>.” The meaning of this has kept us -guessing ever since.</p> - -<p>Sir Arthur Conan Doyle created a great sensation along the roads -of Flanders when he appeared for a few days, not because the -troops recognized him as the writer of Sherlock Holmes and other -favorite books, but because he looked more important than the -Commander-in-Chief, and more military than a Field Marshal. He wore the -uniform of a County Lieutenant, with a “brass hat,” so heavy with gold -lace, and epaulettes so resplendent, that even Colonels and Brigadiers -saluted him as he passed.</p> - -<p>John Masefield was more than a three-days’ guest. After his beautiful -book “Gallipoli,” he was asked to study the Somme battlefields from -which the enemy had then retreated, and to write an epic story of those -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_269" id="Page_269">[Pg 269]</a></span>tremendous battles in which the New Armies had fought the enemy yard -by yard, trench by trench, wood by wood, ridge by ridge, through twenty -miles deep of earthworks, until, after enormous slaughter on both -sides, the enemy’s resistance had been broken.</p> - -<p>Masefield arrived late on the scene, and was only able to study the -ground after the line of battle had moved forward, and to get the -stories of the survivors. I had had the advantage of him there, as an -eyewitness of the tremendous struggle in all its phases and over all -that ground. When I republished my daily narrative in book form under -the title of “The Battles of the Somme,” Masefield abandoned his plan, -and so deprived English literature of what I am certain would have -been a deathless work. All he published was an introduction, which he -called “The Old Front Line,” in which, with most beautiful vision, he -described the geographical aspects of that ground on which the flower -of our British youth fell in six weeks of ceaseless and terrible effort.</p> - -<p>I met Masefield at that time. He was billeted at Amiens with Lytton’s -wild team of foreign correspondents. They were all talking French, -arguing, quarreling, gesticulating, noisily and passionately, and -Masefield sat silent among them, with a look of misery and long -suffering.</p> - -<p>The most important visitor from the outside world whom we had in our -own mess was Lloyd George, then Minister for War. He came with Lord -Reading, the Lord Chief Justice of England. Like most other visitors, -they did not get very far into the zone of fire, and it would, of -course, have been absurd to take Lloyd George into dangerous places -where he might have lost his life. He did, however, get within reach of -long-range shells, and I remember seeing him emerge from an old German -dugout wearing a “tin hat” above his somewhat exuberant white locks. -Some Tommies standing near remarked his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_270" id="Page_270">[Pg 270]</a></span> somewhat unusual appearance. -“Who’s that bloke?” asked one of them.</p> - -<p>“Blimy!” said the other. “It looks like the Archbishop of Canterbury.”</p> - -<p>The visit of Lloyd George was regarded with some suspicion by the -High Command. “He’s up to some mischief, I’ll be bound,” said one of -our Generals in my hearing. It was rumored that his relations with -Sir Douglas Haig were not very cordial, and I was personally aware, -after a breakfast meal in Downing Street, that Lloyd George had no -great admiration of British Generalship. But it was amusing to see -how quickly he captured them all by his geniality, quickness of -wit, and nimble intelligence, and by the apparent simplicity in his -babe-blue eyes. Officers who had alluded to him as “the damned little -Welshman,” were clicking heels and trying to get within the orbit of -his conversation.</p> - -<p>He was particularly friendly and complimentary to the war -correspondents. I think he felt more at ease with us, and was, I think, -genuinely appreciative of our work. Anyhow, he went out of his way -to pay a particular compliment to me when, in 1917, Robert Donald of -<i>The Daily Chronicle</i>, was kind enough to give a dinner in my honor. -The Prime Minister attended the dinner, with General Smuts, and made a -speech in which he said many generous things about my work. It was the -greatest honor ever given to a Fleet-Street man, and I was glad of it, -not only for my own sake, but because it was a tribute to the work of -the war correspondents—handicapped as they were by many restrictions, -and by general distrust.</p> - -<p>I had an opportunity that night of saying things I wanted to say to the -Prime Minister and his colleagues, and the memory of the men in the -trenches, and of the wounded, gassed, and blinded men crawling down to -the field hospitals, gave me courage and some gift of words....<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_271" id="Page_271">[Pg 271]</a></span> I do -not regret the things I said, and their emotional effect upon the Prime -Minister.</p> - -<p>At that time, I confess, I did not see any quick or definite ending -to the war. After the frightful battles in Flanders of 1917, with -their colossal sum of slaughter on both sides, the enemy was still in -great strength. Russia had broken, and it was inevitable that masses -of German troops, liberated from that front, would be brought against -us. America was still unready and untrained, though preparing mighty -legions.</p> - -<p>There was another year for the war correspondents to record day by -day, with as much hope as they could muster, when in March of ’18 our -line was broken for a time by the tremendous weight of the last German -attack, and with increasing exaltation and enormous joy when at last -the tide turned and the enemy was on the run and the end was in sight.</p> - -<p>That last year crammed into its history the whole range of human -emotion, and as humble chroniclers the small body of war correspondents -partook of the anguish and the exaltation of the troops who marched at -last to the Rhine.</p> - -<p>The coming of the Americans, the genius of Foch in supreme command, -the immortal valor of the British and French troops, first in retreat -and then in advance, the liberation of many great cities, the smashing -of the German war machine, and the great surrender, make that last -year of the war unforgettable in history. I have told it all in -detail elsewhere. Here I am only concerned with the work of the war -correspondents, and the supreme experience I had in journalistic -adventure.</p> - -<p>On the whole we may claim, I think, that our job was worth doing, and -not badly done. Some of us, at least, did not spare ourselves to learn -the truth and tell it as far as it lay in our vision and in our power -of words. During the course of the battles it was not possible to tell<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_272" id="Page_272">[Pg 272]</a></span> -all the truth, to reveal the full measure of slaughter on our side, and -we had no right of criticism. But day by day the English-speaking world -was brought close in spiritual touch with their fighting men, and knew -the best, if not the worst, of what was happening in the field of war, -and the daily record of courage, endurance, achievement, by the youth -that was being spent with such prodigal unthrifty zeal.</p> - -<p>I verily believe that without our chronicles the spirit of the nation -would not have maintained its greatness of endeavor and sacrifice. -There are some who hold that to be the worst accusation against us. -They charge us with having bolstered up the spirit of hatred and made a -quicker and a better peace impossible. I do not plead guilty to that, -for, from first to last no word of hate slipped into my narrative, and -my pictures of war did not hide the agony of reality nor the price of victory.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_273" id="Page_273">[Pg 273]</a></span></p> - -<h2>XXI</h2> - -<p>The coming of Peace, after four and a half years of a world in -conflict, was as great a strain to the civilized mind as the outbreak -of war. Indeed, I think it was more tragic in its effect upon the -mentality and moral character of the peoples who had been strained to -the uttermost.</p> - -<p>The sudden relaxation left them limp, purposeless, and unstrung. A -sense of the ghastly futility of the horrible massacre in Europe -overwhelmed multitudes of men and women who had exerted the last -vibration of spiritual energy for the sake of victory, now that all -was over, and the cost was counted. The loss of the men they had loved -seemed light and tolerable to the soul while the struggle continued and -the spirit of sacrifice was still at fever heat, but in the coldness -which settled upon the world after that fever was spent, and in homes -which returned to normal ways of life, after the home-coming of the -Armies, the absence of the breadwinner or the unforgotten son, was felt -with a sharper and more dreadful anguish. A great sadness and spirit -of disillusion overwhelmed the nations which had been victorious, even -more than those defeated. What was this victory? What was its worth, -with such visible tracks of ruin and death in all nations exhausted by -the struggle?</p> - -<p>As a journalist again, back to Fleet Street, in civil clothes, which -felt strange after khaki and Sam Brown belts, I found that my new -little assignment in life was to study the effects of the war which -I had helped to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_274" id="Page_274">[Pg 274]</a></span> record, and to analyze the character and state of -European peoples, including my own, as they had been changed by that -tremendous upheaval.</p> - -<p>Fleet Street itself had changed during the war. In spite of the -severity of the censorship under the Defense of the Realm Act, and the -almost slavish obedience of the press to its dictates, the newspaper -proprietors had risen in social rank and power, and newspaper offices -which had once been the shabby tenements of social outcasts—the -inhabitants of “Grub Street”—were now strewn with coronets and the -insignia of nobility. Fleet Street had not only become respectable. It -had become the highway to the House of Lords.</p> - -<p>The Harmsworth family had become ennobled to all but the highest grade -in the peerage, this side of Dukedom. As chief propagandist, the man I -had first met as Sir Alfred Harmsworth (when General Booth forced me to -my knees and prayed for him!) was now Viscount, with his brother Harold -as Lord Rothermere. He aspired to the dictatorship of England through -the power of the press, and, but for one slight miscalculation, would -have been dictator.</p> - -<p>That miscalculation was the growing disbelief of the British public in -anything they read in the press. The false accounts of air raids (when -the public knew the truth of their own losses), such incidents as the -press campaign against Kitchener, and that ridiculous over-optimism, -the wildly false assurances of military writers (I was not one of them) -when things were going worst in the war, had undermined the faith of -the nation in the honesty of their newspapers. Nevertheless, the power -of men like Northcliffe was enormous in the political sphere, and -Cabinet Ministers and members of Parliament acknowledged their claims.</p> - -<p>Burnham of <i>The Telegraph</i> was now a Viscount, but, unlike Lord -Northcliffe, he supported whatever <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_275" id="Page_275">[Pg 275]</a></span>government was in power and had no -personal vendetta against politicians or policies.</p> - -<p>Max Aitken, once a company promoter in Canada, and now proprietor of -<i>The Daily Express</i>, became Lord Beaverbrook as his reward for the part -he played in unseating Asquith and bringing in Lloyd George. Another -peer was Lord Riddell, owner of the “News of the World,” which is not -generally regarded as a spiritual light in the land. As one of the most -intimate friends of Lloyd George, he merited the reward of loyalty. Not -only peerages, but baronetcies and knighthoods were scattered in Fleet -Street and its tributaries by a Prime Minister who understood the power -of the press, but, in spite of a free distribution of titles, did not -possess its loyalty when the tide of public favor turned from him.</p> - -<p>The five war correspondents on the Western front—Perry Robinson, -Beach Thomas, Percival Phillips, Herbert Russell, and myself—received -knighthood from the King, at the recommendation of the War Office. -I had been offered that honor before the war came to an end, but it -was opposed by some of the newspaper proprietors who said that if -I were knighted the other men ought also to receive this title—a -perfectly fair protest. I was not covetous of that knighthood, and -indeed shrank from it so much that I entered into a compact with Beach -Thomas to refuse it. But things had gone too far, and we could not -reject the title with any decency. So one fine morning, when a military -investiture was in progress, I went up to Buckingham Palace, knelt -before the King in the courtyard there, with a top hat in my hand, -and my knee getting cramped on a velvet cushion, while he gave me the -accolade, put the insignia of the K.B.E. round my neck, fastened a star -over my left side, and spoke a few generous words. I should be wholly -insincere if I pretended that at that moment I did not feel the stir -of the old romantic sentiment with which I had been<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_276" id="Page_276">[Pg 276]</a></span> steeped as a boy, -and a sense of pride that I had “won my spurs” in service for England’s -sake. Yet, as I walked home with my box of trinkets and that King’s -touch on my shoulder, I thought of the youth who had served England -with greater gallantry, through hardship and suffering to sudden death -or to the inevitable forgetfulness of a poverty-stricken peace.</p> - -<p>That knighthood of mine deeply offended one of my friends, whose good -opinion I valued more than that of most others. This man, who had -been in the ugly places with me, could hardly pardon this acceptance -of a title which seemed to him a betrayal of democratic faith and -an allegiance to those whom he regarded as part authors of the war, -traitors to the men who died, perpetrators of hate, architects of -an infamous peace, and profiteers of their nation’s ruin. A harsh -judgment! The only difference I find that knighthood has made to my -outlook on life is the knowledge of a slight increase in my tradesmen’s -bills.</p> - -<p>One change in the editorial side of Fleet Street affected me in a -personal way, and was a revelation of the anxiety of the Coalition -Government to capture the press in its own interests. Robert Donald, -under whose Directorship I had served on <i>The Daily Chronicle</i> for -many years—with occasional lapses as a free lance—had been a -close personal friend of Lloyd George, but toward the end of the -war permitted himself some liberty of criticism—very mild in its -character—against the Prime Minister. It was his undoing. Lloyd George -was already under the fire of the Northcliffe press which had helped to -raise him to the Premiership and now tired of him, for personal reasons -by Lord Northcliffe, and he foresaw the time when, after the war, he -would need all the support he could get from the press machine. A group -of his friends, including Sir Henry Dalziel (afterward promoted to the -peerage) and Sir Charles Sykes, a rich<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_277" id="Page_277">[Pg 277]</a></span> manufacturer, approached the -Lloyds, who owned <i>The Daily Chronicle</i>, and bought that paper and -Lloyds <i>Weekly News</i> for over £1,000,000. Robert Donald found it sold -over his head, without warning, and felt himself obliged to resign his -editorship. Ernest Perris, the former news editor, who had managed that -department with remarkable ability, reigned in his stead, and <i>The -Daily Chronicle</i> became the official organ, the defender through thick -and thin, fair and foul, of Lloyd George and his Coalition.</p> - -<p>A series of dramatic telegrams reached me at the front, but I paid very -little heed to them and failed to understand the inner significance -of this affair. But in loyalty to Robert Donald, and by his advice, I -signed a contract with <i>The Daily Telegraph</i>. It made no difference -to my readers, as my articles continued to appear in <i>The Daily -Chronicle</i>, as well as in <i>The Telegraph</i>, as they had done throughout -the war, by arrangement of the Newspaper Proprietors Association and -the War Office.</p> - -<p>Nominally Lord Burnham was my chief instead of Robert Donald. I -liked him thoroughly, as he had always been particularly kind to me, -especially on a night when I was deeply humiliated by one of those -social <i>faux pas</i> which hurt a man more than the guilty knowledge of a -secret crime.</p> - -<p>This was during the war, when I arrived home on leave to find a card -inviting me to dine with Lord Burnham at the Garrick Club. I had -often dined at the Garrick with my brother, who was a member of the -club, and remembered that evening clothes had not been worn by most -of the men there. Anyhow, I arrived from a country journey in an -ordinary lounge suit, with rather muddy boots, owing to a downpour of -rain, and then found, to my consternation, that I was the guest of a -distinguished dinner party assembled in my honor. The first man to whom -I was presented was Field Marshal<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_278" id="Page_278">[Pg 278]</a></span> Sir William Robertson, Chief of the -Imperial Staff, and behind him stood Admiral Lord Charles Beresford -(old “Charlie B.”) and a number of important people who were helping to -“win the war.” Lord Burnham entirely disregarded my miserable clothes, -but I was damnably uncomfortable until I forgot my own insignificance -in listening to the conversation of these great people who were as -gloomy and pessimistic a crowd as I have ever met, and seemed to have -abandoned all hope. The one exception was Sir William Robertson, who -sat rather silent until at the end of the meal he said “We may be -puffed, and breathing hard, but all I can say is, gentlemen, that the -Germans are more exhausted.”</p> - -<p>That reminiscence, however, only leads me to the fact that after the -Armistice I again transferred to <i>The Daily Chronicle</i> and remained -with them until Lloyd George’s policy of reprisals in Ireland filled -me with a sudden passion of disgust and led to my resignation from the -paper which supported it.</p> - -<p>I think every journalist must now admit that the English press, with -very few exceptions, fell to a very low moral ebb after the Armistice. -The “hate” campaign was not relinquished but revived with full blast -against the beaten enemy. A mountain of false illusion was built up on -the basis that Germany could be made to pay for all the costs of war in -all the victorious nations, and a peace of vengeance was encouraged, -full of the seeds of future wars, at a time in the history of mankind -when by a little spirit of generosity, a little drawing together of -the world’s democracies, even a little economic sanity in regard to -the ruined state of Europe as a whole, civilization itself might have -been lifted to a higher plane, future peace might have been secured -according to the promise of “the war to end war,” and at least we -should have been spared the squalor, the degradation, the bitterness -of the last four years. But the English press led the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_279" id="Page_279">[Pg 279]</a></span> chorus of -“Hang the Kaiser,” “Make the Germans pay,” “They will cheat you yet, -those Junkers!” and all the old cries of passionate folly, instead of -concentrating on the defeat of militarism now that Germany was down and -out, the economic reconstruction of Europe after the ruin of war, and -the fulfilment of the pledges that had been made to the men who won the -war. For, as we now know, and as I foretold, the German people could -not pay these colossal, unimaginable sums upon which France and Great -Britain reckoned, and the whole argument of these “fruits of victory” -was built upon a falsity which demoralized the peoples of the allied -Powers, and kept Europe in a ferment. The English press (apart from a -few papers) refused to bear witness to the real truth, which was that -the Peace of Versailles was impossible of fulfillment, that Europe -could not recover under its economic provisions, and that the victor -nations would have to face poverty, an immense burden of taxation, a -stagnation of trade, the awful costs of war, with no chance of getting -rich again by putting a stranglehold on the defeated peoples.</p> - -<p>For four years following the Armistice I become a wanderer in Europe, -Asia Minor, and America, as a student of the psychology and state of -this after-war world, trying to see beneath the surface of social -and political life to the deeper currents of thought and emotion and -natural law set in motion by the enormous tragedy through which so many -nations had passed.</p> - -<p>Everywhere I saw a loosening of the old restraints of mental and moral -discipline and a kind of neurotic malady which was manifested by -alternate gusts of gayety and depression, a wild licentiousness in the -crowded cities of Europe, a spirit of restlessness and revolt among the -demobilized men, and misery, starvation, disease, and despair, beyond -the glare and glitter of dancing halls, restaurants, and places of -frivolity. </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_280" id="Page_280">[Pg 280]</a></span></p> - -<p>In France the exultation of victory, which inspired a spirit of -carnival in the boulevards of Paris, crowded with visitors from all -the Allied nations, did not uplift the hearts of masses of peasants -and humble bourgeois folk who returned to the sites of their old homes -and villages of which only a few stones or sticks or rubbish heaps -remained in the fields which had been swept by the flame of war. -With courage and resignation they cleared the ground of barbed wire -and unexploded shells, and the unburied bodies of men, and the foul -litter of a four years’ battle, but they faced a bleak prospect, and -behind them and around them was the vision of ruin and death. For a -long time they were without water or light, stone or timber, for the -work of reconstruction, or any recompense for their losses from the -French Government which looked to Germany for reparations and did not -get them. I talked with many of these people in their hovels and huts, -marveled at their patience and courage and was saddened because so -quickly after war they mistrusted the friendship of England, and the -security of the peace they had gained. Their hatred to the Germans was -a cold, undying fire, and beneath their hatred was the fear, already -visible, that Germany hadn’t been smashed enough, and that one day she -would come back again for vengeance.</p> - -<p>In Italy there was violence, bitterness, poverty, and revolt. The -nation was demoralized by all the shocks that had shaken it. The -microbe of Bolshevism was working in the brains of demoralized -soldiers. The very walls of Rome were scrawled with Communistic cries -and the name of Lenin.</p> - -<p>In Rome I accomplished a journalistic mission which, in its way, was a -unique honor and experience. This was to interview the Pope on behalf -of <i>The Daily Chronicle</i> and a syndicate of American newspapers. Such a -thing seemed impossible, and I knew that the chances against<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_281" id="Page_281">[Pg 281]</a></span> me were a -million to one. Yet I believed that some plain words from the Pope who, -perhaps, alone among men had been above and outside all the fratricidal -strife of nations, and had been abused by both sides as “Pro-German” -and “Pro-Ally,” would be of profound interest and importance. It was -possible that he might give a spiritual call to humanity in this time -of moral depression and degradation. I pressed these views upon a -certain prelate who had the confidence of Benedict XV, and who was a -broad-minded man in sympathy with democratic thought and customs.</p> - -<p>He laughed at me heartily for my audacity, and said, “Out of the -question!... Impossible!” He explained that no journalists were -allowed even at the public audiences of the Pope, owing to regrettable -incidents, and that my request for a private interview couldn’t be -considered.... We talked of international affairs, and presently I took -my leave. “It is no use pressing for that interview?” I asked at the -door. He laughed again, and said, “I will let you have a formal reply.”</p> - -<p>Three days later, to my immense surprise, I received, without any other -word, a card admitting me to a private interview with H. H. Benedict -XV, at three-thirty on the following afternoon.</p> - -<p>I knew that I had to wear evening clothes, and on that hot afternoon -I entirely wrecked three white ties in the endeavor to make a decent -bow, and then borrowed one from a waiter. Hiring an old <i>carrozza</i>, and -feeling intensely nervous at the impending interview, I drove to the -Vatican. My card was a magic talisman. The Swiss Guards grounded their -pikes before me, and their officer bowed toward a flight of marble -steps leading to the private apartments. I was passed on from room -to room, saluted by gentlemen of the Pope’s bodyguard in impressive -uniforms, until my knees weakened above the polished boards, my tongue -clave to the roof of my<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_282" id="Page_282">[Pg 282]</a></span> mouth, and my waiter’s dress tie slipped up -behind my right ear.</p> - -<p>Finally, in a highly self-conscious state, I reached an ante-chamber -where I was kept waiting for ten minutes until a chamberlain came -through a little door and beckoned to me. As I passed through the -doorway, I saw a tiny little man in white robes, waiting for me on the -threshold.</p> - -<p>He smiled through his spectacles, took hold of my wrist as I went down -on one knee, according to etiquette, hauled me up with a firm grip, and -led me to two gilt chairs, side by side. “Now we can talk,” he said in -French, and he sat in one chair and I in the other, in that big room -where we were alone together.</p> - -<p>In a second my nervousness left me, and we had what the Americans -call a heart-to-heart talk. The Pope did not use any fine phrases. He -asked me a lot of questions about the state of Europe, the feeling in -England and America, and then spoke about the war and its effects. -Several times he called the war “a Scourge of God,” and spoke of his -efforts to mitigate its misery and relieve some of its agonies. He -alluded to the abuse he had received from both sides because of his -neutrality and his repeated efforts on behalf of peace, and then waved -that on one side and entered into a discussion on the economic effects -of war. He saw no quick way of escape from ruin, no rapid means of -recovery. “We must steel ourselves to poverty,” he said, and alluded to -the great illusion of masses of people, duped by their leaders, that, -after the destruction of the world’s wealth, there could be the same -prosperity. He spoke sternly of the profiteers, and in a pitying way -of the poverty-stricken peoples. “The rich must pay,” he said. “Those -who profited out of the war must pay most.” His last words, after a -twenty-minutes’ talk, were a plea for charity and peace in the hearts -of peoples. </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_283" id="Page_283">[Pg 283]</a></span></p> - -<p>All the time he was talking, I had in the back of my mind the doubt -whether I might publish this conversation, and whether, indeed, he -knew my profession and purpose. I could not leave him with that doubt, -and asked him, with some trepidation, if I might publish the words -he had spoken to me. He smiled, and said, “It is the purpose of this -conversation.”</p> - -<p>I hurried back to my hotel, and wrote a full account, and then desired -to submit it for approval to the prelate who had obtained this great -consent. But he waved it on one side, and said, “You can write what you -like, and publish what you like, provided it is the truth. We trust -you!”</p> - -<p>I did not abuse that trust, and my interview with the Pope was quoted -in every newspaper in the English-speaking world, and created a very -favorable effect.</p> - -<p>The raid on Fiume by d’Annunzio was a passionate assertion of Imperial -claims denied by the Great Powers which have made a peace regarded -by Italy as a robbery of all its rightful claims, but this new -manifestation of militarism was offset by the capture of factories by -Communist workers and the hoisting of the Red Flag in many industrial -towns. Beneath the beauty of Rome, Florence, Naples, and Venice, I saw -the ugly shadow of revolution and anarchy.</p> - -<p>I went from Trieste to Vienna, and saw worse things in a city -deliberately doomed by the Allied Powers—a city of two million people -which had once been the capital of a great Empire, the brilliant -flower of an old civilization, and now was cut off from all its old -resources of wealth and life. In slum streets and babies’ crêches, and -hospital wards, away from the wild vice and gayety of great hotels -and dancing halls crowded with foreigners and profiteers, I saw the -children of a starving city, stricken with rickets, scrofula, all -kinds of hunger-diseases, and so weak that children of six or seven -had no hardness<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_284" id="Page_284">[Pg 284]</a></span> of bone, so that they couldn’t stand up or sit up, -and had bulbous heads above their wizened bodies. The women could not -feed their babes for lack of milk. Men like skeletons in rags slouched -about the streets, begging with clawlike hands. Ladies of good family -could not buy underclothing or boots. Professional men, aristocrats, -Ministers of State, lived on thin soup, potatoes, war bread, and the -very nurses in the hospitals were starving. The Austrian kronen became -worth hardly more than waste paper, and despair had settled upon this -great and beautiful city.</p> - -<p>I went on to Germany, deeply curious to know what had happened in the -soul and state of this people after their tremendous struggle and their -supreme defeat. I found there an immense pride of resistance to the -consequence of defeat, an utter repudiation of war guilt, an intense -vital energy and industry by which they hoped to recapture their lost -trade and economic supremacy in Europe, a friendly feeling toward -England, a deadly hatred toward France. Outwardly there was no sign -of poverty or despair. There were no devastated regions, like those -in France, no tidal wave of unemployment, like that in England. All -the great engineering works, like those of Krupp which had provided a -vast output of artillery and munitions for a world war, had adapted -their machinery to the purposes of peace, and were manufacturing -railway engines, agricultural machines, typewriters, kitchen utensils, -everything that is made of metal, for the world’s needs. It was -staggering in its contrast to the lack of energy, the commercial -stagnation, the idleness and debility of other war-tired peoples.</p> - -<p>But, again, I tried to see below the surface of things, and I saw -that this feverish activity was not based on sound foundations of -material life, but on a rotten financial system and unhealthy laws. -The workingman was underpaid and underfed, and the victim of a system -of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_285" id="Page_285">[Pg 285]</a></span> slave labor. The professional classes were in dire poverty, and -what money they earned and saved lost its value day by day, because the -German Government was deliberately inflating its paper money by racing -the printing presses with issues of false notes which had no reality to -back them. German export trade was capturing the world’s markets, but -only by underselling to a rate which gave no real industrial profit. -And whatever wealth Germany made, or could make, was earmarked for -reparations and indemnities which, when the day of reckoning came, -would make a mockery of all her efforts, reveal the great sham of her -paper money, cast her into the depths of ruin, and mock at the demands -of France and her Allies for the payment of those debts of war upon -which they counted for their own needs and escape from ruin.</p> - -<p>In Germany I had long talks with some of their leading politicians, -bankers, and financial experts, whose figures and statements I checked -by consultation with our own Ambassador and political observers. It -was not without a thrill of cold emotion, and dark remembrance, that -I stood for the first time in the Reichstag and saw all around me -those men who had been the propagandists of hate against England, the -supporters of the War Lords, the faithful servants of the Kaiser and -his Chancellors, up to the last throw in their gamblers’ game with -fate, when all was lost. There was Scheidemann, the Social Democrat -who had voted for all the war subsidies until the hour of defeat, -when he voted for the new Republic. There was Stresemann, the leader -of the People’s Party, and an avowed Monarchist, in spite of all that -had happened. There was Bernsdorff, the intriguer in America, up to -his neck in conspiracy with dynamiters and Sinn Feiners and spies. -These men filled me with distrust. Their new profession of good will -to England had a hollow sound. Yet these, and others, spoke with the -utmost frankness about Germany’s condition, and for their own<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_286" id="Page_286">[Pg 286]</a></span> reasons -did not hide the desperate menace of that gamble with national finance -by which they hoped to postpone the inevitable crash. I was more deeply -interested in the mentality of the ordinary German folk and their -way of life. A strain of pacifism seemed to be working among them, -and they were sick and saddened by their loss of blood in the war, -terrible in its sum of death. But the very name of France inflamed -their passion. “We are all pacifists,” said one man I met. “We want -no more war—except one!” The humiliation of the French occupation on -the Rhine, the continued insults of the French press, above all, the -presence of Moroccan troops in German cities, instilled a slow poison -of hate into every German mind. It made me afraid of the future....</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_287" id="Page_287">[Pg 287]</a></span></p> - -<h2>XXII</h2> - -<p>In the spring of 1921 I lay on the deck of the steamship <i>Gratz</i>, -7,000 tons, once Austrian and now flying the Italian flag, bound from -Brindisi to Constantinople. With me as a comrade was my young son.</p> - -<p>Our fellow passengers were a strange company, mostly Jews from America, -Germany, and Greece, going to sell surplus stocks, if they could, to -merchants in Pera. They talked interminably in terms of international -exchange, dollars, pounds, marks, lire, drachmas, and kronen, and -raised their hands to the God of Abraham, because of the stagnation of -the world’s markets. There was also a sprinkling of dark-complexioned, -somber-eyed men of uncertain nationality until we came in sight of -Constantinople, when they changed their bowler hats or cloth caps for -the red fez of Islam. One of them was very handsome and elegant, with -a distinguished but arrogant manner. I tried to get into conversation -with him, but he answered coldly and in monosyllables until we passed -the narrows of the Dardanelles when his eyes glowed with a sudden -passion, and he told me he had fought against the British there, below -the hill of Achi Baba. It had been a great victory, he said, for -Turkish arms.</p> - -<p>There were some queer women aboard, international in character, given -to loud, shrill laughter and amorous ogling. One of them, a buxom -creature of middle age, drank champagne at night in the smoking saloon -with one of the American Jews, enormously fat, foul in conversation, -free with his money, who seemed to covet her favor, and was jealous of -a young Turk who, unlike<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_288" id="Page_288">[Pg 288]</a></span> others of his race aboard, was as noisy as a -schoolboy and played pranks all day long up and down the ship.</p> - -<p>A young British officer, now “demobbed,” was resuming his career as a -commercial traveler in woollen vests and socks. He showed me his diary. -Before the war he had made as much as £3,000 in one year, as commission -on business with Turkish merchants in Constantinople, Stamboul, Smyrna. -He spoke well of the Turks’ commercial honesty. Their word was good. -They had always paid for orders. A simple soul, this young man who had -been a temporary officer in the Great War, believed that trade was -reviving and that Europe would recover quickly from the effects of war.</p> - -<p>There were others on board who did not think so. “After -Austria—Germany,” said the fat American Jew. Lying on the sun-baked -decks I listened to conversations by these students of international -business, as, for two years and more, since the war, I had been -listening to the talk of men and women in Belgium, France, Italy, -Austria-Germany, Canada, and the United States. It was always the -same. They had no certainty of peace, no sense of security, but -rather an apprehension of new conflicts in Europe and outside Europe, -a fear of revolution, anarchy, and upheaval of forces beyond the -control of men like themselves of international mind, business common -sense. But here, on this boat, there was talk of peoples and forces -not generally discussed in these other conversations to which I had -listened, in wayside taverns, in railway trains, in wooden huts on the -old battlefields, in the drawing-rooms of London, Paris, Rome, Vienna, -Berlin, and New York.</p> - -<p>“The Angora Turks have got to be reckoned with.” ... “Greece is out for -a big gamble.” ... “The Armenians have not all been massacred.” ... -“The East is seething like a cauldron.” ... “It’s the oil that will -put all the fat in the fire.” ... “The Bolshies have got <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_289" id="Page_289">[Pg 289]</a></span>Batoum.” -... “Mesopotamia means oil.” ... “Russia is not dead yet, and make no -mistake!” ... “My God! This peace is just a breathing space before -another bloody war.” ... “It’s a world gone mad.” ... “What we want is -business.”</p> - -<p>Then back again to dollars, pounds, lire, marks, drachmas, kronen, -roubles.</p> - -<p>They ate enormously at meal times, and took snacks between meals. -The fat American Jew at my table ate greedily, forgetting his fork -sometimes, and mopping his plate with bits of bread. He bullied the -stewards for bigger or tenderer helpings. He spoke Russian, German, -and American with equal fluency, but an international accent. At night -there was card playing, outbursts of song, gusts of laughter, popping -of champagne corks, whisperings and chasings along the dark decks, a -reek of cigar smoke, no silence or wonderment because of the beauty -through which our boat was passing.</p> - -<p>The Ionian Sea, merging into the Adriatic, was so calm that when our -ship divided its waters, leaving behind a long furrow, the side of each -wave was like a polished jewel, and reflected the patches of snow still -on the mountain crests (though it was May, and hot) and the fissures in -the rocks. It was unbroken by any ripple, except where the boat stirred -its quietude by a long ruffle of feathers, and it was so blue that it -seemed as though one’s hand would be dyed, like a potter’s, to the same -color, if one dipped it in. With this sea, and the sky above, we went -on traveling through a blue world, except where our eyes wandered into -the gorges of those mountains along the coast of old Illyria, where the -barren rocks are scarred and gleam white, or when they were touched by -the sun’s rays at dawn and sunset and glittered in a golden way, or -became washed with rose water, or all drenched in mist as purple as the -Imperial mantle which once fell across them. All day long the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_290" id="Page_290">[Pg 290]</a></span> ship was -followed by a flight of sea gulls skimming on quiet wings and calling -plaintively so that we heard again the sirens who cried to Ulysses as -he sailed this way through the Enchanted Seas.</p> - -<p>We steamed slowly through the Gulf of Corinth, so narrow that if any -boulder had fallen from its high walls it would have smashed a hole in -our ship. Small Greek boys ran along a foot path, clamoring for pennies -like gutter urchins beside an English char-à-banc. Then we lay off -Athens, but in spite of a special Greek <i>visa</i> from the consulate in -London for which I had paid a fee, I was not allowed to land. Through -my glasses I saw, with a thrill of emotion, the tall columns of the -Parthenon. At our ship’s side was a crowd of small craft rowed by -brown-skinned boatmen who kept up a chant of <i>Kyrie! Kyrie!</i> (Lord! -Lord!) like the <i>Kyrie eleison</i> (Lord have mercy!) of the Catholic -Mass, touting for the custom of passengers, as they did three thousand -years ago, with those same shouts and waving of brown arms, and curses -to each other, and raising of oars, when ships came in from Crete and -Mediterranean ports with merchandise and travelers.</p> - -<p>So we passed into the Ægean Sea, and saw on our port side, like -low-lying clouds, the Greek islands in which the Gods once dwelt, and -the old heroes. We drew close to Gallipoli, and I thought of heroes -more modern, lying there in graves that were not old, who had done -deeds needing more courage than that of Ulysses and his men, and who -had faced monsters of human machine guns more dreadful than dragons -and many-headed dogs, and the Medusa head. The trenches were plainly -visible—British and Turkish—and the old gun-emplacements, and the -Lone Tree, and the barren slopes of Achi Baba where the flower of -Australian and New Zealand youth had fallen, and many Irish and English -boys.</p> - -<p>“Quite a good landing place,” said one of the <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_291" id="Page_291">[Pg 291]</a></span>passengers by my side. -I looked at him, suspecting irony, and remembering the landing of the -Twenty-Ninth Division, and the Australian troops, under destroying -fire. But this elderly Jew said again, in a cheerful way, “A nice cove -for a boat to land.”</p> - -<p>We went on slowly through the narrow channel, until in the morning -sunlight we saw the glory of the Golden Horn and the minarets of -Constantinople. It was then that half the passengers put on the red -fez of Islam, and paced the deck restlessly, with their eyes strained -toward the city of the Sultan.</p> - -<p>The fat American Jew touched me on the arm and spoke solemnly, with a -kind of warning. “For those who don’t wear a fez Constantinople won’t -be a safe place, I guess. They say there are bodies floating every -morning at the Golden Horn—stabbed in the back. I’m keeping close to -Pera.”</p> - -<p>The first view of the Golden Horn was as beautiful as I had hoped, -more than I had imagined, as we rounded the old Seraglio Point and -saw in the early sunlight of a May morning the glittering panorama of -Constantinople.</p> - -<p>The domes of San Sophia lay like rose-colored clouds above the cypress -trees. Beyond was the great mosque of Suleyman, its minarets, white and -slender, cutting the blue sky like lances. Further back, rising above a -huddle of brown old houses, was the mosque of Mohammad, the conqueror -who, five hundred years ago, rode into San Sophia on a day of victory, -over the corpses there, and left the imprint of a bloody hand on one of -the pillars where it is now sculptured in marble. White in the sun on -the water’s edge were the long walls of the Sultan’s palace. One could -see Galata, and the old bridge which crosses from Stamboul, and above, -on the hill, Pera, with its Grand’ Rue, its night clubs, its cabarets, -its Christian churches, and haunts of vice.</p> - -<p>Before we anchored, our ship was surrounded by a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_292" id="Page_292">[Pg 292]</a></span> swarm of boats, as -at Athens, but these were the narrow caïques of the Golden Horn, rowed -by Turks, who hung on by thrusting grapnel hooks through our portholes -and by clinging on to ropes. They were old sun-baked Turks, with white -beards, and young Turks with only down on their faces and roving eyes -for the unveiled women on our decks, and together they raised a wild -chant as they called “Effendi! Effendi!” and invited us to go ashore. -Other ships passed us—a steamer crowded with Russian refugees fleeing -from the Bolshevik pursuit of Wrangel, a British destroyer, sailing -boats with leg-o’-mutton sails, billowing white above the blue water, -and many of the little <i>caïques</i> where, on Turkish rugs, sat Turkish -ladies like bundles of black silk, deeply veiled, so that one had no -glimpse of a face.</p> - -<p>My young son and I, with light baggage, secured a <i>caïque</i> with the fat -American Jew, who had enormous cases of samples which nearly sank the -boat when they were dumped in by the Turkish porters. We were rowed -across the Golden Horn to the Customs office by two Kurdish boatmen, -and there were seized upon by a crowd of Turks who fought each other -for our baggage. In the customs office the Turkish officials were -highly arrogant young men in uniform, who smoked innumerable cigarettes -and refused to pass the American’s samples of boots and shoes until -he had bribed them with some of his very best pairs. After that long -delay we took a carriage and two horses and drove at a smart trot to -the Pera Palace Hotel where I found my comrade of the war, Percival -Phillips, and a bevy of English and American correspondents watching -the secret progress of a drama which might result in another European -war and set the whole East aflame. It was Phillips, as well as the High -Commissioner, Admiral Webber, and various Intelligence officers, who -“put me wise,” as the Americans say, to the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_293" id="Page_293">[Pg 293]</a></span> situation which had its -secret plot in Constantinople, but its fighting center in Angora. Here -in “Constant” there was a mask of peaceful obedience to the decrees -of the International Occupation. It was called “International,” and -there were French and Italian troops and police on both side of the -Galata Bridge, but the real command was in the hands of the British -High Commissioner and the real power in the hands of the British -fleet. The French were “huffy” because of that, and General Franchet -de l’Esperay had left in a temper because he would not take orders -from the British, and was up to his eyes in political intrigue. The -Sultan was a puppet in the hands of the British, ready to sign any -document they put before him, provided his personal safety was assured. -But every Turk in his palace, and in the back streets of Galata and -Stamboul, were rebels against his submission, and spies and agents on -behalf of the Nationalist Turks in Angora. Those were the real fellows. -They refused to recognize the Allied terms of peace, or any peace. They -were contemptuous of the Sultan’s enforced decrees. They even denied -his religious authority. They had raised the old flag of Islam and were -stirring up fanaticism through the whole Mohammadan world as far as -India. But they were modern in their ideas and methods, “Nationalist” -and not religious in their faith, like the Irish Sinn Feiners who put -national liberty before Catholic dogma. They were raising levies of -Turkish peasants, drilling them, arming them (with French weapons!), -teaching them that if they wanted to keep their land they must fight -for it. There was a fellow named Mustapha Kemal. He would be heard of -later in history as a great leader. He was raiding up the coast as far -as Ismid, and little companies of British Tommies had had to fall back -before his irregulars. Not good for our prestige! But what could we do -on the Asiatic side, with only a few battalions of boys? <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_294" id="Page_294">[Pg 294]</a></span>Meanwhile, -the Turks in Constantinople were sending money, men and munitions to -the Nationalists, and there was precious little we could do to stop -them, in spite of our troops and police. Why, there was gun-running -under the Galata Bridge, almost as open as daylight! Mustapha -Kemal’s strength was growing—nobody knew how strong. Perhaps it was -underestimated. Perhaps one day the Greeks, holding a long line across -Asia Minor for the protection of Smyrna, would get a nasty surprise. -Who could trust a Greek Army, anyhow? And what was the British -Government—that beggar Lloyd George!—doing with all their pro-Greek -policy? It was doing us no good in the Mohammadan world. Even India was -getting restless because their political agitators were pretending the -Sultan was a prisoner and the Prophet insulted! Not that the Indian -Mohammadans cared a curse about the Sultan really, belonging to a -different sect. But it was all propaganda, and dangerous. The whole -situation was full of danger, and Constantinople was a very interesting -city in this time of history.</p> - -<p>That was the gist of the conversation I heard from Phillips, and -British Intelligence officers, and naval lieutenants, and travelers -from the Near or Far East, in the smoking room of the Pera Hotel, which -looked out to the Grand’ Rue with its ceaseless procession of Turks, -Greeks, Armenians, Israelites, French and Italian officers, Persians, -Arabs, Negroes, Gypsies, American “drummers,” British soldiers, and -Russian refugees—the queerest High Street in the world, the meeting -place between the East and the West, the unsafe sanctuary of those in -flight from the greatest tragedy in the world, which was in Russia.</p> - -<p>For one scene in this drama the dining room of the Pera Palace -Hotel—a thieves’ kitchen in the way of fleecing the visitor—was an -entertaining prologue. Rich Turks came here to listen to incautious -conversations by<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_295" id="Page_295">[Pg 295]</a></span> foreign journalists, or irresponsible young middies -from the British fleet lying in the Bosphorus, or to act as liaison -officers between Mustapha Kemal and his political supporters in the -sacred city. There was one Turkish family who dined here every day, -the women unveiled as a sign of their modernism, and one of them so -beautiful with her dark liquid eyes touched by kohl, that she had to -sustain the gaze of young Christian dogs in naval uniform—and did not -seem to mind. Greek and Armenian merchants brought their ladies here, -dressed in Paris fashions by way of the Grand’ Rue de Pera, and light -in their way of behavior, despite the glowering eyes of old Turks who -watched them sullenly. Cossack officers who had lost their command, and -all but their pride, came in full uniform, with black tunics crossed -by cartridge belts, high, black boots, and astrachan caps. One of them -was a giant with a close-cropped head like a Prussian officer, and -a powerful, brutal face, but elegant drawing-room manners, as when -he bent over the hands of lady friends and kissed their rings. These -last fugitives from the last expedition against Bolshevik Russia lived -gayly for a time on the diamonds they had hidden in their boots. Their -motto was the old one: “Let’s eat, drink, and be merry, for to-morrow -we die!” They gave banquets to each other while they had any means of -paying the bill. That was easy while they had a few jewels, for in -a private room at the Pera Palace were Jew dealers who would value -a diamond ring with expert knowledge and pay in Turkish pounds. One -general paid for his dinner party in a different way. At the end of the -meal he took his wife’s fur tippet from her shoulders, handed it to the -waiter, and said, “Bring me the change!”</p> - -<p>Their own paper money was almost worthless in purchasing value, whether -Czarist roubles, or Denikin roubles, or Soviet roubles. One of the -Cossack officers<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_296" id="Page_296">[Pg 296]</a></span> ordered a cocktail, and paid 100,000 roubles for the -little nip of stimulant.</p> - -<p>Once or twice a week there was a dance after dinner at this hotel -patronized by the younger officers of the British and American fleets -and the society of Pera. Some of the women there were beautiful, though -mostly too plump, which is the way of Greek ladies and Armenian, after -a certain age. Their shoulders rose above their low-cut dresses. Young -naval lieutenants winked at each other, sometimes danced with each -other and said, “Hot stuff, dear child! Beware!”</p> - -<p>In such a place, at such a time, there was no sense of the East, near -or far, no reminder of the tragedies within a stone’s throw of the -windows, no reminder of great menace creeping across the clock of Time -to this city and its mixed inhabitants, no fear of massacre. Yet, when -I went outside that hotel, by day, and often by night, I was aware of -those things, smelt something evil here, beyond the noxious stench -of the narrow streets. The Turks who slouched up the Grand’ Rue, -or crowded the bazaars of Stamboul and Galata, had no love for the -Christian inhabitants, civil or military. I saw them spit now and then, -when British Tommies passed giving the glad eye to young Turkish women -who let down their veils like window blinds hurriedly drawn.</p> - -<p>Often I went down to the Galata Bridge with my young son, glancing -often over my shoulder when there was any crush, because I did not want -his young life ended by a stab in the back which happened sometimes, -I was told, to soldier boys of ours. Beyond that bridge, where two -Turks stood receiving toll from all who passed, was the beginning -of the East, stretching away and away to that great swarming East -which was held back from Europe by a few battleships, a few British -regiments, and the last prestige of the European peoples, weakened -by its internecine warfare. Could we hold back<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_297" id="Page_297">[Pg 297]</a></span> the East forever, or -even the Turkish nationalists from this city on the Bosphorus? Across -the bridge came Turkish porters carrying great loads at the nape of -the neck, Persians in high fur caps, Kurds, Lazis, Arabs, Soudanese, -negroes, Gypsy queens in tattered robes, smart young Turks in black -coats and the red fez, Turkish women in blue silk gowns, deeply veiled. -In the bazaars near by there were swarms of Turks, Armenians, and Jews, -selling German and American goods, Oriental spices, Turkish and Persian -carpets, dried fruits, shell oil. Around the mosques of Stamboul sat -groups of Turks smoking their narghili and talking, between the hours -when they washed their feet according to the law of the Prophet. Camel -caravans, with mangy, tired beasts, heavily laden, plodded down narrow -streets, and their drivers had news to tell, exciting to little groups -of Turks who gathered round. What news? What excitement?... There were -hidden emotions, passions, secrets, among these people, at which I -could only guess, or fail to guess.</p> - -<p>I thought of a story I had heard of the Reverend Mother in a Catholic -convent here in Constantinople. She had a Turkish porter at the convent -gate, an old man who had been a faithful servant. She asked him if he -thought there would be any rising in the city among the Turks, and, if -so, whether her convent school would be respected. “Do not be afraid,” -he said. “When the massacre begins I myself will kill you without any -pain.” He promised her an easy death.</p> - -<p>There was, I thought, only one safeguard against massacre in this city -seething with racial hatred. It was the fear of those young British -soldiers, with their French comrades, and sailor cousins, who kept -order in Constantinople. It was a fear inspired mainly by British -prestige. We had no great strength at that time, as far as I could see, -less than two full Divisions of infantry—mostly <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_298" id="Page_298">[Pg 298]</a></span>boys who had been too -young to fight in the Great War—and some Indian cavalry, Mohammadans -like the Turks. In the Bosphorus, it was true, there was a considerable -fleet, led by the Iron Duke, and some American warships, but a rising -in Constantinople, an attack on the European quarters, would lead to -dirty work. There would be many Christian throats cut.</p> - -<p>The British troops did not seem nervous. They are never nervous, but -take things as they come. At the upper end of the Rue de Pera there -were numbers of wine shops and dancing halls where they gathered in -the evenings. As I passed them I saw groups like those with which I -had been familiar in the estaminets on the Western front. They were -singing the same old songs. Through the swing doors came gusts of -laughter and those choruses roared by lusty voices. In Constantinople -as in Flanders! The Y.M.C.A. was doing good work in keeping them out of -temptation’s way, down back alleys, where Greek girls waited for them, -or where Turkish ladies hid in the dark courtyards. On the whole they -gave no great trouble to the “red caps” who rounded them up at night. -The American Jacks gave more. Coming from “dry” ships, they drew a -bee line for the booze shops, and were mad drunk rapidly. The British -A.P.M. with whom I went round the city one night, had the genial -permission from the American Admiral to have them knocked on the head -by the naval police as quickly and smartly as possible. It was safer -for them.</p> - -<p>I shall never forget one of those young American sailors whom I -encountered at a music hall close to the Pera Palace, known as the -“Petits Champs.” A variety show was given there nightly, by Russian -singers and dancers with a Russian orchestra, and it was crowded with -all the races of the world which met in Constantinople. Some of the -dancing girls had been ladies of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_299" id="Page_299">[Pg 299]</a></span> quality in Russia. Now they showed -their bodies to this assembly of wine-drinking men and evil women, of -East and West, for the wages of life. The orchestra played Russian -music with a wild lilt in it—the rhythm of the primitive soul of the -old Slav race. It worked madness in the brain of the young American -Jack, who sat next to me, with one of his petty officers. He was a -nice, sweet-faced fellow, but with too much beer in him to withstand -this music. For a time he contented himself with dangling his watch in -his glass of beer, but presently his body swayed to the rhythm, and he -waved his handkerchief to the ladies on the stage. Then he seized a -great tin tray from a passing waiter and danced the hula-hula with it, -with frightful crashes and bangs. No one took much notice of him. The -petty officer smiled, as at a pleasant jest. Our own sailors were merry -and bright, and there was a great noise in the cabaret of the Petits -Champs.</p> - -<p>There was no noise, but a kind of warm silence, if such a thing may be, -in a Turkish house on the hillside overlooking the Bosphorus, where my -son and I took dinner with a young English merchant and his wife. It -was an old wooden house called a “palace,” with a broad balcony above -a little tangled garden. Down there among the trees with a little old -mosque with one minaret, and far below the British fleet lay at anchor, -mirrored in the glasslike water. The spearheads of black cypress trees -in our garden pointed to the first stars of evening in a turquoise sky, -faintly flushed by the rose tints of sunset. Beyond, the Asiatic shore -stretched away, with the lights of Scutari clustered at the water’s -edge below the slopes of Bulgaria, and clear-cut against the sky rose -the tall white minarets of Buyak Djami, the great mosque built in -honor of Mirimah, the daughter of Suleyman the Magnificent. A band was -playing on one of our warships, and its music came faintly up to us.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_300" id="Page_300">[Pg 300]</a></span> -When it ceased, there was a great silence around us, except for the -flutter of bats skimming along our balcony.</p> - -<p>The young English merchant—the head of the greatest trading house -in the Near East—sat back in a cane chair, talking somberly of the -stagnation of his business owing to the effects of war and the failure -of peace. He was anxious about the Nationalists in Angora. That fellow -Mustapha Kemal—The Greeks might not have the strength to hold Smyrna! -Every Turk had vowed to get back Smyrna at all costs. It was the worst -wound to their pride. The future was very uncertain. Damned bad for -trade. What was going to happen in Europe with all these race hatreds, -political intrigues, jealousies between French and British, Italian and -French, Greeks and all others. Venizelos had claimed too much. More -than Greece could hold....</p> - -<p>He was newly married, this young merchant of the Near East, and his -wife was beautiful and restless, and rather bored. She liked dancing -better than anything in the world, and had enjoyed it on the Iron Duke -with young British officers. Her merchant husband was not keen on -it—especially when his wife danced with those young naval officers, -I thought. He was a little annoyed now when she brought a gramaphone -on to the balcony and set it going to a dance tune and offered her -arms to a boy who had brought the latest steps from London—my son. -While they moved about to the rhythm of a rag-time melody, the young -merchant continued his analysis of a situation ugly with many perils -and troubles, and then was silent over his pipe. From the garden -came another kind of music as the rose flush faded from the sky and -the cypress trees were blacker against a paler blue. A white-robed -figure stood in the little turret of the minaret and turned eastward -and raised his voice in a long-drawn chant, rising and falling in the -Oriental scale of half-tones. It was the imam, calling to the Faithful<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_301" id="Page_301">[Pg 301]</a></span> -of the Prophet in the city of Mohammad. It was the voice of the East -as it has called through the centuries to desert and city and camel -tracks, to the soul of Eastern peoples under this sky and stars. It -rose above the music of a gramaphone playing rag-time melody, and -called across the waters of the Bosphorus where Western battleships -were lying, with their long guns, like insects with their legs -outstretched, as we looked down on them. Faintly from the shadow world, -and through this warm-scented air of an evening in Constantinople, came -answering voices, wailing, as the imams in each minaret of the city of -mosques, gave praise to God, and to Mohammad his Prophet.</p> - -<p>“The Turks aren’t finished yet,” said the young English merchant. “And -behind the Turk is Russia—and the East.”</p> - -<p>A chill made me shiver a little.... The sun had gone down.</p> - -<p>With Percival Phillips, sometimes, we visited the mosques and explored -Turkish street life on the Stamboul side of Constantinople, and went up -to Eyoub and the Sweet Waters of Europe, and wandered among the charred -ruins of a quarter of the city where a great fire had raged. Once, with -the young commercial traveler in vests and pants—three years before -an officer in the Great War—we walked to lonely districts where the -Indian cavalry had pitched their camps beyond the city and when in a -little Turkish coffee shop, remote and solitary, some wild Gypsy women -in tattered robes of many colors, through which could be seen their -bare brown limbs, danced and sang. No need to ask the origin of the -Gypsy folk after seeing these. They were people of the Far East, and -their songs had the harsh and ancient melody of Oriental nomads.</p> - -<p>“Not particularly safe to wander far afield like this,” said the young -commercial traveler. He told stories of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_302" id="Page_302">[Pg 302]</a></span> Turkish robbers and assassins -in the outskirts of the city. But no harm befell us.</p> - -<p>In narrow streets off the Grand’ Rue de Pera, we came into touch with -another aspect of life in Constantinople—the heart of the Russian -tragedy among the Royalist refugees. Those people had arrived in -successive waves of flight following the defeat and rout of the -“White” expedition under Denikin, Wrangel, and others. The luckiest -among them, who had jewels to sell and a business instinct, had set up -little restaurants and wine shops in Pera. Somehow or other many of -them were able to get enough money to eat and drink in these places, -and they were always filled with Russian officers in uniform, with -their ladies. Those who served were often of higher rank than those -who dined, and a score of times I saw an officer rise, bow profoundly, -and kiss the hand of the waiting girl before he ordered his <i>bortsch</i>. -Probably she was a Princess. One could hardly order a cup of tea in -Constantinople without receiving it from a Russian princess or at least -a lady of quality in the old régime. I had a pork chop handed to me by -a bald-headed man with an apron round his waist whom I knew afterward -as the Admiral of the late Czar’s yacht. His fellow serving men were -aristocrats and intellectuals, wearing white linen jackets and doing -their job as waiters with dignity as well as skill. Poor devils! In -spite of their courage and their gayety, they were having a rough life -in Constantinople with no hope ahead, except the fading dreams that -Soviet Russia would be overthrown by some internal plot or foreign -intervention. In spite of all the millions lent to Russia by Great -Britain, and all the arms and ammunition supplied by us to Koltchak, -Denikin, and all the “White” Armies, they regarded England as the chief -cause of their repeated failures, and as a nation which had not helped -their cause with proper loyalty. It was the one-time Admiral of the -Czar’s yacht who<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_303" id="Page_303">[Pg 303]</a></span> made this complaint to me, and said, “England has -betrayed us!”</p> - -<p>That evening I sat with a young British naval officer in the Pera -Palace hotel and heard the other side of the story. He had been looking -angrily at some Cossack officers and their ladies, laughing over their -coffee cups.</p> - -<p>“I’m not bloodthirsty,” he said, “but it would give me the greatest -pleasure in the world to cut one of those fellow’s throats.”</p> - -<p>He told me the cause of his bitterness—the inefficiency, the -corruption, the vanity, the damned selfishness, the jealousy of those -White officers. We had sent out vast stores of arms and ammunition, -but they never got to the front. Crowds of these fellows, swaggering -about in uniform, never went near their wretched men in the trenches, -and were hundreds of miles behind, gambling, drinking, indulging in -amorous adventure. The women were just as bad, many of them. Worse, -if anything! We had sent out consignments of clothes for the Russian -nurses, who were in rags at the front where they were looking after the -wounded. That underclothing, those stockings, and boots, and raincoats -never reached the nurses. They had been seized and worn by the female -harpies hundreds of miles behind the line. He had more respect for the -Reds than for this White rabble. One day the British taxpayer would -want to know why we were keeping thousands of them in the island of -Prinkipo and elsewhere....</p> - -<p>I went out to Prinkipo, and did not feel the bitterness of that young -officer who had no patience with our charity. A boatload of refugees, -with a crowd of women and children, had just arrived and were sitting -among their bundles and boxes on the quayside, forlorn, melancholy, -sick after a long voyage across the Black Sea, and after the horror -of flight from the Red Terror. We could not let them starve to death -without a helping hand. </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_304" id="Page_304">[Pg 304]</a></span></p> - -<p>Certainly we were doing them rather well on Prinkipo, and it seemed to -me an island of delight where I, for one, would gladly have stayed a -month or two, or a year or two, if my own folk had been there. These -Russian exiles made the best of it. Their laughter rang out in a -wooden restaurant where a party of them dined to the music of a little -orchestra which played mad and merry music. Some of those Russian girls -were amazingly beautiful, patrician in manner and grace.</p> - -<p>Along a road leading through green woods to a golden shore lapped by -little frothing waves, came a cavalcade of Russians on donkeys, which -they raced with each other, screaming with laughter. Further on, where -the woods ended, there was a smooth greensward on which a crowd of -Russian folk were dancing to the music of a hurdy-gurdy. Hand in hand -young Russian men and women, once great people in Moscow and Odessa, -wandered playing the pleasant game of love-in-idleness. Not too bad to -be a refugee at Prinkipo, until they awakened from their lotus eating -to the hopelessness of their state, to the raggedness of their clothes, -to their life without purpose and prospect, and, later on, to a new -menace of death from bloodthirsty Turks in alliance with Red Russia. -There would not be much good will to Russian Royalists living here on -Prinkipo in the wooden villas and palaces built by Turkish pashas for -their summer pleasure.</p> - -<p>When the last wave of flight came, after Wrangel’s downfall, -Prinkipo became overcrowded and fever-stricken, and the Russians -in Constantinople, tens of thousands of poverty-stricken folk of -peasant class, would have starved to death but for the charity of -British and American relief work. They were panic-stricken as well as -poverty-stricken, after the burning of Smyrna.</p> - -<p>So in Constantinople I saw the drama of a city in which<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_305" id="Page_305">[Pg 305]</a></span> the East met -the West—across the Galata Bridge—and where the strife and agony -of many races upheaved by war and revolution, seethed as in a human -cauldron. In this city of the Mohammadan world, and of Russia in exile, -and of French, German, Italian, and Greek intrigue, the peace of the -world did not seem secure and lasting. It filled me with sinister forebodings.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_306" id="Page_306">[Pg 306]</a></span></p> - -<h2>XXIII</h2> - -<p>It was a British ship which took me from Constantinople to Smyrna, -and it gave me a thrill of patriotic pleasure to get porridge for -breakfast, and ham and eggs with buttered toast.</p> - -<p>Apart from the officers and crew, there were few English folk aboard. I -can only remember one—a good-looking and good-humored major, who was -bound for Alexandria in company with a pretty Greek woman who seemed to -be under his chivalrous protection. The other first-class passengers -were Greeks, Armenians, and Jews. On the lower deck were groups of -Italian soldiers who sang and danced continuously, a few Turks, an -old Arab woman in a dirty white robe, who gazed all day long over the -side of the ship as though reading some spell of fate in the lace work -patterns of froth woven by our passage through the dead calm sea, and -families of Israelites lying among their bundles.</p> - -<p>It was good to lie on the boat deck in the direct glare of the sun, -pouring its warmth down from a cloudless sky, and to watch with -half-shut eyes the golden glitter of the sea and its change of color -and light from deepest blue to palest green, as the currents crossed -our track and white clouds passed overhead and the sun sank low, as -evening came. Fairy islands, dreamlike and unsubstantial, appeared on -the far horizon, and then seemed to sink below its golden bar. At night -the sky was crowded with stars, shining with a piercing brightness, and -it seemed no wonder then that to each of them the Greeks had given a -name and godlike attributes. They seemed closer to the world than in an -English sky,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_307" id="Page_307">[Pg 307]</a></span> heaven’s brilliant train, and on this ship in a lonely -sea—no other boat passed us—the company of the stars was friendly and -benign.</p> - -<p>From the lower deck came the singing of the Italian soldiers, with -their liquid words and open notes, in which I heard something very old -in the melody of life. The Greeks were singing, too, in a separate -group, softly, to themselves, and with a melancholy cadence. Tiny -sparks of fire, like glow-worms, flitted to and fro on the lower deck. -It was the glow of cigarette ends, as the Italian soldiers danced the -fox trot and the one step. Now and then a match was lighted, and one -saw it held in the hollow of brown hands, illumining a dark Italian -face.</p> - -<p>My son and I sat on coils of rope, up on the boat deck, with a Greek -girl with whom we had made friends. She talked and talked, and held us -spellbound by her philosophy of life, her gayety, her bitter wisdom, -her fearlessness and wit. It was a short voyage, and we have never -seen her again, but we shall not forget that laughing Greek girl -who spoke half the languages of Europe, and English perfectly, and -American with such intimate acquaintance that she could sing little -old nigger songs with perfect accent, as it seemed to us. Yet she had -never been in England or America, and had spent nearly all her life in -Constantinople, with brief visits to Greece, and two frightful years in -Russia. She had learnt English, and her negro songs, in the American -College at Constantinople, to which she looked back with adoration, -though she had been a naughty rebel against all its discipline.</p> - -<p>As a governess to a German family in Russia, she had learnt another -language—besides Russian, Greek, French, Turkish and English—and had -been thoroughly amused with life, until the Red Revolution broke in -Moscow. Her Germans fled, leaving her alone in their empty flat, and -then she learnt more than ever she had guessed about<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_308" id="Page_308">[Pg 308]</a></span> the cruelties of -life. Her life was saved by her gayety and “cheek,” as she called it. -When a crowd of Red soldiers threatened to slit her throat, she jeered -at them, and then made them roar with laughter by playing comic songs -on the piano and singing them with merry pantomime. That was all right, -but she starved and went in expectation of death month after month. -Her Russian friends, students and intellectuals, were mostly shot or -hanged. She recognized some of them as they hung from lamp-posts in the -streets, and gave us a vivid imitation of how they looked, with their -necks cricked and their tongues hanging out. She became used to that -sort of thing.... After wandering adventures, abominable hardships, in -dirt and rags, she got through at last to Constantinople, and lived for -a time on a Greek gunboat, as one of the crew, wearing one of their -caps and a sailor’s jersey. They saved her from starving to death, -until she was able to get in touch with her family. Now she was going -to Alexandria, as a typist in an English office.</p> - -<p>She was tremendously amused with all this experience. She wouldn’t have -missed it for the world. It was the adventure of life, and the great -game. There was nothing in life but that—and what did death matter -after this adventure whenever it came! We spoke of war, and the chance -of world peace, and she scoffed at the chance. War was inevitable—the -greatest adventure of all. Cruelty?—Yes, that was part of the -adventure. Men were heartless, but amusing, even in their cruelties. -It was no good looking at life seriously, breaking one’s heart over -impossible ideals. It was best to laugh and take things as they came, -and shrug one’s shoulders, whatever happened. It was Life!... So we -talked under the stars.</p> - -<p>There was another girl on board who talked to us. She belonged to a -different type and race—a tragic type,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_309" id="Page_309">[Pg 309]</a></span> and Armenian. She had some -frightful photographs in a satchel which she wore always round her -waist. They were photographs of Turkish atrocities in Asia Minor. There -was one of a Turkish officer sitting on a pile of skulls and smoking a -cigarette. Those skulls had once held the living brains of this girl’s -family and townsfolk at Samsun. She told me of the death march of the -Armenians when the Turks drove them from the coast into the interior. -The women and children had been separated from their men folk, who were -then massacred. Her father and brother had been killed like that. They -passed their bodies on the roadsides. The women and children had been -driven forward until many dropped and died, until all were barefoot and -exhausted to the point of death. Kurdish brigands had robbed them of -the little money they had, and their rings. Some of the younger girls -were carried off. Their screams were heard for a long way. There were -not many who reached the journey’s end.... A terrible tale, told with a -white passion of hate against the Turk, but without tears, and coldly, -so that it made me shiver.</p> - -<p>In that ship, sailing under the stars in the Ægean Sea, I learnt more -than I had known about the infernal history of mankind during war and -revolution. I had seen it in the West. These were stories of the East, -unknown and unrecorded, as primitive in their horror as when Assyrians -fought Egyptians, or the Israelites were put to the sword in the time -of Judas Maccabæus.</p> - -<p>Our ship put in at Mitylene, and with the Greek girl we explored the -port and walked up the hillside to an old fort built by the Venetians -in the great days when Venice was the strongest sea power in that part -of the world. On the way, the Greek girl chatted to shopkeepers and -peasants in their own tongue, and hers, and then climbed to the top of -the fort, sitting fearlessly on the edge of the wall and looking back -to the sea over which we had<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_310" id="Page_310">[Pg 310]</a></span> traveled, and down to our ship, so small -as we saw it from this height.</p> - -<p>In the valley, Greek peasants of better type and stock than those at -Athens, and true descendants of the people whose tools and gods and -jewels they turn up sometimes with their spades, were leading their -sheep and goats. Some of them were singing and the sound rose clear -up the hillside with a tinkling of goat bells and the baaing of the -sheep. Wild flowers were growing in the old walls of the fort, and the -hillside was silvered with daisies. We seemed very close to the blue -canopy of the sky above us, as we sat on the edge of the wall, and in -the warm sunshine, and above that calm, crystal-clear sea, mirroring -our ship, we seemed to be touched by the immortality of the gods, and -to be invested with the beauty of the springtime of the world.</p> - -<p>“It would be good to stay here,” said the Greek girl. “We could keep -goats and sing old Greek songs.”</p> - -<p>However, presently she was hungry, and scrambled off the wall and said, -“The ship—and supper!”</p> - -<p>So we went down to the little port again and rowed away from Mitylene -to the ship which was sounding its siren for our return.</p> - -<p>We reached Smyrna next morning, and I, for one, was astonished by the -modern aspect of its sea frontage, upon which the sun poured down. -Beyond the broad quays it swept round the gulf in a wide curve of white -houses, faced with marble and very handsome along the side inhabited, I -was told, by rich Armenian merchants.</p> - -<p>“The Turks will never rest till they get Smyrna back,” said the English -major by my side, and his words came as a sharp reminder of the lines -away beyond the hills, where a Greek army lay entrenched against the -Turkish nationalists and Mustapha Kemal. But no shadow of doom crept -through the sunlight that lay glittering upon those white-fronted -houses, nor did I guess that one day,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_311" id="Page_311">[Pg 311]</a></span> not far ahead, Englishmen, like -myself, looking over the side of this ship, would see the beauty of -that city devoured by an infernal fury of flame, and listen to the -screams of panic-stricken crowds on those broad quaysides, hidden -behind rolling clouds of smoke....</p> - -<p>When we landed, in the harbor-master’s pinnace, we found that we had -come on a day of festival among the Greek army of occupation and -the Greek inhabitants of Smyrna. All the ships in the harbor—among -them the very gunboat in which our Greek lady had lived as one -of the crew—were dressed in bunting, and flags were flying from -many buildings. Greek officers, very dandified, in much decorated -uniforms, with highly polished boots, drove along the esplanade in -open carriages, carrying great bouquets, on their way to a review by -the Commander-in-Chief outside the city. Smyrniote girls, Greek and -Armenian, were in fancy frocks and high-heeled shoes tripping gayly -along with young Greek soldiers. Bands were playing as they marched, -and all the air thrilled with the music of trumpets and military pomp. -Few Turks were visible among those Christian inhabitants. They were -mostly dockside laborers and porters, wearing the red fez of Islam.</p> - -<p>It was the English major who told me of the horror that had happened -here when the Greeks first landed. They had rowed off from their -transports in boats, and a crowd of these Turkish porters had helped -to draw the boats up to the quayside. All the Christian population was -on the front, waving handkerchiefs from windows and balconies. Ladies -of the American Red Cross were looking at the scene from the balcony -of the Grand Hotel Splendid Palace—what a name! There was no sign of -hostility from the Turks, but suddenly the Greek soldiers seemed to go -mad, and started bayoneting the Turks who had helped them to land. In -view of all the women and children who had assembled to greet them<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_312" id="Page_312">[Pg 312]</a></span> -with delirious joy, they murdered those defenseless men and flung their -bodies into the sea. It was a crime for which many poor innocents were -to pay when the Turkish irregulars came into Smyrna with the madness -of victory after the destruction of the Greek army by Mustapha Kemal -and his Nationalist troops. Well, that grim secret of fate lay hidden -in the future when Tony and I booked rooms at the Grand Hotel Splendid -Palace and entertained our little Greek lady to breakfast, and then at -midday waved towels out of the bedroom window in answer to her signals -from the ship which took her on her way to Alexandria and another -adventure of life. The English major brought a bucket to the upper -deck, as we could see distinctly and wrung a towel over it as a sign of -tears. We made the countersign....</p> - -<p>The sea front of Smyrna, with its modern marble-fronted houses, masked -an older and more romantic city, as we found in many walks in all its -quarters. It masked the Turkish squalor of little streets of wooden -shops and booths where crowds of Turkish women, more closely veiled -than those in Constantinople, bargained for silks and slippers and -household goods. In the old markets at the end of Frank Street, now -a heap of cindered ruins, we sauntered through the narrow passages -with vaulted roofs where old Turks sat cross-legged in their alcoves, -selling carpets from Ouchak and Angora, dried raisins and vegetables, -strips of colored silk for Turkish dresses, Sofrali linen, Manissa -cotton, German-made hardware, and all manner of rubbish from the East -and West, drenched in the aroma of spices, moist sugar, oil, and camels.</p> - -<p>I was anxious, as a journalist, to get the latest information about the -military situation away to the back of Smyrna, and for that purpose -called upon the British Military Mission, represented by a General -Hamilton and his staff. A charming and courteous man, he was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_313" id="Page_313">[Pg 313]</a></span> obviously -embarrassed by my visit, not knowing how much to tell me of a situation -which was extremely delicate in a political as well as a military way. -He decided to tell me nothing, and I did not press him, seeing his -trouble.</p> - -<p>I obtained all the information I wanted, and even more than I bargained -for, from the Greek authorities. The fact that I represented <i>The -Daily Chronicle</i>, known for its pro-Greek sympathies and for its -official connection with Lloyd George’s Government, gave me an almost -embarrassing importance. No sooner had I revealed my journalistic -mission than I received a visit from a Greek staff officer—Lieutenant -Casimatis—who put the entire city of Smyrna at my feet, as it were, -and as one small token of my right to fulfill the slightest wish, sent -round a powerful military car with two tall soldiers, under orders -to obey my commands. Tony was pleased with this attention and other -courtesies that were showered upon us. It was he, rather than myself, -who interviewed the Commander-in-Chief of the Greek army, and received -the salutes of its soldiers as we drove up magnificently to General -Headquarters.</p> - -<p>A military band was playing outside—selections from “Patience,” by -some strange chance—and in the antechamber of the General’s room Greek -staff officers, waisted, highly polished, scented, swaggered in and -out. The Commander-in-Chief was a very fat old gentleman, uncomfortable -in his tight belt, and perspiring freely on that hot day. The windows -of his room were open, and the merry music floated in, and the scent of -flowers, and of the warm sea. “He received us most politely,” as poor -Fragson used to sing in one of my brother’s plays, and with his fat -fingers moving about a big map, explained the military situation. It -was excellent, he said. The Greek army was splendid, in training and -<i>morale</i>, and longing to advance against the Turk, who was utterly<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_314" id="Page_314">[Pg 314]</a></span> -demoralized. Those poor Turkish peasants, forcibly enlisted by Mustapha -Kemal, wanted nothing but leave to go home. The Greek advance would -be a parade—the Commander-in-Chief, speaking in French, repeated his -words with relish and pride—“a parade, sir!” Unfortunately, he said, -Greece was hampered by differences among the Allies. The French were -certainly intriguing with the Turkish Nationalists of Angora—supplying -them with arms and ammunition! The Italians were no better, and very -jealous of Greek claims in Asia Minor. Greece had trust, however, in -the noble friendship of England, in the sympathy and aid of that great -statesman, Mr. Lloyd George.... The Greek army would astonish the world.</p> - -<p>So the old gentleman talked, and I listened politely, and asked -questions, and kept my doubts to myself. There was not a British -officer I had met anywhere, except General Hamilton in Smyrna, who had -a good word to say for the fighting qualities of Greek soldiers. There -was not one I had met who believed that they could hold Smyrna for more -than a year or two, until the Turks reorganized.</p> - -<p>It was Lieutenant Casimatis who introduced us to the -Commander-in-Chief, and he devoted himself to the task of presenting us -to all the people of importance in Smyrna, and taking us to schools, -hospitals, museums, and other institutions which would prove to us the -benevolence and high culture of Greek rulers in Asia Minor. He was a -cheery, stout little man, speaking English, which he had learnt in -India, and almost bursting with good nature and the desire to pump us -with Greek propaganda.</p> - -<p>He took us to the Greek Metropolitan at Smyrna, a black-bearded, -broad-shouldered, loud-laughing, excitable Bishop of the Orthodox -Church, wearing the high black hat and long black robe of his priestly -office, but reminding us of one of those Princes of the Church in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_315" id="Page_315">[Pg 315]</a></span> -the Middle Ages who led their armies to battle and sometimes wielded -a battleax in the name of the Lord. “An old ruffian,” I heard him -called by an English merchant of Bournabat, whose sympathies, however, -were decidedly pro-Turk. A picture representing the martyrdom of St. -Polycarp at Smyrna, in the early days of the Christian era, adorned -the wall opposite his desk, and he waved his hand toward it and spoke -of the martyrdom of the Christian people, not so long ago as that, but -only a year or two ago, when they were driven from the coast, as that -Armenian girl had told me. “The spirit of St. Polycarp,” he said, in -barbarous French, “animates the Greek Christians to-day, and nothing -would give me greater joy than to die for the faith as he did.” I have -never heard whether this pious wish was fulfilled. It seems to me -probable.</p> - -<p>For a long time he talked of the sufferings of the Greeks and -Armenians, calling upon various men in the room—his secretaries and -priests—to bear witness to the truth of his tales. Presently, with -some ceremony, servants came round with silver trays laden with glasses -of iced water and some little plates containing a white glutinous -substance. As the guest of ceremony, it was my privilege to be served -first, which did not give me the chance of watching what others might -do. I took a spoonful of the white substance, and swallowed it, hoping -for the best. But it was the worst that I had done. I discovered -afterward that it was a resinous stuff called <i>mastica</i>, something -in the nature of chewing gum. The mouthful I had swallowed had a -most disturbing effect upon my system, and even the Metropolitan was -alarmed. My son Tony, served second, was in the same trouble.</p> - -<p>In the Greek schools of Smyrna all the scholars were kept in during the -luncheon hour, while we went from class to class inspecting their work -and making polite<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_316" id="Page_316">[Pg 316]</a></span> bows and speeches to the teachers. The scholars, -ranging from all ages of childhood, did not seem to bear us any grudge -for their long wait for lunch, and we were much impressed by their -discipline, their pretty manners, their beautiful eyes. Tony felt like -the Prince of Wales, and was conscious of the “glad eyes” of the older -girls.... When Smyrna was reported to be a city of fire and massacre, I -thought with dreadful pity of those little ones.</p> - -<p>We touched with our very hands the spirit of this ancient race in -the time of its glory, when we went into the museum and handled the -pottery, the gods, the household ornaments, the memorials—found by -peasants with their picks not far below the soil—of that time when -Homer was born (it is claimed) in this city of the Ægean, when the -Ionians held it, when Lysimachus made it great and beautiful, until it -was one of the most prosperous ports in the world, crowded with Greek -and Roman and Syrian ships trading between the West and East.</p> - -<p>Lieutenant Casimatis took us to his little home away on a lonely road -beyond the Turkish quarter, and we spent an evening with his family, -a handsome wife and three beautiful children who sang little songs to -us in French and Greek. The poor lady was nervous. Some shadow of fear -was upon her because of that Turkish army beyond the Greek trenches. I -hope with all my heart she escaped from Smyrna with her babes before -the horror happened.... I drank to the welfare of Greece in the sweet -resinous wine which Lieutenant Casimatis poured out for us. It was a -sincere wish, but at the back of my mind was some foreboding.</p> - -<p>We drove out one day to Boudja and Bournabat, past the slopes of Mount -Pagus and away in the hills. Turkish peasants riding on donkeys or in -ox wagons jogged along the dusty tracks. We passed Turkish cemeteries -with tombstones leaning at every angle below tall, black cypress -trees, and looking back, saw the brown roofs<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_317" id="Page_317">[Pg 317]</a></span> of Smyrna below, as in a -panorama under the hot sun which made the gulf like molten metal.</p> - -<p>In the country we lost touch with the Western world. It was Asia, -with the smell and color and silence of the East. A camel caravan -moved slowly in the valley, like a picture in “The Arabian Nights.” -But at Boudja, and later at Bournabat, we were astonished to see -English-looking girls in English summer frocks, carrying tennis -racquets, and appearing as though they had just left Surbiton. These -two villages were inhabited by British merchants who had been long -settled there as traders in Oriental carpets, spices, raisins, dates, -and the merchandise of the East. We called on one of them at Bournabat, -and I rubbed my eyes when, with Asia Minor at the gate, we drove up -to a house that might have been transplanted from Clapham Park in the -early Victorian period, when Cubitt was building for a rich middle -class.</p> - -<p>The house was furnished like that, except for some bearskins and -hunting trophies, and the two old ladies and one old gentleman who gave -us tea might have been transported on a magic carpet from a tea party -in the time of the Newcomes. We had toasted muffins, and the stouter of -the two old ladies (who wore a little lace cap and sat stiffly against -an antimacassar, in a chintz-covered chair) asked whether we would take -one or two lumps of sugar with our tea. Tony, who was beginning to feel -an exile from civilization, beamed with happiness at this English life -again.</p> - -<p>The old gentleman had been the greatest trader in Asia Minor, and in -his younger days had hunted with Turkish peasants in the mountains. He -loved the Turk still, though he deplored the cruelties they had done -to the Christian populations in the war. For the Greeks he had pity, -and dreadful forebodings. He knew something of what was happening -behind the Turkish lines, with Mustapha Kemal. There would be no peace -until<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_318" id="Page_318">[Pg 318]</a></span> they had Smyrna back again. The Greeks had claimed too much. -Venizelos had lost his head. Lloyd George—The old man sighed, and fell -into a gloomy silence. “I’m afraid of the future,” he said, presently. -“Nobody will listen to my advice. The Greeks think I am pro-Turk. What -I want is a just peace, and above all peace. This is only an armed -truce.” He told me many things about the situation which filled me with -uneasiness. I promised to see him again, but after a few days we left -Smyrna for Athens.</p> - -<p>We traveled in a little steam yacht which had once been Vanderbilt’s -and now was a Greek passenger ship, called <i>Polikos</i>. It was crowded -with Greek officers, in elegant uniforms, and very martial-looking -until a certain hour of the evening. The passage began in a wonderful -calm, and after darkness there were groups of singing folk of different -nationalities, as on that other ship, but presently a terrific storm -broke upon us, and the singing ceased, and the <i>Polikos</i> was a ship of -sick and sorry people.</p> - -<p>Tony and I crept to our bunks in a big crowded cabin, and the Greek -officers in the other bunks were frightfully and outrageously ill. -Early next morning their martial appearance had gone and they were the -disheveled wrecks of men. Tony, with extreme heroism, staggered to the -saloon and ordered ham and eggs, but thought better of it before they -came, and took to his bunk again, below mine which I, less brave, had -never left. We were glad to reach Athens without shipwreck.</p> - -<p>We had a week of joy there, in dazzling sunshine, and wandered about -the ruins of the Acropolis and touched old stones with reverence, and -sipped rose-tinted ices in the King’s Gardens, and saw Greek boys -throwing the discus in the very arena where the games were played -in the Golden Age, and tried to remember odd scraps of classical -knowledge, to recall the beauty of the Gods and the <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_319" id="Page_319">[Pg 319]</a></span>wisdom of the -poets. All that need not be told, but it was as pro-Greeks that we -returned to England, and with memories which made us understand more -sharply the tragedy of that defeat when the Cross went down before the -Crescent, and the horror happened in Smyrna, and all the world held its -breath when Constantinople was threatened with the same fate.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_320" id="Page_320">[Pg 320]</a></span></p> - -<h2>XXIV</h2> - -<p>In October of 1921 I went to Russia for the purpose of making a report -on the Famine to the Imperial Relief Fund.</p> - -<p>Much as I disliked the idea of seeing the grisly vision of Famine after -so many experiences of war and its effects, I felt that it was an -inescapable duty to accept the invitation made to me. I was also drawn -by a strong desire to see the conditions of Russia, outside as well as -inside the famine area, and to get first-hand knowledge of the system -of Bolshevism which was a terror to the majority in Europe, with some -secret attraction, holy or unholy, among men and women of revolutionary -or “advanced” views.</p> - -<p>It was impossible to know the truth from newspaper reading. Stories -of Russian atrocities and horrors arrived from Riga, Helsingfors and -other cities on the border of the Soviet Republic, and were denied by -other correspondents. Knowing the way in which “atrocities” had been -manufactured in time of war, by every nation, I disbelieved all I read -about Russia circulated by the “White” propaganda department, while -doubting everything which came from “Red” sources. I think that was a -general attitude of mind among unprejudiced people.</p> - -<p>Even with regard to the Famine it was impossible to get near the -truth by newspaper accounts. <i>The Daily Mail</i> said the tales of -famine were vastly exaggerated. <i>The Daily Express</i> said there was -no famine at all. <i>The Morning Post</i> suggested that it was a simple -scheme for deluding Western nations in order to feed the Red Army. I -wanted to know, and promised to find out and report<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_321" id="Page_321">[Pg 321]</a></span> impartially to -the Imperial Relief Fund. <i>The Daily Chronicle</i> agreed to publish a -number of articles written after my return from Russia (in order to -avoid censorship), and I arranged to send an account to <i>The Review of -Reviews</i>, of which I was the rather nominal editor.</p> - -<p>A journalist friend of mine named Leonard Spray was also under -instructions from <i>The Daily Chronicle</i> to go to Russia, for another -line of inquiry, and much to my delight promised to wait for me -in Berlin so that we could travel together. It would make a great -difference having a companion on that adventure, for I confess that I -hate the lonely trail.</p> - -<p>It was a question of waiting for passports from the Soviet Foreign -Office in Moscow. I had applied to the Russian Trade Mission in -London and was recommended by an assistant to Krassin, an intelligent -and well-educated young Russian who professed devoted adherence to -Communism while doing himself remarkably well, I thought, with all the -material pleasures of capitalistic luxury. After a couple of weeks my -credentials arrived, my passport was indorsed with the stamp of the -Soviet Republic, and I had in this way a talisman which would open the -gate of Red Russia and let me enter the heart of its mystery. To some -of my friends it seemed the free admission to a tiger’s cage.</p> - -<p>In Berlin I was advised to buy blankets, cooking utensils, as much -food as I could carry, and illimitable quantities of insect powder. -I took this advice, and with Leonard Spray and a very useful lady -who understood the German ways of shopping, we bought this outfit, -remarkably cheap, reckoning in German marks which were then not quite -4,000 to the English pound.</p> - -<p>Among other items we acquired an enormous Dutch cheese, round and red, -which we wrapped up in a towel. It became our most precious possession, -and, as I may tell later, came to an honorable and joyous end. A<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_322" id="Page_322">[Pg 322]</a></span> -quantity of solid alcohol in tins somewhat in the style of the “Tommy’s -Cooker” also bulged out our bags and were an immense boon by enabling -us to heat up food and drink on our Russian journey.</p> - -<p>Spray and I spent two solid days obtaining <i>visas</i> in Berlin for all -the countries through which we had to pass on our way to the Russian -frontier by way of Riga—those new Baltic States created at Versailles.</p> - -<p>Our journey to Riga was half a nightmare and half a farce, and Spray -called our train the “Get in and Get out Express.” We generally arrived -at a new frontier in the dead of night or in the early hours of dawn, -after fitful sleep. Then we were awakened by armed guards demanding -to see our visa for each side of the “Danzig corridor” for Lithuania, -Esthonia, and Latvia.</p> - -<p>At Eydtkühnen, in East Prussia, we had a six-hours’ wait and were able -to see something of the Russian invasion and Germany’s “devastated -region” which had been the greatest cause of terror to the German mind -when the “Russian steam roller” first began to roll forward before -its subsequent retreat. Russian cavalry had done a lot of damage—the -Germans had plenty of atrocity stories to set beside those of Alost and -Louvain—and we saw even at that late date, so long after those early -days of war, the ruins of burnt-out farms and shell-wrecked houses. But -not many. German industry had been quick at work, and Eydtkühnen was -built up like a model town, with red-tiled roofs not yet toned down by -weather, and shop windows just exhibiting their first stocks.</p> - -<p>As we passed through the new Baltic States—Lithuania, Esthonia, -Latvia—I had an impression that the old British Armies of khaki men -had been transferred to those far countries. At every station there -was a crowd of soldiers, all of them clad in unmistakable khaki from -British stores, but made into misfits for bearded, or unshaven, portly -or slouchy men who looked—many of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_323" id="Page_323">[Pg 323]</a></span> them—like the old Contemptibles -after years of foreign exile and moral degeneration. Yet it would be -unfair to say they were all like that, for these Baltic peasants were -sturdy fellows enough, and, I should say, hard fighting men.</p> - -<p>In Riga we put up for three or four days, waiting for a train into -Russia and permission from Soviet representatives in that city to cross -the Russian frontier. In spite of our visas from headquarters, those -Riga Bolsheviks were extremely insolent and put up a blank wall of -indifference to our requests for railway facilities. There seemed to be -no chance of a place in any train, and very little chance of a train.</p> - -<p>Spray and I kicked our heels about in the little old city, very German -in its character, which seemed in a state of stagnation and creeping -paralysis. In its once busy port we saw no ship but a vessel carrying a -cargo of apples which it unloaded on the quayside. The restaurants were -almost deserted, and we drank little glasses of Schnapps in solitary -cafés. After midnight there was the awakening of a squalid night life -and we watched the Riga manifestation of the fox-trot mania, and an -imitation of the Friedrichstrasse <i>Wein Stube</i>, with a fair amount of -amusement on my part because of the strange types here in a city filled -with Russian exiles, Letts, Poles, Germans, Swedes, Lithuanians, and -all variety of northern races. But it was not Russia, which we had come -to see.</p> - -<p>I doubt whether we should ever have set foot in Russia if it had not -been for the American Relief Administration established in Riga and -just beginning to send food supplies into the famine area. The chief -of the Riga headquarters promised us two places on the next food train -going to Moscow, and broke through all formalities by reckoning us as -members of his staff.</p> - -<p>“What about the Famine?” I asked, and he said, “There’s a Famine all -right, with a capital F.” </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_324" id="Page_324">[Pg 324]</a></span></p> - -<p>It was a queer journey from Riga to Moscow—unforgotten by me. I have -put the spirit of it, as indeed of all my experience in Russia, into -my novel “The Middle of the Road,” under a thin guise of fiction, with -some imaginary characters. The train started at night, and Spray and -I, with our baggage carried by Lettish porters, stumbled along unlit -rail tracks to a long train in absolute darkness, except in a few -carriages where candles, stuck in their own grease, burned dimly on -the window ledges. In the corridor was a seething mass of Lettish and -Russian porters, laden with the enormous baggage of Russian, British, -German, American, and other couriers, who shouted at them in various -languages. A party of young American clerks and typists for the central -headquarters in Moscow of the American Relief Administration (always -known as the A.R.A., or even, shorter, as “Ara”) smoked cigarettes, -cursed because of the darkness and filth and stench and lack of space -for their baggage, and between their curses sang ragtime choruses.</p> - -<p>Violent action and terrific language in the American accent, on the -part of a large-sized man, cleared the corridor somewhat, and I met, -for the first time, a cheery young giant whom I have put into my -novel as “Cherry of Lynchburg, U.S.A.,” but who is really H. J. Fink, -courier, at that time, to the A.R.A. He is known as “The Milk-fed Boy” -by his fellow-travelers, and but for his enormous good nature, his -mixture of ferocity and joviality with obstructive Bolsheviks, his -genial command of the whole “outfit” from the “<i>provodniks</i>” or guards -to the engine drivers, the journey would have been more intolerable -than we found it. I take off my hat, metaphorically, to the “Milk-fed -Boy.”</p> - -<p>Our blankets were uncommonly valuable in the filthy carriage of bare -boards with wooden bunks which I shared with Spray. By rigging up -a “gadget” of straps strung across the carriage, we were able to -use our solid<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_325" id="Page_325">[Pg 325]</a></span> alcohol for heating up soups and beans, with only a -fifty-per-cent chance of setting the bunks on fire. We went easy on the -red Dutch cheese, remembering that we might have greater need of it in -times to come.</p> - -<p>The insect powder was extraordinarily good, for the insects, which -came out of their lairs as soon as the train warmed up. They throve -on it. It sharpened their appetite for Leonard Spray, who suffered -exceedingly. Afterward, all through Russia, he was a victim of these -creatures who at the first sight of him leapt upon him joyously. By -some thinness of blood, or anti-insect tincture—I strongly suspect -the nicotine of innumerable “gaspers”—I was wonderfully immune, and -Russian lice had no use for me, though I encountered them everywhere, -for Russia is their stronghold as carriers of typhus, with which the -people were stricken in every city and village.</p> - -<p>We saw Red soldiers for the first time at Sebesh, the Russian frontier, -anæmic-looking lads, wearing long gray overcoats and gray hoods, rising -to a point like Assyrian helmets, with the Red Star of the Soviet -Republic above the peak. Here at Sebesh also we saw the first trainload -of refugees from the famine area, whom we met in hordes throughout -our journey. They were Letts, and in a bad state, after being three -months on the way, in closed cattle trucks. Many were typhus-stricken. -All were weak and wan-looking, except some of the children, who -had a sturdy look in their ragged sheepskins. A man spoke to me in -English, with an American accent. He had come from Ufa, three thousand -miles away, and spoke tragic words about the people there. They were -starving, and near death.</p> - -<p>Our train crawled forward through flat, desolate country. The people -we saw at wayside stations looked wretched and gloomy. A light snow -lay on the ground, and the woods were black against it, and grim. Many -times our engine panted and then stopped for lack of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_326" id="Page_326">[Pg 326]</a></span> fuel. We waited -while fresh timber was piled on. The journey seemed interminable but -for the laughter of the “Milk-fed Boy,” and tales of Russian tragedy -by Mr. Wilton, the King’s messenger, who had a queer red glint in his -eyes, and a suppressed passion beneath his quiet and charming grace of -manner, when he spoke of all that agony in the country he loved. So at -last we reached Moscow, and in a little while came to know its way of -life.</p> - -<p>The fantastic aspect of the city, and especially at its heart by the -palace of the Kremlin, seemed to me as wild as an Oriental nightmare -in a hasheesh dream, with golden pear-shaped domes, and tall towers, -and high walls with fan-shaped battlements, and step flights of steps -leading to walled walks, and old narrow gateways guarded by Red -soldiers. There was something sinister as well as splendid in that vast -fortress palace which is a city within a city. It seemed to tell of -ancient barbarities. There was a spirit of evil about its very walls, -I thought. Perhaps vague memories of Russian history were sharpened by -the knowledge that somewhere within those walls was the brooding mind -of Lenin, whose genius had drowned Russia in blood and tears, if all -one heard, or a thousandth part of it, were true.</p> - -<p>I entered the Kremlin one day on a visit to Radek—whose name means -“scoundrel”—and was arrested three times at the guard posts before -reaching the rooms where the chief propaganda agent of Soviet Russia -lived with his wife and child, in simple domesticity, while he pulled -wires in all parts of the world to stir up revolution, or any kind of -trouble. Smiling through his spectacles, this man who looked a cross -between an ancient mariner and a German poet, with a fringe of reddish -beard round his face, was disarmingly frank and cynical on the subject -of Anglo-Russian relations, and had a profound and intimate knowledge -of foreign politics which startled me.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_327" id="Page_327">[Pg 327]</a></span> He knew more than I did about -the secret intrigues in England and France.</p> - -<p>Leonard Spray and I were billeted in a house immediately opposite -the Kremlin along an embankment of the river called the Sophieskaya. -It was, indeed, more than a house, being the palace of a pre-war -monopolist in sugar, and most handsomely furnished in the French Empire -style, with elegant salons on whose walls hung some valuable pictures, -among which I remember a Corot, and a Greuze.</p> - -<p>We arrived in the dark, after a visit to the Soviet Foreign Office and -an interview with a melancholy, soft-spoken, cross-eyed Jew, by name -Weinstein, who was in charge of foreign visitors and correspondents. A -pretty Lettish girl, shuffling along in bedroom slippers, opened the -door to us, and locked us in afterward. Then the housekeeper, a tall -Swede who spoke a little of all languages, conducted us up a noble -stairway, richly carved, to our bedroom, which was an immense gilded -salon without a bed. This lack of sleeping accommodation was remedied -by four Red soldiers who came staggering in under bits of an enormous -four-poster which they fixed up in a corner of the room. Spray took -possession of it, and I slept on a broad divan.</p> - -<p>It was bitterly cold, and we were almost frozen to death. I shall never -forget how Spray used to wrap himself up in the blankets to the top -of his head, like an Eskimo in his sleeping bag. That house was full -of strange people whom we used to pass in the corridors, including a -deputation of Chinese Mandarins from the Far Eastern Republic, and -a mission of Turks from Angora. One evening while we were there, -Tchicherin, the Foreign Minister, with whom I had a long interview, -gave a banquet on the third anniversary of the Soviet Republic to all -the missions represented in Moscow. It was a very handsome affair. All -the leading Bolsheviks<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_328" id="Page_328">[Pg 328]</a></span> were in evening dress, the Chinese Mandarins -wore cloth of gold, wine flowed copiously, and watching from the -doorway of my bedroom, I wondered what had happened to Bolshevism -and Communism, and what equality there was between those well-fed, -elegantly dressed gentlemen, dining richly in their noble rooms, and -those millions of starving peasants who were waiting for death, and -dying, in the Volga valley, or even the population of Moscow itself, -not starving altogether, but pinched, and half hungry in their ragged -sheepskins.</p> - -<p>Spray and I explored the life of Moscow, freely, as I must admit, for -never once were we aware of any deliberate espionage about us, though -often there were watchful eyes.</p> - -<p>We had arrived in time to witness a complete reversal of the -Communistic system by what Lenin called the “New Economic Laws.” On -October 17, 1921, while we were there, Lenin made an historic speech -in which he admitted, with amazing frankness, the complete breakdown -of the Communistic way of life which he had imposed upon the people. -He explained, with a kind of vigorous brutality of speech, that owing -to the hostility and ignorance of the peasants, who resisted the -requisition of their food stuffs, and the failure of world revolution -which prevented any international trade with Russia, industry had -disintegrated, factories were abandoned, transport had broken down, and -the system of rationing which had been in force in the cities, could no -longer be maintained.</p> - -<p>The cardinal theory of Communism was that in return for service to the -State, every individual in the State received equal rations of food, -clothes, education, and amusements. That was the ideal, but it could no -longer be fulfilled, for the causes given.</p> - -<p>“We have suffered a severe defeat on the economic front,” said Lenin. -“Our only safety lies in a rapid retreat upon prepared positions.” </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_329" id="Page_329">[Pg 329]</a></span></p> - -<p>He then outlined the “New Economic Laws,” which abolished the -rationing system, re-established the use of money, permitted “private -trading” which had been the unpardonable crime, and even invited the -introduction of foreign capital.</p> - -<p>We saw the immediate, though gradual and tentative effect of this -reversal of policy. It was visible in the market places of Moscow, -where peasants freely sold the produce of their farms under the eyes -of Red soldiers who previously would have seized and flung them into -prison for trading in that way.</p> - -<p>Among these peasants stood long lines of men and women who as I saw at -a glance were people of the old régime—aristocrats and intellectuals. -Shabby as most of them were, haggard and wan, unshaven and unwashed -(how could they wash without soap?), their faces, and above all their -eyes, betrayed them. They stood, those ladies and gentlemen of Imperial -Russia, holding out little articles which they had saved or hidden -during the time of revolution. The women carried their underclothing, -or their fur coats, tippets, and caps, embroidered linen, old shoes -and boots, their engagement rings, brooches, household ornaments. The -men—mostly old fellows—held out woollen vests, socks, pipes, rugs, -books, many odds and ends of their ancient life. Who bought these -things I could never tell, though I saw peasant women and old soldiers -fingering them, and asking the price, and generally shrugging their -shoulders and walking away.</p> - -<p>I spoke to some of the ladies there in French or German, and at first -they were very much afraid and would not answer, or left the market -place immediately, lest this were some police trap which would endanger -their liberty or life. Almost all of them, as I found afterward, had -been imprisoned for doing secretly the very thing which they now dared -to do in the open market place, but with trembling fear at first. </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_330" id="Page_330">[Pg 330]</a></span></p> - -<p>In the same way, timidly, with nervous foreboding, little groups of -families or friends opened a few shops in the Arbat, furnishing them -with relics of their old homes, and stocking them with a strange -assortment of goods.</p> - -<p>Two restaurants opened, one called “The English Restaurant,” where -Spray and I used to dine, almost alone, except for a Red Commissioner -or two who came in for coffee and a secret inspection, and now and then -a few ladies, furtively, for a plate of soup. The restaurant keepers -were of good family and ancient rank. The lady spoke English and -French, and told me many tales of her tragic life during the years of -revolution. Behind the bar was a pretty, smiling girl of sixteen or so, -amazed and delighted to see two English customers. Her father, dressed -like a seafaring man, was charming in his courtesy to us, but always -afraid.</p> - -<p>Even now I dare not write too freely about the people we met by hazard, -or by introduction, lest any words of mine should do them harm. There -was one family, of noble blood, who lived in two squalid rooms divided -by a curtain from a public corridor. The two daughters had one pair -of decent boots between them. They took turns to go out “visiting” at -the British Mission which gave Sunday afternoon receptions to a little -group of ladies, and taught them the fox trot and two step and other -dances which had become a mania in many Western nations, but were -utterly unknown in Russia, cut off from all the world.</p> - -<p>The old gentleman their father, and their charming mother, had dirty -hands. There was no soap in Russia, and in those rooms no chance of -hot water, except for tea. I marveled at their courage (though the old -man wept a little), and at the courage of all those people of the old -régime, who were living in direst poverty, in perpetual fear of prison, -or worse than that. They saw the ruin of Russia, but still had hope -that out of all that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_331" id="Page_331">[Pg 331]</a></span> agony, and all their tears, some new hope would -dawn for the country they loved. So many people told me, and among them -one bedridden lady, near to death, I think, who said that there would -be a new and nobler Russia born out of all this terror and tribulation.</p> - -<p>Moscow was not starving to death, though many in it were always hungry. -When the American Relief Administration opened a soup kitchen in the -famous old restaurant, The Hermitage, thousands of children came to be -fed, but, on the whole, they were not famine-stricken—only underfed -and uncertain of the next day’s meal.</p> - -<p>With its dilapidated houses, many of them wrecked by gunfire in the -first days of the revolution, Moscow had a melancholy look, and few of -its people, outside the Commissar and Soviet official class had any -margin beyond the barest needs of life. But the people in the mass -looked healthy, and they were not deprived of all light and beauty in -life. The opera, and two or three theaters were open, crowded every -night by the “proletariat” in working clothes. In the Imperial box of -the opera, with its eagles covered under the Red Flag, sat a group of -mechanics with their wives, and between the acts the foyer was crowded -with what looked like the “lower middle class,” as we should see them -in some music hall on the Surrey side of London. The opera and the -ballet were as beautiful as in the old days, maintaining their historic -traditions, though all else had gone in Russia, and it was strange to -see this stage splendor in a Republic of ruin.... But not yet had I -seen the famine.</p> - -<p>I came closer to the effects of famine in Petrograd. That city, grim -but magnificent as I saw it under heavy snow, had a sinister and tragic -look. During the war its population had been 3,000,000 and more. When -Spray and I walked along the Nevski Prospekt, where all the shops -but six or seven were barricaded with wooden planks, there were only -750,000 people in the whole of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_332" id="Page_332">[Pg 332]</a></span> this great city. Palaces, Government -offices, great banks, city offices, huge blocks of buildings, were -uninhabited and unlighted. Many of those who had been government -officials, rich merchants, factory owners, were shoveling snow upon the -streets, or dragging loads of wood on sledges over the slippery roads. -They wore bowler hats, black coats with ragged collars of astrachan, -the clothes of a “genteel” world that had gone down into the great -gulfs of revolution.</p> - -<p>At every street corner were men and women selling cigarettes. Some of -those women, and one I especially remember, were thinly clad, shivering -in the biting wind, and obviously starved. The very look of them made -me shiver in my soul.</p> - -<p>In Petrograd I went to a home for refugees from the famine region. All -round the city were great camps of these people, who had come in a tide -of flight—hundreds of thousands—when the harvest of 1921 was burnt as -black as that of 1920 in the awful drought. Four thousand or so were -in one of the old Imperial barracks, and they had come three thousand -miles to reach this refuge at the end of their journey. Outside, in -Petrograd, there was a hard, grim frost. In these bare whitewashed -rooms there was no heat, for lack of fuel, and men, women and children -lay about in heaps, huddled together in their sheepskins for human -warmth, tormented by vermin, fever-stricken, weak. Too weak to stand, -some of them, even to take their place in line for the daily ration of -potato soup. A doctor there took us round. He pointed to those with -typhus, and said, “There’s no hope for them. They’ll be dead to-morrow -or next day.”</p> - -<p>When we crossed a courtyard, he stopped a moment to thrust back a heavy -door. “Our morgue,” he said. “Three-days’ dead.” Inside was a pile of -dead bodies, men, women and children, flung one on top of the other -like rubbish for the refuse heap. Hands and legs <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_333" id="Page_333">[Pg 333]</a></span>obtruded from the -mass of corruption. It was the end of their journey.</p> - -<p>But the opera was very brilliant in Petrograd, some distance from that -heap of mud-colored corpses. I went to the Marinsky theater and heard -“Carmen.” It was marvelously staged, admirably sung, and there was a -packed audience of “trade unionists,” as I was told, on free tickets, -but as everybody in Russia had to belong to a trade union or die, it -did not specify the character of the people closely. I think most of -them were of the clerical class, with a few mechanics. On the way -back we followed a party of young men and women walking in snow boots -and wrapped to their ears in ragged furs or woollen shawls. They were -laughing gayly. Their voices rang out on the still frosty air under the -steely glint of stars.... So there were still people who could laugh -and make love in Russia!</p> - -<p>How did they live, these people? I never could find out in actual -detail. Russian money meant nothing to me. When I changed ten pounds in -Moscow, I received four big bundles of notes, containing three million -roubles. My first experience with the purchasing power of this money -was when I wanted to buy a pair of boots in the market place. They were -good top boots, splendid looking for snow and mud, but when I was asked -one million roubles, I was abashed. Yet, after all, it was not much in -English money. But what did it mean to those Russians?</p> - -<p>I found out that the average wage for a mechanic, or Soviet official, -or University professor, was 150,000 roubles a month. That sounded -well until I came up against those boots, and later discovered that -in Petrograd a pound of bread cost 80,000 roubles, a pound of tea -120,000 roubles, ten cigarettes 60,000 roubles. How, then, could any -human soul live on 150,000 roubles a month? I asked many of them, and -some said, “We<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_334" id="Page_334">[Pg 334]</a></span> don’t live. We die,” but others said, “We supplement -our wages by speculation.” For some time I was puzzled by that word -speculation, until I found that it meant bartering. Secretly, and -at risk of imprisonment or death, until the “New Economic Laws,” -there was a general system of exchange in goods. A man with a second -pair of boots exchanged them for a sack of potatoes, kept some and -bartered the others for tea, or bread, or meat, kept some of that, and -bartered the rest for a woollen vest, a fur waistcoat, or a tin of -sardines, smuggled in from Riga. And so on, in a highly complicated, -difficult and dangerous system of “underground trade.” But in spite of -“speculation,” life was hard, and almost impossible for elderly folk, -and the sick, and frail women. For years hundreds of thousands of them -had lived on bread and tea and small rations of soused herrings and -millet seed. Now there were no rations, but still bread and tea, for -those who had the money.</p> - -<p>“What do you think of Bolshevism?” asked Spray one night in the Sugar -king’s palace. We lay in bed, with only our mouths and noses out.</p> - -<p>I asked him three questions in return. Was there liberty in Russia? -Was there equality? Was there a higher type of civilization and human -happiness here than in Western Europe, or any chance of it? I asked -the questions without prejudice, and we discussed them between the low -divan and the four-poster bed, in that great gilded salon opposite the -Kremlin, where, in some secret room, Lenin sat that night scheming out -some way of saving Russia from the fate into which he had led it, to -test his theory of the Communistic state.</p> - -<p>We could find no liberty. The two chief papers published—<i>Pravda</i>, -and <i>Izvestia</i>—were propaganda sheets under Government control. There -was no freedom of speech or opinion. There was no equality, even of -misery<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_335" id="Page_335">[Pg 335]</a></span>—surely the first test of the Communistic state. Between the -Soviet Commissars, even the “trade-union” audience of the Marinsky -theater, and the peasants, the workers, the underfed masses, there was -a gulf as wide as between the profiteers and unemployed of England, -wide though lower down the scale of life on both sides. Civilization, -human happiness? Well, there was the Marinsky theater, and those -laughing boys and girls. Human nature adapted itself marvelously to the -hardest conditions of life. Perhaps there were happy people in Russia, -but for the most part, Spray and I had met only those who told us -tragic tales, of imprisonings, executions, deaths, misery.</p> - -<p>When we left Moscow and traveled across Russia to Kazan, and took a -boat down the Volga, and sledges across the snow fields to the villages -where Famine dwelt, we left human happiness behind us and saw nothing -but suffering and despair, hunger and pestilence.</p> - -<p>It was again due to the American Relief Administration that we were -able to make that journey. Colonel Haskell, chief of the A.R.A., and -a man of indomitable energy, iron will power, and exquisite courtesy, -invited Spray and myself to join his own party which was going to Kazan -on a tour of inspection under his command, and after that he would -provide us with a ship for the Volga voyage. Without that immense help -of the A.R.A., all-powerful in Russia because it was the one source of -hope in the famine region, I should have seen nothing outside Moscow. -It was they who controlled the railways, got the trains to move, and -forced officials to work.</p> - -<p>It was a four-days’ journey to Kazan. The carriages were verminous, -and Spray was tortured again—and we crawled slowly through the -dreary woods and plains. Colonel Haskell and his staff carried good -rations which they shared with us, and at night, when our darkness was -illumined by candlelight, we played poker for Russian roubles, gambling -wildly, as it seemed, in thousands of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_336" id="Page_336">[Pg 336]</a></span> roubles, but losing or winning -no more than a few shillings.</p> - -<p>One man on board impressed me beyond words. It was Governor Goodrich -of Indiana, who had come to report to Washington on the agricultural -conditions and prospects of Russia, and the truth about the Famine. -He was an elderly man with the fresh complexion of a new-born babe, -and a powerful clear-cut face, wonderfully softened by the look of -benevolence in his eyes and the whimsical smile about his lips. -“Governor Jem” he used to be called in Indiana, and he must have been -a gallant fellow in his youth, before he became lame in one leg. Now -he had come as a knight-errant to Russia, for the rescue of a stricken -people. I think no man of greater quality ever went into Russia, or -ever came out of it, and it was due not a little to his report (which -he allowed me to read) that the Government of the United States, acting -through the American Relief Association, fed ten million Russians every -day in the famine regions, and saved that number from certain death by -hunger or disease.</p> - -<p>Kazan lay under a heavy mantle of snow. It was now the capital of the -“Tartar Republic,” a province of Soviet Russia, on the edge of the -richest grain-growing districts of the Volga valley, where now there -was no grain. It was a garden city, with many great houses where the -nobles of Imperial Russia had taken their pleasure in summer months, -now inhabited by misery, hunger, and disease.</p> - -<p>There were forty homes here for abandoned children—abandoned not by -the cruelty of their parents but by their love, because they could -not bear to see their little ones wailing over empty platters. I went -into a number of them, and they were all alike in general character. -In one of them were fifteen hundred children, naked, or merely clothed -in little ragged shirts. Their clothes had<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_337" id="Page_337">[Pg 337]</a></span> been burnt because of the -lice in them, which spread typhus fever. There were no other clothes -to replace their ragged old sheepskins and woollen garments. There was -no heat in the rooms, for lack of fuel. There was no furniture. On -the bare boards they huddled together, these little wizened things, -with deep, sunken eyes, and tight-drawn skin, like little bald-headed -monkeys. There were many homes like that, and worse than that, because -many of the children were dying, and the rooms reeked with their fever, -and the very doorposts crawled with lice.</p> - -<p>I went into the hospitals, and they were dreadful. Because there was -no fuel for heat, these people, stricken with typhus, dysentery, all -manner of hunger diseases, were huddled together in unventilated wards -for human warmth. Many of the beds had been burnt for fuel and most -of them lay on mattresses or the bare boards. Those who had beds lay -four together, two one way and two the other. There were no medicines, -no anaesthetics, no soap, no dressings. The nurses were starving, and -dying of the diseases they could not cure. They came clamoring round -the doctor of the A.R.A. with whom I went, begging for food in a wild -animal way which made his heart go sick.</p> - -<p>But there was an opera, even in Kazan! It was true that the stench of -it was pretty bad, and that its audience tightened their belts from -time to time in lieu of supper, but Madam Butterfly delighted them, -they thrilled to the “Carmen” of a Persian prima donna.</p> - -<p>One night the ladies and gentlemen of the opera invaded the -headquarters of the A.R.A. after midnight. They were hungry, and made -no secret about it. So the young Americans of the Kazan headquarters -brewed cocoa in a saucepan, with the help of one of the ladies, and -scraped up some bully beef and beans and a loaf or two and some apples, -and odds and ends. Not much for<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_338" id="Page_338">[Pg 338]</a></span> a banquet! Spray and I whispered -together! I fetched out the last hunk of our round red cheese. It was -received with a chorus of approval. It died a sacrificial death in the -cause of art and beauty. The Persian prima donna had an insatiable -appetite.... Out in the streets of Kazan were starving wanderers, and -in the station lay the latest of the abandoned children.</p> - -<p>The last boat to go down the Volga before the ice came was put under -command of the press representative of the A.R.A., my good friend -Murphy, a most kind and generous-hearted soul. Spray and I were the -only passengers. We three explored the ship before she left the -quayside. She had been a rescue ship for the fugitives from famine, and -was in a noisome state. We dared not linger in the sleeping cabins. The -very washbasins were crawling. That night Murphy and I slept on the -table in the dining saloon—the safest place. Spray gave himself up for -lost and curled up on the floor, where he tossed all night. I was cook -on that voyage, and did rather well with boiled beans and a mess of -pottage. We went down to Tetiushi, and found ourselves among the people -of famine....</p> - -<p>After two droughts in successive years, there was no harvest of any -account. The Red soldiers had requisitioned the peasants’ reserves of -grain for rationing the cities. Without reserves they had no means of -life. The Soviet Government had supplied them with seed grain for the -next harvest, and they had sown it, not expecting to reap it. They had -also sent, lately, some barges of potatoes, but they lay there rotting. -To carry them to the villages, horses were needed for the sledges, -but there was no fodder, and the horses were dying, or dead. So we -discovered the State of Tetiushi.</p> - -<p>By a message from the Prime Minister of the Tartar Republic, four -horses were found for us, and two sledges, after many hours of waiting, -and we set out across the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_339" id="Page_339">[Pg 339]</a></span> snow to the villages. They were very -silent when we entered. They seemed abandoned. But we saw in one or -two of their timbered houses little wizened faces staring at us from -the windows. They were faces like those I had seen in the homes for -abandoned children, monkeylike. We went into the cottages and found -there peasant families waiting for a visitor who tarried, which was -Death.</p> - -<p>They showed us the last food they had—if they had any left. It was a -brownish powder, made of leaves ground up and mixed with the husks of -grain. Others showed us bits of hard stuff like lead. It was a bluish -clay dug from a hillside called Bitarjisk. It had some nutritive -value, but it swelled when eaten, and was the cause of dreadful agony -to children. Peasant women, weeping very quietly, showed us their -naked children, with distended stomachs, the sign of starvation in its -last stage. From other cottages they came to where we stood, crossing -themselves at the doorways, in the Russian way, and then lamenting.</p> - -<p>Handsome Russian peasants, with blue eyes and straw-colored beards, -struck their breasts with a gesture of absolute despair, and said—we -had a Russian with us who spoke English—that death could not be long -delayed, for all of them. The last cows had been killed for lack of -fodder. There was no milk for the children, as for a long time there -had been no bread. Here and there a woman wailed loudly, or grasped my -wrist with her skinny hand and spoke fiercely, as though I denied her -food. I remember one cottage in which a whole family lay dying, and -nearly dead. It was the Famine....</p> - -<p>I will not write more about the horrors here. In many articles, and in -my novel “The Middle of the Road” I have given the picture of it, and -the agony of it.</p> - -<p>It is said that two million of these people died. That is Nansen’s -figures. That twenty million did not die is<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_340" id="Page_340">[Pg 340]</a></span> due to the magnificent -work of the A.R.A. and the Save the Children Fund who, against all -political prejudice and for humanity’s sake, achieved a great rescue -of these stricken folk. As I have said, the A.R.A. alone fed ten -million people a day in the famine area, and I pay a tribute here to -the courage and efficiency and devotion of those young Americans whose -work I saw, and of whose friendship I am proud. Our people did less, -having less means, but it was work well and nobly done in the spirit -of Christianity kept alight in a dark and cruel world, which is this -jungle of Europe.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_341" id="Page_341">[Pg 341]</a></span></p> - -<h2>XXV</h2> - -<p>In the spring of 1919, while the Peace Conference was sitting in Paris, -I made my first visit to the United States, and lectured in many -American cities. I went there again in 1920 and 1921, and on the third -visit traveled from New York to San Francisco.</p> - -<p>I regard these American visits as the greatest experience of my life, -apart from the War, and they added enormously to the knowledge of -world forces and the human problem which I had been studying among -the peoples of Europe. I was, and still remain, convinced that the -United States will shape, for good or ill—and I believe for good—the -future destiny of the world, for these people, in the mass, have a -dynamic energy, a clear-cut quality of character, and a power not only -of material wealth, but of practical idealism, from which an enormous -impetus may be given to human progress, in the direction of the -common well-being, international peace, liberty, decency, and average -prosperity of individual life.</p> - -<p>During those three visits, when I talked with innumerable men and women -of great intelligence and honesty of thought, I was “made wise,” as -they call it, to many of the darker aspects of American life. I was not -unconscious of a strong strain of intolerance; a dangerous gulf between -the very rich and—not the very poor, there are few of those—but -well-paid, speeded-up, ugly-living, dissatisfied labor; something -rather hysterical in mass emotion when worked up by the wire-pullers -and the spellbinders; and the noisy, blatant, loud-mouthed boasting -vulgarity of the mob. I saw the unloveliness of “Main Street,” I met -“Babbitt” in his club, parlor car, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_342" id="Page_342">[Pg 342]</a></span> private house. But though I -did not shut my eyes to all that, and much more than that—a good deal -of it belongs to civilization as well as to the United States—I saw -also the qualities that outweigh these defects, and, in my judgment, -contain a great hope for the world. I met, everywhere, numbers of men -and women who have what seems to me a clean, sane, level-headed outlook -on life and its problems. They believe in peace, in a good chance for -the individual, in a decent standard of life for all people, in honesty -and truth. They are impatient of dirt, however picturesque, of ruin, -however romantic, of hampering tradition, however ancient. They are, in -the mass, common-sense, practical, and good-natured folk, who, in the -business of life, cut formalities and get down to the job.</p> - -<p>But behind all that common sense and their practicality, they are -deeply sentimental, simply and sincerely emotional, quick to respond -to any call upon their pity or their charity, and when stirred that -way, enormously generous. I agree with General Swinton, the inventor -of the “Tanks” who, after a tour in the United States, told me, with a -touch of exaggeration, that he thought the Americans, as a nation, were -the only idealists left in the world. Europe is cynical, remembering -too much history, and suffering too much disillusionment. The United -States, looking always to the future, and not much backward to the -past, is hopeful, confident of human progress, and strangely and -wonderfully eager to find a philosopher’s stone of human happiness, for -which we, in Europe, have almost abandoned search.</p> - -<p>I think that, as a people, they are more ready than any other to do -some great work of rescue for humanity (I have told how they fed ten -million people a day in Russia), and to adopt and carry out an ideal -on behalf of humanity in the way of peace and reconstruction, at some -personal sacrifice to themselves. That is possible<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_343" id="Page_343">[Pg 343]</a></span> at least in the -United States, and it may almost be said that it is impossible in any -other nation.</p> - -<p>As a personal experience, my first visit to the United States was -exciting and rather overwhelming, in an extremely pleasant way, except -for my extreme nervousness. For the first time in my life I was made -to believe (except for secret doubts and a sense of humor) that I was -a person of some importance. By good fortune, of which I was not aware -until my arrival in New York, I had gained the good opinion, and almost -personal popularity, of an immense American public from coast to coast. -I do not minimize the pleasure of that, the real joy of it, for there -is no reward in the world so good to a man who for years has been an -obscure writer, as to realize at last that his words have been read -and remembered, with emotion, by millions of fellow mortals, almost by -a whole nation—and this had happened to me. It happened by the great -luck that since the entry of the United States into the War my daily -dispatches from the Western front had been published in <i>The New York -Times</i>, and a syndicate of newspapers covering the whole country. Day -after day during those years of enormous history, I appeared with the -grape fruit and the cereal at millions of American breakfast tables, -and because of the things I had to tell, and perhaps, a little, the way -in which I told them (I tried to give the picture and the pity of the -things I saw), I got home to the bosom and business (to use Francis -Bacon’s words) of the American merchant, lawyer, and city man, to the -lady whom he provides with a Packard or a Ford (according to his rung -on the social ladder) and to the bright young thing who is beginning -to take an interest in the drama of life outside her dancing school or -her college rooms. My articles were read on lonely farms, in tenement -houses, by Irish servant girls, Slav foundry workers, German metal -workers, clerks and telephone girls, as well as by<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_344" id="Page_344">[Pg 344]</a></span> all manner of folk -in Fifth Avenue, Riverside Drive, and the Main Street of many towns. I -am not making a boast of that, for if I had written like an archangel -instead of like a war correspondent (there’s a difference), I should -not have secured those readers unless <i>The New York Times</i> and its -syndicate had stepped in where angels fear to tread—in Chicago, and -other American cities. But it was my luck, and, as I say, pleasant and -encouraging.</p> - -<p>People wanted to see the fellow whose name had become familiar to them -over the breakfast table. They wanted to see what manner of man he was -(and some were disappointed); they wanted to know if he could speak as -he wrote (and presently they knew he didn’t); they wanted to pay back -by hospitality, by booking seats for the theaters, by friendly words -afterward, for some of the things he had written at a time when they -had wanted to know.</p> - -<p>One of the first little thrills I had was when I stood at the desk of -the Vanderbilt hotel, ten minutes after getting away from the dockside, -where scores of telegrams were waiting for me, inviting me to speak -at all sorts of places with strange and alarming names, and having -picked up the receiver in answer to the urgent calls, heard the voice -of a telephone girl saying, “Welcome to our city, Philip Gibbs!... and -here’s another call for you.” I have always remembered that little -human message from the girl at the switchboard.</p> - -<p>I was still a journalist, though about to become a lecturer, and -<i>The New York Times</i> desired me to write a series of articles -recording—rapidly!—my first impressions of New York. It still seems -to me a miracle that I was able to do so, for I was caught up by the -social life of New York like a straw in a whirlpool, and my head was -dazed by the immensity of the city, by its noise, its light, its rush -of traffic, its overheated rooms, its newspaper reporters, its camera -men, and, when I staggered<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_345" id="Page_345">[Pg 345]</a></span> to my bedroom for a moment’s respite, by -the incessant tinkle of the telephone which rang me up from scores of -addresses in New York city, from Boston, Philadelphia, Chicago, the -Lord knows where.</p> - -<p>I wrote those articles, blindly, subconsciously, like a man in a -nightmare, and they came out rather like that, with a sort of wild -impressionism of confused scenes, which seemed to please the American -people.</p> - -<p>They were vastly amused, I was told, by one phrase which came from my -nerve ganglia all quivering with the first walk through Broadway at -night. I confessed that I felt “like a trench cootie under the fire of -ten thousand guns.” Now a cootie is a louse, as I had lately learnt, -and that simile tickled my readers to death, as some of them said, -though it expressed in utter truthfulness the terror of my sensation as -a traffic dodger down the Great White Way.</p> - -<p>But that terror was easily surpassed when I faced for the first time -an audience in the Carnegie Hall. As I drove up with my brother, and -saw hundreds of motor cars setting down people in evening dress who had -come to have a look at me (and paid good money for it), with the odd -chance of hearing something worth while—poor dears!—I was cold with -fright. My fear increased until I was stiff with it when, having shaken -hands with my brother and received his hearty pat on the shoulder, -like a man about to go over the top with the odds against him, I went -through a little door and found myself on a large stage, facing a great -audience. I was conscious of innumerable faces, white shirt fronts, -and eyes—eyes—eyes, staring at me from the great arena of stalls, -and from all the galleries up to the roof. As I made my bow, my tongue -clave, literally, to the roof of my mouth, my knees weakened, and I -felt (as some one afterward told me I looked) as cheap as two cents.</p> - -<p>What frightened me excessively was a sudden <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_346" id="Page_346">[Pg 346]</a></span>movement like a tidal wave -among all those people. They stood up, and I became aware that they -were paying me a very great honor, but the physical effect of that -movement was, for a moment, as though they were all advancing on me, -possibly with intent to kill!</p> - -<p>My chairman was my good and great comrade, Frederick Palmer, the -American war correspondent. I am told he made a fine introductory -speech, but I did not hear a word of it, and was only wondering with -a sinking heart whether I should get through my first few sentences -before I broke down utterly. It was a fearful thought, to make a public -fool of myself like that!...</p> - -<p>I had one thing in my favor—a strong, far-reaching voice, and I had -been told to pitch it to the center of the top gallery. I know they -heard. A young foreigner I know—not an American—a most friendly -and candid soul, told me that he had heard every word, and wished he -hadn’t. Attracted by the title of a book of mine, “The Soul of the -War,” he had bought four tickets for himself and friends, believing -that at last he would hear the inner meaning of the war and its -madness, in which he had found no kind of sense. But when he heard -my straightforward narrative of what the British Armies had done, he -sighed deeply, and said, “Sold again!” and tried to sleep. My loud, -clear-cut sentences hammered into his brain, and would not allow him -even that consolation.</p> - -<p>That first audience in the Carnegie Hall was immensely kind, -extraordinarily generous and long-suffering. They applauded my stories -of British heroism as though it had been their own heroes, laughed at -my attempts to tell Cockney anecdotes, and did not let me know once -that I was boring them excessively. Some spirit of friendship and good -will reached up to me and gave me courage. Only once did they laugh in -the wrong place, and then they couldn’t help themselves. It was when -for the sixth time or more I glanced at my wrist watch and then in a -sudden<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_347" id="Page_347">[Pg 347]</a></span> panic that it had stopped and that I had spoken an hour too -long, put it to my ear!</p> - -<p>The way off the platform was more difficult than the way on. I had come -through one little door, but there were six of them exactly the same. -At the conclusion of my speech, I bowed, walked rapidly to one of the -doors, and found it would not budge! I returned again and bowed to the -audience before trying another door. No, by heaven it wouldn’t open! -Again I returned and bowed, and made another shot for a swing door. -At the fourth try I went through.... That experience of doors that -wouldn’t open became a nightmare of mine in American sleeping cars when -I suffocated from overheated pipes.</p> - -<p>I have lectured a hundred times since then, made large numbers of -speeches (sometimes as many as five a day) in American cities, faced -every kind of audience from New York to San Francisco and across the -Canadian border, in Montreal, Toronto, Winnipeg, Vancouver, and never -conquered my nervousness, so that, if I am called upon for a speech at -a public dinner in England, now, I suffer all the pangs of stage fright -until I am well under way. But at least my experiences in the United -States helped me to hide behind a calm and tranquil mask, and not to -give myself away so utterly as that first time in Carnegie Hall.</p> - -<p>It was on my second visit, and at my opening lecture in the same great -hall, that I obtained—by accident—the most wonderful ovation which -will ever come to me in this life. It was my night out, as it were, -most memorable, most astonishing, most glorious. For it <i>is</i> a glorious -sensation, whatever the cynic may say, to be lifted up on waves of -enthusiasm, to have a great audience of intelligent people cheering one -wildly, as though one’s words were magic.</p> - -<p>It was none of my doing. My words were poor commonplace stuff, but I -stood for something which the finest<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_348" id="Page_348">[Pg 348]</a></span> audience in New York liked with -all their hearts that night—England, liberty, fair play—and against -something which that audience hated, disloyalty to the United States, -discourtesy to England, foul play.</p> - -<p>It was the Sinn Feiners who did it. A friend of Ireland, and advocate -of Dominion Home Rule, I was one of the last men they should have -attacked. But because I was an Englishman who dared to lecture before -an American audience, they were determined to wreck my meeting, and -make a savage demonstration. I was utterly unaware of this plot. I was -not speaking on the subject of Ireland. I was talking about Austria, -and was trying to tell an anecdote about an Austrian doctor—I never -told it!—when from the middle gallery of the Carnegie Hall which was -densely packed from floor to ceiling, there came a hoarse question in a -stentorian voice with an Irish accent: “<i>Why don’t you take the marbles -out of your mouth?</i>” Rather staggered, and believing this to be a -criticism of my vocal delivery and “English accent,” I raised my voice, -but it was instantly overwhelmed by an uproar of shouts, catcalls, -whistlings, derisive laughter, abuse, and a wild wailing of women’s -voices rising to a shriek.</p> - -<p>For a few moments I could not guess what all the trouble was about. I -stood there, alone and motionless, on the platform, suddenly divorced -from the audience, which I watched with a sense of profound curiosity. -All sorts of strange things were happening. Men were going at each -other with fists in the gallery, where there was a seething tumult. -In the stalls I was aware of a very fat man in evening dress wedged -tightly in his seat and bawling out something from an apoplectic face. -Two other men tried to pull him out of his chair. In scattered groups -in the stalls were ladies who seemed to be screaming at me. Other -ladies seemed to be arguing with them, hushing them down. One lady -struck another over the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_349" id="Page_349">[Pg 349]</a></span> head with a fan. People were darting about the -floor or watching the scrimmage up above. From the front row of the -stalls friendly faces were staring up at me and giving me good counsel -which I could not hear.</p> - -<p>Over and over again I tried to speak above the tumult. I carried on -about that Austrian doctor, and then abandoned him for another line -of thought. I stuck it out for something like half an hour before -there was comparative silence—the police had come in and dragged out -the most turbulent demonstrators—and then I continued my speech, -interrupted frequently, but not overwhelmed. Everything I said was -applauded tremendously. Some reference I made to England’s place in -the world brought the audience to its feet, cheering and cheering, -waving handkerchiefs and fans, and when I finished, there was a surge -up to the platform, and thousands of hands grasped mine, and generous, -excited, splendid things were said which set my heart on fire.</p> - -<p>As I have said, it was not my doing, and it was not any eloquence of -mine which stirred this enthusiasm. But that audience rose up to me -because they were passionate to show how utterly they repudiated the -things that had been said against England, how fiercely angry they were -that a friendly visitor to the United States should be howled down like -this in the heart of New York. Again it was my luck, and I was glad of -it.</p> - -<p>It was not the last time I had to face hostile groups. I decided -to give a lecture on the Irish situation in which I would tell the -straight truth, fair to Ireland, fair to England. The Sinn Feiners -rallied up again. The fairer I was to Ireland, the madder they became, -while the other part of the audience cheered and cheered. In the midst -of the commotion, a tall black figure jumped on to the platform. -“Hullo!” I thought. “Here I die!” But it was a Catholic priest, Father -Duffy, a famous chaplain of the American Army, who announced himself as -an<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_350" id="Page_350">[Pg 350]</a></span> Irish Republican, but pleaded that I should have a fair hearing. -They just howled at him. However, by patience and endurance I broke -through the storm and said most of what I wanted to say.</p> - -<p>The next morning I was rung up on the telephone by an emotional -lady. She had a great scheme, for which she desired my approval and -collaboration. She had arranged to raise a bodyguard of stalwart -society girls who would march to the hall with me, on the evening of -my next lecture, and in heroic combat put to flight the Irish girls -who were to parade with banners and insulting placards.... I utterly -refused to approve of the suggestion.</p> - -<p>My lecture agent, Mr. Lee Keedick, enjoyed those “Sinn Fein tea -parties,” as they were called, with such enormous gusto, that there -were some friendly souls who suggested that he had incited them for -publicity purposes! But he missed the best, or the worst. In Chicago, -on St. Patrick’s Eve, I was three-quarters of an hour before I could -utter a single sentence. It was what the press called next morning -a “near riot” and there were some Irish-American soldiers there, in -uniform, who fought like tigers before they were ejected by the police.</p> - -<p>For the first time in my life I had a police bodyguard wherever I went -in Chicago. Two detectives insisted on driving in my taxicab, and they -were both Irishmen, but, as one explained in a friendly manner, “It’s -not your life we’re troubling about, Boss. It’s our reputation!”</p> - -<p>Boston, from Mr. Keedick’s point of view, was a disappointment. A great -row was expected there, being the stronghold of the Sinn Fein cause, -and when I appeared, behind the stage, there was a large force of -police stripped for action. The police inspector came to my dressing -room, and demanded permission to precede me on the stage and announce -to the audience that if there was any demonstration he would put his -men on to them.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_351" id="Page_351">[Pg 351]</a></span> I refused to give that permission. It seemed to me the -wrong kind of introduction for an Englishman to an American audience. -As a matter of fact, they behaved like lambs, in the best tradition of -Boston, and I was quite disconcerted by their silence, having become -used to the other kind of thing which I found exhilarating.</p> - -<p>Stranger things happen to an English lecturer in the United States -than in any other country. At least they happened to me. I shall never -forget, for instance, how in the middle of a speech to the City Club of -New York, I was thrust into a taxicab, hurried off to the 44th Street -theater, received with a tremendous explosion (a flashlight photo!) in -the dressing room of Al Jolson, the funny man, thrust into the middle -of a harem scene (scores of beautiful maidens) and told to make a -speech on behalf of wounded soldiers while the audience raffled for an -original letter from Lloyd George to the American nation.</p> - -<p>Surprised by my rapid transmigration from the City Club, and by my -presence in an Oriental harem, very hot, rather flustered, and not -knowing what to do with my hands, I kept screwing up a bit of paper -which had been given to me at the wings, and by the time I had finished -my three-minutes’ speech it was a bit of wet, mushy pulp. When I left -the stage, a white-faced man in the wings who had been making frantic -signs to me, informed me coldly that I had utterly destroyed Lloyd -George’s letter to the American nation which had just been raffled for -many hundreds of dollars.... After that I went back to finish my speech -at the City Club.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_352" id="Page_352">[Pg 352]</a></span></p> - -<h2>XXVI</h2> - -<p>When I first visited the United States in 1919, the whole nation -was seething with a conflict of opinion between pro-Wilsonites and -anti-Wilsonites.</p> - -<p>It was not a mere academic controversy which people could discuss -hotly but without passion. It divided families. It caused quarrels -among lifelong friends. The mere mention of the name of Wilson spoilt -the amenities of any dinner party and transformed it into a political -meeting.</p> - -<p>In my first article for <i>The New York Times</i>, recording my impressions -of America, I slipped out the phrase that “I was all for Wilson.” I -received, without exaggeration, hundreds of letters from all parts of -the United States, “putting me wise” to the thousand and one reasons -why Wilson’s doings in Paris would be utterly repudiated by the Senate -and people. He had violated the Constitution. He had acted without -authority. He had tried to commit the United States to his scheme -of the League of Nations against their convictions and consent. On -the other hand, there were many people who still regarded him as the -greatest leader in the world and the noblest idealist.</p> - -<p>Ignorant, like most Englishmen, of the parties and personalities of -American politics, at that time, I kept my ears open to all this, but -couldn’t avoid falling into pitfalls. I made a delightful “gaffe,” as -the French would say, by turning to one gentleman in the Union Club -before he acted as my chairman to the lecture I was giving there, and -asked him to tell me something of Wilson’s character and history. -It was Mr. Charles<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_353" id="Page_353">[Pg 353]</a></span> Hughes, ex-governor of New York, and defeated -candidate for the Presidency against Wilson himself.</p> - -<p>It was the last question which I ought to have asked, as people -explained to me later. But I shall never forget the fine and thoughtful -way in which Mr. Hughes answered my question and the subtlety with -which he analyzed Wilson’s character, without a touch of personal -animosity or a trace of meanness. I was aware that I was in the -presence of a great intellect, and a great gentleman.</p> - -<p>I had the opportunity of talking to Mr. Hughes in each of my three -visits, and when he was Secretary of Foreign Affairs in Washington, and -each time I was more impressed with the conviction that he was likely -to become one of the greatest statesmen of the world, and, unlike many -great statesmen, had a fine and delicate sense of honor, and a desire -for the well-being, not only of the United States but of the human race.</p> - -<p>Between my first and second visits Wilson’s tragedy had happened, and -the United States had refused to enter the League of Nations. The -Republican party had swept the country, inspired by general disgust and -disillusionment with the Peace of Versailles, by a tidal wave of public -opinion against any administration which would involve the United -States in the jungle of Europe’s racial passions, and by a general -desire to be rid of a government associated with all the restrictions, -orders, annoyances, petty injustice, extravagance, and fever of the War -régime. As a friend of mine said, the question put to the electors was -not “Are you in favor of the League of Nations?” but “Are you sick and -tired of the present administration?” And the answer was, “By God, we -are!”</p> - -<p>President Harding reigned in place of President Wilson. Owing to the -kindness of a brilliant American journalist named Lowell Mellett -who had acted for a time as war correspondent on the Western front, -and who<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_354" id="Page_354">[Pg 354]</a></span> seemed to have the liberty of the White House, the Senate, -Congress, and every office, drawing-room, and assembly at Washington, I -was received by the President, and had a little conversation with him -which ended in a message to the British people through <i>The Review of -Reviews</i>, of which I had become editor. It was a message of affection -and esteem for the nation which, he said, all Americans of the old -stock regarded still as the Mother Country—a generous and almost -dangerous thing to be said by a President of the United States.</p> - -<p>A tall, heavy, handsome man, with white hair and ruddy face, the new -President seemed to me kind-hearted, honest and well-meaning, without -any great gifts of genius or leadership, and a little timid of the -enormous responsibility that had come to him. A year later I saw him -again, and had the honor of introducing my son Tony. He was surprised -that I had a son of that height and age, and it reminded him instantly -of an anecdote referring to Chief Justice White and a little lawyer who -introduced a tall, husky son to him. “Ah,” said the Chief Justice, “a -block of the old chip, I see!”</p> - -<p>It was due to my friend Mellett again that I had the opportunity, and -very extraordinary honor, for a foreign journalist, of giving evidence -before the House Committee on Naval Disarmament. It was a Committee -appointed to report on the possibility of calling the Washington -Conference. I was summoned to give evidence in the House of Congress -without any time to prepare notes or a speech, and when I took my -place like a mouse in a hole in the center of a horseshoe of raised -seats occupied by about twenty-five members of the Committee, I was in -a state of high tension which I masked by a supreme effort of nerve -control. For I was, to some extent, speaking not only on behalf of -Great Britain, and taking upon myself the responsibility of expressing -the views of my own people, but on behalf of all idealists in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_355" id="Page_355">[Pg 355]</a></span> all -nations who looked to the United States for leadership in the way -of international peace. I knew that I must be right in my facts and -figures, that I must say nothing that could give offense to the United -States, and nothing that would seem like disloyalty to England, while -telling the truth, as far as I knew it, without reserve, regarding -England’s naval and military burdens, the dangers existing in Europe, -and the sentiment of the British people.</p> - -<p>After a preliminary statement lasting ten minutes or so, to which the -Committee listened in absolute silence, I was closely and shrewdly -cross-examined by various members, and had to answer very difficult and -searching questions. It was one of my lucky mornings. I came through -the ordeal better than I could have hoped. I was warmly congratulated -afterward by members of the British Embassy who told me I had said -the right things, and I honestly believe I did a tiny bit of good -to England and the world that day. <i>The New York Times</i> and other -papers published my address verbatim and it went on to the records of -Congress. Anyhow, it did no harm, and I was thankful enough for that.</p> - -<p>My lectures on the second visit had nothing to do with the War, except -in its effects, and I spoke entirely on the subject of European -conditions, always with a strong plea to the United States to come -in boldly and throw her moral and economic influence on the side of -international peace and reconstruction. From the very first I took the -line, which I held with absolute conviction, that Germany would be -unable, after the exhaustion of war, to pay the enormous indemnities -demanded by the Peace of Versailles, and that if Germany were thrust -into the mire and went the way of Austria, Europe would not recover -from financial ruin. At the same time I pointed out the rights and -justice of France, and gave her view fairly and generously, as I was -bound to do, because of my illimitable admiration of French heroism, -my<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_356" id="Page_356">[Pg 356]</a></span> enormous pity for French sacrifice, my certain knowledge of -French danger. My argument was for economic co-operation between the -peoples of Europe, as the only means of saving that civilization, with -demobilization of hatreds as well as armies, and a new brotherhood of -peoples after the agony and folly of the war.</p> - -<p>I risked my popularity with the American people in making speeches -like that. I could have got easy applause by calling upon the old -god of vengeance against the Germans for at that time in the United -States there was less forgiveness than in England for all the evil and -suffering caused by Germany, less tolerance of “pacifists,” as much -brutality in the average mob. But though I aroused some suspicion, some -hostility, on the whole American audiences listened to my argument with -wonderful enthusiasm and generosity.</p> - -<p>I saw a distinct change of opinion after my first visit (I am not -pretending that I had anything to do with it), in favor of closer -friendship with Great Britain, and economic co-operation with Europe. -In every city to which I went I found at least two or three thousand -people according to the size of my place of lecture, quickly and -ardently responsive to the idea that America and Great Britain, -acting together, might lift the world out of its ruined state and -lead civilization to a higher plane. In city clubs, women’s clubs, -private dinner parties, drawing-room meetings, I found great numbers -of people desperately anxious about the responsibility of the United -States toward European nations, eager to do the right thing though -doubtful what to do, poignantly desirous of getting some lead higher -than that of self-interest (though not conflicting with it), and with -a generous warm-hearted sympathy for the British folk. Doubtless these -groups were insignificant in numbers to the mass of citizens with whom -I never came in touch, among whom there was an old strain of suspicion -and hostility to <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_357" id="Page_357">[Pg 357]</a></span>England, and all sorts of currents of prejudice, -ill will, hatred, even, among Irish, German, and foreign stocks, in -addition to the narrow nationalism, the vulgar selfishness of many -others. That is true, but the people I met, and to whom I lectured, -were the <i>intelligentsia</i>, the leaders of social life, and business -life, the wives, mothers, and daughters of the “leading citizens,” the -arbiters and, to some extent, the creators of public opinion. Their -hopes, ideals, visions, must, sooner or later, be reflected in national -tendencies and acts. Only blind observers would now say that the United -States has not revealed in recent acts and influence that broadening of -outlook which I perceived at work below the surface in 1921, and did -something, perhaps—not much—to help, by a simple and truthful report -of facts from this side of the world.</p> - -<p>In the United States I had, strange as it may seem, a certain authority -as an economic expert! This may surprise my intimate friends, and most -of all my wife, who knows that I have never been able to count my -change, that I have not as much head for figures as a new-born lamb, -and that I have never succeeded in making out a list of expenses for -journalistic work without gross errors which have put me abominably -out of pocket. Yet many of the greatest financiers in the United -States—men like the brothers Warburg, and Mr. Mitchell of the National -City Bank—invited me to address them on the economic situation in -Europe, and agreed with my arguments and conclusions. I remember one -dinner at which I expounded my views on that subject to no less than -sixty of the leading financial experts in New York, afterward being -subjected to a fire of questions which, to my own amazement, I was able -to answer. The truth is, as I quickly perceived, that a few very simple -laws underlie the whole complicated system of international trade -and finance. As long as one held on to those laws, which I did, like -grim death, one could not go wrong in one’s analysis of the European<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_358" id="Page_358">[Pg 358]</a></span> -situation, and all facts and figures adjusted themselves to these -elementary principles.</p> - -<p>Money, for example, is only a symbol for the reality of values behind -it—in grain, cattle, mineral wealth, labor and credit.</p> - -<p>When paper money is issued in advance of a nation’s real values, it is -merely a promissory note on future industry and production.</p> - -<p>France, Germany, and most European nations were issuing vast quantities -of these promissory notes which were not supported, for the most part, -by actual wealth.</p> - -<p>The prosperity of a country like Germany increased the prosperity of -all other countries. Its poverty would lead to less prosperity in all -other countries.</p> - -<p>Commercial prosperity depends upon the interchange of goods between one -country and another, and not upon the possession of money tokens. And -so on.</p> - -<p>By keeping these facts firmly in my mind, I was able to keep a straight -line of common sense in the wild labyrinth of our European problems. -But I had also seen the actual life and conditions of many countries -of Europe, and could tell what I had seen in a simple, straight way -to the business men of the United States. It was what they wanted to -know, beyond all other things, and I think they believed my accounts -more than those of more important men, because I was not a Government -official, or propagandist, but a simple reporter, without an ax to -grind, and an eyewitness of the conditions I described.</p> - -<p>Among the men who asked me to tell them a few things they wanted -to know, or the things they knew (better than I did) but wanted to -discuss, was Mr. Herbert Hoover, for whom I have the deepest admiration -and respect, like all who have met him. He came into my room at the -Lotus Club one day, unannounced except for a tap at the door by his -friend and assistant,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_359" id="Page_359">[Pg 359]</a></span> Barr Baker. I had just returned from a journey, -and my room was littered with shirts, socks, collars, and the contents -of my bags. He paid no heed to all that but sat back in an arm chair -and after some questions, talked gravely of world affairs. I need not -record here that conversation I had with him—the gist of it is in my -book of American impressions, “People of Destiny,” but I was glad and -proud to sit in the presence of a man—so simple, so frank, so utterly -truthful—who organized the greatest work of rescue for suffering -humanity ever achieved in the history of the world—the American -Relief Administration. But for that work, many millions of men, women, -and children in the nations most stricken by war would have died of -starvation, and Europe would have been swept from end to end by the -scourge of pestilence which follows famine.</p> - -<p>I seem to have been bragging a little in what I have lately written, -making myself out to be an important person, with unusual gifts. That -is not my intention, or my idea. The fact is that the people of the -United States give any visitor who arrives with decent credentials a -sense of importance, and elevate him for a while above his usual state -of insignificance. They herald him with an exaggeration of his virtues, -his achievements, his reputation. Any goose is made to believe himself -a stately swan, by the warmth of courtesy shown toward him, by the -boosting of his publicity agent, and by the genuine desire of American -citizens to make a guest “feel good” with himself.</p> - -<p>This has a strange and exhilarating effect upon the visitor. It gives -him self-confidence. It actually does develop virtues in him. His -goose quills actually change into something like swansdown, and his -neck distinctly elongates. There is something in the very atmosphere -of New York—electric, sparkling, a little intoxicating—which gives -a man courage, makes him feel bigger, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_360" id="Page_360">[Pg 360]</a></span> not only feel bigger, but -<i>be</i> bigger! This is no fantasy, but actual fact. In the United States -I was a more distinguished person than ever I could be in England. I -spoke more boldly than ever I could in England. I was rather a brave -fellow for those few weeks each year, because so many people believed -in my quality of character, in my intelligence, in my powers of -truth-telling, whereas in England no one believes in anybody.</p> - -<p>So I do not boast or preen myself at all when I write about the -wonderful times I have had in the United States. It happens to -everybody who does not go out of his way (or hers) as some do, -to insult a great-hearted people, to put on “side” in American -drawing-rooms, to say with an air of superiority “We don’t do that in -England, you know!”</p> - -<p>I visited many American colleges, and with solemn ceremony was -initiated into the sacred brotherhood of a Greek letter society which -is the highest honor that can be given to a foreign visitor by the -youth of America.</p> - -<p>In Canada—at Winnipeg—I was made a Veteran of the Great War by a -gathering of old soldiers.</p> - -<p>At Salt Lake City I lectured to 6,000 Mormons—most moral and admirable -people—in their Tabernacle, and was received on the platform by a -Hallelujah Chorus from sixty Mormon maidens.</p> - -<p>In Detroit, where I began my first speech of the day at 9.30 in the -morning, I spoke down a funnel on the subject of the Russian Famine, -which was “broadcast” to millions of people late that night.</p> - -<p>I traveled thousands of miles, and in every smoking carriage talked -with groups of men who told me thousands of anecdotes and put me wise -to every aspect of American life from the inside.</p> - -<p>I was entertained at luncheon, dinner, and supper by the “leading -citizens” of scores of cities, and made friends with numbers of -charming, courteous, cultured people. </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_361" id="Page_361">[Pg 361]</a></span></p> - -<p>I was interviewed by battalions of reporters who received me as a -brother of their craft, and never once let me down by putting into my -mouth words I did not wish to say. They were mostly young college men -and, though I hate to say it, a keener, better-educated crowd, on the -whole, than the average of their kind in English journalism.</p> - -<p>I will record only one more of the wonderful things that happened to me -as a representative of English journalism in New York.</p> - -<p>On the eve of my departure, after my second visit, a dinner was given -in my honor at the Biltmore. It was organized by Mrs. MacVickar, who -has the organizing genius of a lady Napoleon, and a committee of -ladies, and a thousand people were there. They included all the most -distinguished people in New York, many of the most distinguished in -America, and they were there to testify their friendship to England. -They were there also to express their friendship, if I may dare say so, -to me, as a man who had tried to serve England, and America, too, in -speaking, and in writing, the simple truth. They wrote all their names -in a book that was given to me at the dinner, and I keep it as a great -treasure, holding the token of a nation’s kindness.</p> - -<p>What added a little sauce piquante to the proceedings was the delivery -from time to time during the dinner of notes from Sinn Feins parading -outside the hotel. The first message I read was not flattering. “You -are a dirty English rat. You ought to be deported.” Another informed -me that I was a paid agent of the British Government. Another was -a general indictment informing all American citizens that it was a -disgrace to dine with me, and an act of treachery to their own nation. -Another little missive described me as a typical blackguard in a nation -of cutthroats. So they followed each other to the high table, where I -was the guest of honor.... </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_362" id="Page_362">[Pg 362]</a></span></p> - -<p>I had a great time in the United States on each of my three visits, but -notwithstanding all I have said, I shall never make another lecture -tour in that country. The fatigue of it demands the physique of an -Arctic explorer combined with that of an African lion tamer. Several -times I nearly succumbed to tinned tomato soup. Twice did I lose my -voice in a wind forty below zero, and regain it by doses of medicine -which destroyed my digestive organs. Nightly was I roasted alive in -sleeping berths. Daily did my head swell to unusual proportions, -not in conceit, but in a central heating system which is a terror -to Englishmen. Visibly did I wither away as I traveled from city to -city, received by deputations of leading citizens on arrival, after -a sleep-disturbed night, with the duty ahead of keeping bright and -intelligent through a long day’s programme, saying the right thing to -the gracious ladies who entertained me at lunch, the bright thing to -the City Club which entertained me to dinner, the true thing to all -the questions asked about Europe, England, Lloyd George, Prohibition, -Mrs. Asquith, the American flapper, Bolshevism, France, and the -biological necessity of war, to business men, professors, journalists, -poets, financiers, bishops, society leaders in Kansas City, or Grand -Rapids, the President of the Mormon church, the editors of the local -newspapers, the organizers of my lecture that evening, and the unknown -visitors who called on me at the hotel all through the day, and every -day.</p> - -<p>One can’t keep that sort of thing up. It’s wearing....</p> - -<p>I remember that in the Copley Plaza Hotel at Boston, a little old -gentleman carrying a black bag tapped at my door and introduced himself -by the name of Doctor Gibbs. He said that his hobby in life was to -search out Gibbs in the United States, and he found thousands! He -presented me with a copy of the Gibbs Family Bulletin, and opening his -black bag produced a photograph of his great-grandfather. </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_363" id="Page_363">[Pg 363]</a></span></p> - -<p>It was my son Tony who called my attention to the fact that I was -amazingly like that venerable man, who was toothless (he lived before -the era of American dentistry) and with hair that had worn thin as -the sere and yellow leaf. I decided that I should become exactly like -him, “sans hair, sans teeth,” if I continued this career as an English -lecturer in America. In order to avoid premature old age, I made a -resolve (which I shall probably break) not to make another lecture tour -in the United States.</p> - -<p>But of all my journalistic adventures, I count these American -experiences as my most splendid time, and for the American people I -have a deep gratitude and affection. I can only try to repay their -kindness by using my pen whenever possible to increase the friendship -between our countries, to kill prejudice and slander, and to advocate -that unwritten alliance between our two peoples which I believe will -one day secure the peace of the world.</p> - -<p class="center space-above">THE END</p> - -<hr /> - -<div class="center"><img src="images/books1.jpg" alt="New Books for Boys" /></div> - -<hr /> - -<div class="center"><img src="images/books2.jpg" alt="New Books for Girls" /></div> - -<p> </p> -<p> </p> -<hr /> -<p> </p> -<p> </p> - -<div class="mynote"><p class="center">Transcriber’s Note:<br /><br /> -A Table of Contents has been added.<br /><br /> -Obvious typographic errors have been corrected.<br /></p></div> - - -<p> </p> -<p> </p> -<hr class="pgx" /> -<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ADVENTURES IN JOURNALISM***</p> -<p>******* This file should be named 65577-h.htm or 65577-h.zip *******</p> -<p>This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:<br /> -<a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/6/5/5/7/65577">http://www.gutenberg.org/6/5/5/7/65577</a></p> -<p> -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed.</p> - -<p>Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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