_(No answers required, thank you.)_
_To Count Brockdorff-Rantzau, Head of the German Peace Delegation._
The enthralling volume, entitled _Preliminary Terms of Peace_, on
which your attention is being engrossed at the present moment, is said
to be of the same length as _A Tale of Two Cities_. In other respects
there is little resemblance traceable between the two works. A more
striking likeness is to be found between the present volume and a
document produced (also in the neighbourhood of Paris) by the late
Prince BISMARCK in 1871. On your return home, if the fancy appeals
to you, you might, out of these two publications, construct a very
readable romance and call it _Two Tales of One City_. I think this
would be a better name for it than _Vice-Versailles._
_To Signor Orlando_.
Apart from our love for Italy we are, of course, naturally
prejudiced in favour of a man who got his surname from one of our
own SHAKSPEARE'S heroes, and has consequently given us several easy
chances of making little _As-you-like-it_ jokes for the Press in our
simple unsophisticated way. All the same I think you were wrong in
dropping out of the Big Four like that. If every other Allied delegate
were to go off home whenever he couldn't get his own way, or whenever
he differed from President WILSON, there might be nobody left to meet
the German representatives or to sign any sort of Peace terms. The
enemy might even start a Big Four of their own and begin to talk. What
should we do then? We might have to send for Marshal FOCH. I'm not
sure that in any case this wouldn't be the best plan.
But perhaps you will be back in Paris before this letter reaches you.
All roads lead to Rome, and there must be at least one that leads out
of it again.
_To Ferdinand, Fox_.
If news of the outside world ever reaches you in your earth, and you
read the discussions on the question whether your old friend WILLIAM
ought to be hanged, it can hardly have escaped Your Nosiness that
nothing is said about your own claim to similar treatment. Those who
never rightly appreciated you may imagine that you will meekly
consent to forgo that claim. But, if I know anything of your proud and
princely nature, you are, on the other hand, bitterly chagrined at the
thought that you have been forgotten so soon.
_To a British "Sportsman_."
I have often seen you of an afternoon in war-time hanging about in
groups along my workaday street, poring over what you regarded as the
vital news of the day. It was not a report of any battle in which your
brothers were fighting, and, if I had asked you breathlessly, "Who
won?" you would not have said, "The British"; you would have said,
"SOLLY JOEL'S colt." You had never seen the horse, but you had
half-a-dollar of your War-bonus on him, or more probably on one of
those who also ran. To-day there are no silly battles to take up
good space in your evening print; and, better still, there is no day
without its racing matter; no more curtailing of the King of Sports to
the lamentable detriment of our national horse-breeding, a subject so
close to your heart. The War is indeed well over.
And nothing can be more gratifying to you than to note the rapid
progress of Reconstruction in the domain of the Turf. In other spheres
of activity there may be a million people drawing the unemployment
donation; but here there is immediate occupation for all. The New
Jerusalem has been built in a day.
_To Peace_.
You must not mind if, when you come at last, we treat you like an
anti-climax. You see, we let ourselves go, once for all, over the
Armistice, and, though there will be plenty of celebrations for you,
we shan't forget ourselves again. There will be bands, of course,
and bunting, and we shall read the directions in the papers, and
buy expensive tickets and get to our seats early. But we shall be
respectable and inarticulate this time, like the present exhibition at
the Royal Academy. Besides, we have no nice things to shout when the
pageants go by, like "_Vive la Victoire_!" or "_Viva la Pace!_" and
even if we had we should all wait for somebody else to start shouting
them.
But you are not to be disappointed; we shall really be glad to welcome
you, though we do it in that strange way we have of taking everything
as it comes.
I suppose you are bound to assist at your own celebrations, otherwise
I should recommend you to be content to read about them next
day--about the thundering cheers, the wild enthusiasm that swept like
a flame through the vast multitudes, and how "the red glare on Skiddaw
roused the Canon (RAWNSLEY) of Carlisle."
_To a Multi-Millionaire._
It must be a great satisfaction to you to see how highly the
CHANCELLOR OF THE EXCHEQUER appreciates the loss which the country
will sustain by your eventual decease; and that he has proposed to
increase materially the amount to be raised out of your estate as
a national souvenir of your commercial activities. Indeed you may
reflect that, splendid and profitable as your life has been, nothing
in it will have become you so much as the leaving of it. With such a
thought in your mind the prospect of death should be robbed of a large
proportion of its sting.
_To a New Knight (Scots)._
Out of the eight hundred million pounds' worth of Government material
left over from the War, of which two hundred million pounds' worth
is expected to be realised in the current year, you should have no
difficulty in securing a pair of knightly spurs at quite a reasonable
price. They ought to go well with a kilt.
_To the Chairman of the "Société des Bains de Mer de Monaco_."
Few people can have been better pleased than you at the cessation of
hostilities. During all those terrible years the falling-off among the
patrons of your world-famous bathing-establishment must have been a
source of cruel grief to you. And now there are already myriads who
have washed away the stains of war in the pellucid waves that lap your
coast of azure.
Here, too, at your hospitable Board of Green Cloth there is
forgetfulness of Armageddon save when the cry of "Zéro" recalls to the
convalescent British warrior the fateful hour for going over the top.
And to think of Monte Carlo without the guttural Hun and his raucous
"_Dass ist mein_" as he swoops upon his disputed spoils! An Eden with
the worm away!
_À bientôt_!