MY DEAR CHARLES,--Recent events calling for strong comment, I turned to my
friend, my brick-red friend who is able to retain his well-fed prosperous
look notwithstanding the rigours of trench life, Rrobert James McGrregor. I
took a map with me and, calling his attention to the general position,
asked him what about it? McGregor, as you may guess, is a Scot, whose
national sense of economy seems to have spread to his uniform, in that the
cap he wears covers but a third-part of his head, and his tunic (which I
ought really not to call a tunic but a service jacket) appears to have
exhausted itself and its material at the fourth button. Notwithstanding all
this, I attach great weight to his truculent views, and, the better to
incite him into something outright, addressed him in My best Scottish,
which is, at any rate, as good as his best English. "Rrrrrobert," I said,
"what like is the VON HINDENBURG line?" Whereupon McGregor, helping himself
to our mess whisky and cursing it as the vilest production of this vile
War, spoke out.
McGregor has no respect whatever for HINDENBURG or anything which is his.
He says that HINDENBURG and his crew have all along taken the line which
any man could, but no gentleman would. In HINDENBURG he sees the
personification of Prussian militarism, and for the Prussians and their
militarism he has no use whatsoever. I forget what exactly is the Highland
phrase for "no use whatsoever," but its meaning is even worse than its
sound, and the sound of it alone is terrible to hear. Whatever befalls in
the interval, it is certain that when at last McGregor and HINDENBURG meet
they will not get on well together.
McGregor hates militarism. It is entirely inconsistent with his wild ideas
of liberty. As such he is determined to do it down on all occasions and by
every means. Not only is he a Scot, he is also a barrister of the most
pronounced type. Brief him in your cause, and provided it is not a mean one
he will set out to lay flat the whole earth, if need be, in its defence. He
will overwhelm opposing counsel with the mere ferocity of his mien; he will
overbear the Judge himself with the mere power of his lungs, and he will
carry you through to a verdict with the mere momentum of his loyal support.
Once he has made a cause his own, no other cause can survive the terror of
his bushy eyebrows and his flaring face. He is a caged lion, but he does
not grow thin or wasted in captivity. As ever, he grows stout and strong on
his own enthusiasms. The cage will not hold much longer. Heaven be praised,
it's HINDENBURG and not me he's taken a dislike to.
He loathes militarism. Having waited nearly thirty years for a fight, it's
himself is overjoyed that he has Prussian militarism for the victim of his
murderous designs. To this end he has become a soldier, such a bloodthirsty
soldier as never was before and never will be again. The thoroughness of
it, for an anti-militarist, is almost appalling. The click of his heels and
the shine of his buttons frighten me. His salute is such that even the most
deserving General must pause and ask himself if it is humanly possible to
merit such respect as it indicates. No man, even upon the most legitimate
instance, may venture, in the presence of the dangerous McGregor, the
slightest criticism of the British Army or of anything remotely
appertaining thereto. He will not even permit a sly dig, in a quiet corner,
at the Staff.
Nevertheless McGregor hates, loathes and detests militarism. His
convictions are quite clear and convincing. Soldiers are one thing;
militarists are another. Rrobert James McGrregor, for the moment at least,
is by the grace of God and the generosity of His Majesty a soldier. That
creature HINDENBURG is a militarist. Quite so, I agreed; but then what
about the line? He helped himself to some more whisky, showing that he
could forgive anybody anything except a Prussian his militarism, and said
he was coming to that. But first as to HINDENBURG.
The man represents his type and is, says McGregor, a mere bully. He has
become a bully because he could succeed as nothing else. Given peace, it is
doubtful if he could get and keep the job of errand-boy in a second-rate
butcher's shop. Lacking the intelligence or spirit to succeed normally, he
has not the decency to live quietly in the cheaper suburbs of Berlin and
let other people do it. Flourish they must, HINDENBURG and his lot, and so
the world is at war to keep their end up.
Now, says McGregor, it is undoubtedly sinful to fight, but he can't help
half forgiving those whose desire to have a round is such that they must
needs cause the bothers. But do I suppose that HINDENBURG ever wanted to
fight, ever meant or ever means to do it? Not he; and that is why the War
goes on and on and on. We've got to work through all the other Germans,
says he, before we'll get to their militarists, who are all alive and doing
nicely, thank you, behind. When we are getting near the throat of the first
of them then the War will end.
McGregor cannot bring himself to detest all the Bosches. After all, he
says, they do stick it out, and their very stupidity makes some call on his
generosity. But HINDENBURG, he is convinced, never stuck anything out,
except snubs from his competitor, WILHELM, in the course of his uprising
career; he makes no call on anybody's generosity, taking everything he
wants, including (says McGregor) the best cigars. Without ever having
studied them closely, McGregor has the most precise ideas of HINDENBURG'S
daily life and habits. He is quite sure he smokes all day the most
expensive cigars, without paying for them or removing the bands. He rose,
says McGregor, by artifice combined with ostentation. While his good
soldiers were studying their musketry, he was practising ferocious
expressions before his glass. If he ever did get mixed up in a real battle
(which McGregor doubts) he was undoubtedly last in and first out. However
it may appear in print, his military career would not bear close scrutiny;
for that reason McGregor does not propose to scrutinise it. And as for his
indomitable will, he sees nothing to admire in the man's persistence,
since, when he stops persisting, he'll become ungummed and, at the best,
forgotten.
So said McGregor, and when I besought him to come to the point, he said
he'd dealt with it, and if I had any sympathy left for HINDENBURG or his
line I was no better than a slave-driving, sit-at-home-and-push-others-
over-the-parapet Prussian militarist myself. As for the map, it didn't
matter in the least where HINDENBURG took his old line to, since wherever
in Europe it endeavoured to conceal itself his own little line would scent
it out and follow it. And if the HINDENBURG line was more than two hundred
miles long and the Rrobert James McGrregor line less than two hundred
yards, still it didn't matter; for when a Scot takes a dislike to somebody,
that somebody's number is up.
McGregor didn't say that last, but he looked it.
Yours ever, HENRY.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _McTavish (purchasing paper of posterless newsboy)._ "AWEEL,
IT'S A 'PIG IN A POKE,' BUT AH'LL RISK IT."]
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"Frightfulness" in England.
"Boys wanted for Kicking. ------ Stamping Works."--_Midland Evening News._
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"'THE MAGIC FLUTE.'
One ingenious commentator has suggested that the opera has some basis
in 'A Midsummer Night's Dream.' Sarastro is Prospero, Pamina Miranda,
Tamino Ferdinand, and perhaps Monostatos Caliban."--_Glasgow Herald._
The fact that these Shakespeare characters all occur in "The Tempest"
enhances the ingenuity of the suggestion.
* * * * *
"The biggest fire in living memory occurred in Chapelhall on Monday
morning, when the Roman Catholic School was partly destroyed along with
the recreation rooms, damage amounting to £2,000."--_Scotch Local
Paper._
The parish pump was probably out of order when this unparalleled
conflagration occurred; but is seems to be at work again now.
* * * * *
[Illustration: "MOTHER, D'YOU KNOW I'VE ALWAYS WONDERED WHAT BECAME OF OLD
TOP-HATS."]
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