There came a few fine, beautiful days, when she went out and wandered

in country lanes and by the sea. The librarian was taking a holiday at

this time and sometimes she encountered him, and they walked together and

returned to town together. The larks were singing by this time, and here

and there in the fields there was a daisy. There were authentic tidings

of spring blown down from the mountains and in from the fields and woods.

She had listened at last to the librarian—their intimacy had grown in

those country walks—and had consented to lay aside her work till the eve

of the studentship exam., because she felt that she was going to fail if

she stuck at it. But he could not know, she said to herself, the strain

it was upon her to keep away from her work in the reading-room. She had

been so happy there. There was something missing even in the fields and

by the sea.

A week passed, and one evening she dined alone, her mother and Bobby

having gone to a theatre. Her dinner was but a pretence. She remembered

that the ladies’ reading-room was open till nine o’clock. It tempted

her like a forbidden fruit. She could get in an hour’s work there while

they were at the theatre. Her heart began to beat hard as the thought

came to her of the walk through the wet streets, the lit windows of the

great house beyond the courtyard, the hall through which she would pass

so quickly, the stairs, the narrow corridor between the books. Then the

ladies’ reading-room, so good after the cheerless street, its fire, the

brown books with their flash of gilding, Miss Brooke sitting by the fire,

the portrait—it would flash a look of welcome as she came in, wondering

why she had stayed away so long.

She loved her work, and she had missed it. It was lucky Mr. Tyrrell was

out of town or he might have called, as he had called once or twice

lately, with a book or some other pretext for coming, and had hindered

her. The rest had done her good. It was so good to be getting back to

work, to be so keen.

Her pulses beat in her ears as she hurried on her way. She arrived

at her destination. As she passed through the hall, she had an absurd

feeling that Archie Tyrrell—she knew his name was Archie by this

time—might meet her and turn her back. He had taken a masterful way with

her lately. If by any unforeseen chance he should have come back!

She glanced fearfully at the swing-door of the general reading-room. Then

she remembered. He was not on duty in the evenings, even if he had been

in town. Few readers came in the evenings. It was a concession to poor

students engaged in the daytime that kept the library and reading-room

open at night till nine o’clock. She hurried along the corridor, joy in

her blood and giving wings to her feet. Through the half-glass door she

saw that the room was dim beyond. There was only firelight in it. She was

glad. That meant she should find only Miss Brooke. The last day she had

been there a couple of girls had come in: had asked for Swinburne’s poems

and Rossetti’s, and had hovered over them like butterflies, dipping into

a page here, a page there, till they remembered an appointment and went

away. She had felt a sense of resentment against them as intruders into a

place which had become so strangely dear to her.

Miss Brooke was not there, though her chair stood in front of the fire as

usual. She must only just have left it, for the leather back was warm.

Oddly enough, now that she was come, Esther had no inclination to work.

She sat down in Miss Brooke’s chair. She leant back, looking up at the

portrait. It seemed to lean towards her, smiling at her. It was as though

the sun had come out.

Had she fallen asleep? She awoke with the strange sense of its being

night and every one in the world asleep. The fire had gone low, was

almost out. There was a little glimmer in the darkness, which she knew

somehow came from the street-lamps beyond the courtyard. Somewhere there

was a faint murmuring as of voices at a distance—in the rooms, not

out-of-doors.

She was suddenly frightened—of the old house and all its ghosts. She

remembered the Beloved. With him no woman need be afraid.

She turned to where the portrait hung for comfort; but she could see

nothing. She stood up, groping in the darkness.

Somewhere a clock struck two great strokes in the silence of the sleeping

town.

Where was Miss Brooke? She felt her way towards the wall of books, still

but half awake. They still burnt oil-lamps in the library: electric light

was not yet come into general use. She had no matches to strike a light.

The darkness was very baffling. The furniture seemed to get in her way as

though it were something animate that would keep her back.

At last she found the book-shelves. She groped along them for the door.

It was slightly ajar. There were the whispering voices not far away.

She passed into the inner room. To her amazement, in the solid wall of

books before her there was a door, which stood ajar. Beyond it was a

light. The voices were in the room beyond the open door.

She went forward quickly, striking against a table as she went. Something

fell with a loud noise. The whispering—it was not much more than

that—went on undisturbed.

She was at the door. With her hand upon her frightened heart she stood,

looking in amazement. The room into which she looked was a stately

long room. It was lit by three hanging chandeliers in which were many

candles. It had an air of old-fashioned elegance with its gilt couches

and tabourets covered in a Pompadour silk. The walls and ceilings

were painted with Watteau shepherds and shepherdesses and wreaths of

flowers. The curtains of the long windows were of the same silk as the

chair-covers. She noticed the colour of the silk—a faded delicate blue.

At the moment, she was not aware that she noticed any of these things.

Her conscious self was only aware of two people clasped in each other’s

arms by the fireplace at the far end of the room. The Beloved—just as

he was in the picture—and a childishly young girl, her face lifted

to his. There was something of wild sweetness about the girl, in her

bunched-up white frock and scarlet ribbons. Her dark hair fell in a maze

of curls—like—was it ‘The Parson’s Daughter’ of Romney? Something as

familiar as that.

They were entirely absorbed in each other. The girl’s white arms were

flung about the neck of the Beloved. Esther Denison forgot that she was

spying. She stood against the darkness of the room, watching them with

distended eyes. Was there some sickness of envy in her heart? The Beloved

made so perfect a lover, and these days were so drab.

‘Edouard! mon Edouard!’

It was the girl who spoke in a passionate whisper.

‘Hist!’ he said, turning about in a startled way. ‘Did you hear a sound?’

The girl dropped her arms from about his neck. She seemed to listen. She

grew pale, clasping her hands together and looking at him. She was very

young, although she had the soft roundness of young maternity about her

childish figure.

‘Mon ami!’ she began, panting.

‘It is nothing,’ he said with a little laugh. ‘A mouse in the

wainscotting. The place is alive with them. We have an hour yet before

dawn.’

The lights were broken up, wavering. Some queer unreality was coming over

the scene. There were voices, the murmuring of many waters in Esther’s

ears. She felt like some one coming back from a great distance to the

light, travelling slowly, painfully.

Then she was aware of something familiar, comforting. It was the face of

the librarian—a good, strong, reassuring face, something to hold on to in

the medley of her thoughts that made the world insubstantial. The room

was full of grey light, beyond the one lamp which some one had thought of

lighting.

‘Are you better, darling?’

It was her mother’s voice. Gradually she came to the knowledge of where

she was. She was in the ladies’ reading-room. Before her was the wall of

books in which there had been the door she had seen open.

‘You must have fallen asleep, darling, and been locked in,’ her mother

went on, in the voice of one who speaks to some one unutterably dear,

who has very nearly slipped away from love and life. ‘We were terrified

not to find you at home. No one knew where you had gone to. Fortunately,

Bobby thought at last of Mr. Tyrrell. He had _just_ come back from the

country by the last train. There was a business to find the person who

had the keys. But⸺You are all right, darling, and we are here—Bobby and

Mr. Tyrrell and I. There is a carriage waiting.’

Some days later she told Archie Tyrrell her story. Oddly enough, she had

felt unable to tell it to anyone else. ‘No one is ever to hear it but

you,’ she had stipulated.

‘I promise.’

She was still on her sofa. She had been rather alarmingly ill from the

shock of her experience. He listened. His face was grave and gentle. He

expressed no disbelief. He did not try to persuade her that her vision

was hallucination. Instead, he said something for which she loved him.

She had been so afraid of disbelief—of hard, practical common sense.

‘The house is his monument,’ he said, ‘his shrine, his temple. You cannot

get away from him. You must not read there again: it is too lonely. They

are going to close those rooms. Soon we shall have the fine new building

growing up.’

‘Ah,’ she said pitifully. ‘I am sorry. It is like turning them out. And

poor Miss Brooke—what will she do?’

She had a sudden thought.

‘I believe she used to see him,’ she said. ‘She talked so oddly that I

did not heed her—but now things come back to me.’

‘I know,’ he said. ‘She thought she saw him. It began when she was quite

a young girl, a student like you, and very pretty. She was always sitting

there facing the portrait. It became real to her. He put her out of

conceit with common men. She might have married: there was a lover—but

then’⸺

‘He was not the Beloved,’ said Esther Denison, and slipped her hand into

his. Then she began to weep.

He did not tell her then, not till some weeks had passed, that Miss

Brooke was dead. The threat of eviction from her old quarters had killed

her. She had been found in some kind of a fit in her familiar place in

the ladies’ reading-room, on the very afternoon of the day that was to

end with Esther’s falling asleep under the eyes of the Beloved.

She was quite herself again, and within a week of her wedding-day, when

he thought it safe to take her to see the alterations which were being

made in the ladies’ reading-room. The portrait was gone—to the gallery

across the garden. A great number of the books had been removed. The

place looked disordered and unhappy—not as she had known it. This would

have laid no spell on her.

It was in the workmen’s dinner-hour. They had the place to themselves.

He took her hand and held it in a firm, warm clasp. ‘There was a door,’

he said; ‘you were quite right. It was just where we found you in a

huddled-up heap on the floor. But it was locked, and the bookcases

covered it. You can walk through now.’

They went into the inner room. There was the open door as she had seen

it. But what desolation beyond! The long room was bare of furniture;

it had evidently been shut up for a long time, for it smelt mouldily.

The light came in coldly through the long windows, curtained only with

cobwebs. There was dust everywhere, in drifts on the floor, deadening the

sounds of their feet. It had dimmed the shepherds and shepherdesses of

the painted walls and the flower-wreaths and Cupids of the ceiling.

‘They used to meet here,’ he said in a low voice. ‘When he was “on his

keeping.” He had some secret way of entry known only to them and one or

two faithful servants. When the scent was hot she hid him here, and not

even the Duke or Duchess knew. He used to read in these rooms when the

house was asleep. There was a man here before me who swore he saw him at

night searching the shelves for some book he wanted. It is the influence,

of course. Such as he leaves the influence behind him long after he is

dead.’

She was very pale. As they turned and went out of the room quietly, she

said, nodding her head towards the fine new building which was going up

in the courtyard:

‘After all, I do not think I shall ever read there. I doubt that I am

cut out for scholarship. I do not feel that I could go back to “Middle

Irish.” The studentship will have to go.’

‘No?’ he said, with a lifting of his handsome eyebrows. ‘After all, a

married woman will not have much time for scholarship—of so difficult a

kind.’

‘I suppose not,’ she said, as they stepped out into the open air.

‘Perhaps—after all—I worked too hard. Women have that way—have they not?

I am not surprised I ... broke down.’

Then she added something quite irrelevant:

‘I wonder,’ she said, ‘if poor Miss Brooke ever saw them together. When

she spoke—it was only of _him_. Could she have seen them—as I did?’

KATHARINE TYNAN.

_MY FIRST WEEK IN FLANDERS._

BY LIEUT. THE HON. W. WATSON-ARMSTRONG.

In the evening of April 22, 1915, my regiment left camp, and entrained at

about 11 P.M. We were very packed in the train, and this did not improve

our tempers. We had not the slightest idea where we were going, and in

the early hours of the morning of April 23 we found ourselves at Cassel,

a small town in the department du Nord, where we detrained, and began a

long, weary march. The country-side was very hilly, and we soon began to

feel how near we were to the front, as we distinctly heard the booming

of the guns, and all the cross-roads were guarded by French soldiers.

At last, when very tired, we found ourselves marching into a plain, and

shortly afterwards arrived at the little town of Winnezeele, a few miles

from the Belgian frontier. It was about 9 A.M. when we arrived there, and

we were told that we were going no further that day.

Troops were billeted in the neighbouring farms, and I was kept busy

interpreting for everyone. I was at last able to see to the needs of

my own platoon, and got my odd sixty men comfortably settled down in a

nice farm. The lady of the place, whose husband was serving at Dunkirk,

was rather surly at first, owing to her having shortly before received

an enforced visit from some Canadians, who had proved rather rough. She

and I ended in becoming very good friends, and still further cementing

the _Entente cordiale_. We spent a delightful day of rest amid charming

scenery, in the enjoyment of a really lovely day in early summer; it was

hard to realise what we were doing there at all. We would forget, only

to be brought back to earth by the rumbling of the guns, none too far

away, and by the sight of a German aeroplane which was being fired at,

the flash of the guns being quite visible. I have nothing but pleasant

memories of Winnezeele and district. The farms were very picturesque,

the village clean and prosperous, and prettily situated. Its atmosphere

somehow reminded me of Bamburgh. The people were all cordial. One old man

told me that early in the war, when the Germans attempted their great

enveloping movement, an Uhlan patrol rode into the village. In tones of

great excitement, he told me how some courageous citizen, whose name he

declared must be kept a profound secret, went and informed the French

infantry patrol, and how the ‘fantassins’ came and rounded up the enemy.

Since then no German had appeared in Winnezeele. This little incursion

must have been one of the high-water marks of the Teuton invasion. We

officers messed at the chief Inn, and had quite a good time, trying to

turn our French to good account by conversing with a certain ‘Marie

Louise,’ who ministered to our wants. It was a little picture of France

at war: France at her best. There were no young civilians to be seen, no

‘starred’ men. All had gone to the war. The fields were being worked by

women, girls, young children, and old folk, and all worked with a will.

Even the farmer was not exempt. The husband of Madame Dubois, upon whom I

and my platoon were billeted, had gone, and his wife cheerfully carried

on in his place, and ran the farm. The country-side, however, seemed to

be managing very well, and we found plenty of good fare in the little

place. I had an attic all to myself on the farm, and spent a splendid

night on a bed stuffed with straw, a Belgian boy refugee kindly turning

out to make room for me. The men, as usual, slept in the hay barn.

Having spent what was to be our last comfortable day for a long time to

come, we started off again the next day (April 23) at about twelve noon,

and soon crossed the frontier into Belgium. We met several refugees

making their way to France, and a very motley crowd they appeared to

be. They indeed could feel the realities of war! We passed through

several villages, filled with war-stained British troops, and the civil

population appeared pleased to see us. We also noticed that, once in

Belgium, the male civil population was much larger than in France. In

Belgium the conscription laws by no means include all males capable of

bearing arms, whereas in France there are no exemptions whatsoever.

The Flemish type became more prevalent as we proceeded, all the girls

wearing the fringe which seems to be characteristic of Belgium. They

certainly knew how to smile. After much marching and many halts, through

the Flemish plain which had begun round Winnezeele, we reached the now

famous Poperinghe, a fine old Flemish town with a beautiful church. In

peace times the place could be compared with some of our rather sleepy

cathedral cities, but now it was full of Yankee hustle. It was packed

with French and Belgian soldiers, who all gave us a hearty welcome. We

were in excellent spirits as we marched through the town, and poor

Lieut. Bainbridge, the Brigade Signalling Officer, as he passed me on

a motor bike, said, ‘Make as much noise as you can, as these people,’

referring to the civil population, ‘need cheering up.’ Certainly to

them, with the Germans so close, the entry of more troops to keep back

the swarms which had already wrought such havoc in most parts of their

country must always have been a very welcome sight. On the march through

the country-side, where there was not so much to interest us, we played

the mouth-organ to cheer one another on, and I often took a turn myself,

sometimes resting in favour of ‘Bob’ Young, who was soon to meet his end

in the forthcoming battle.

After leaving the town the evidence of war was everywhere seen,

ambulances and wagons becoming more and more numerous, and squads of

Belgian soldiers, with staves only, continually passing us on their

way to rest. As dusk was falling we found our way to a wood called

Flamertinghe, the only building near us being a solitary inn. We at

last got some food, and bivouacked for the night. At this place we

were only five or six miles from the German line, and there were some

reserve trenches close by which were to be manned by us if necessary.

‘Bramble’ Booth, who had been out previously with the London Rifle

Brigade, said he recognised the locality, which had been the scene of

desperate Anglo-German combats. During the night, when not asleep, we

were entertained by a continuous rattle of musketry, which seemed to be

extremely close at hand. It did not disturb me much, however, and I was

soon fast asleep.

On awaking on April 24, we found that we had some neighbours, Zouaves and

other French troops, and Belgians, who were soon all very friendly with

our men.

We here heard some startling news, to the effect that the French lines

outside Ypres had been pierced owing to the use of poison gases. The

Zouaves said that hundreds of their comrades had been ‘gassed.’ The

Canadians, however, had made a furious counter-attack, and had repaired

some of the damage; their losses had been very heavy, and the situation

was reckoned to be serious. We made the best of our time, and spent the

morning writing letters and watching a large British howitzer at work,

close to us. The gunners claimed to be making some good hits.

We made a hearty lunch, and I pleased the officers by getting wine

for them at the inn. We expected to be there a week, when suddenly,

about four o’clock in the afternoon, an order came for the Brigade to

concentrate at a place about two miles east of Ypres. We soon found

ourselves on the main road. We marched up on the right-hand side, and on

the extreme left of the road there was a continued stream of ambulances

coming down from the front. Up the centre of the road ammunition carts

were galloping at full speed towards Ypres. It was evident that a very

big battle was raging in front, and the air was full of rumours brought

by stragglers and slightly wounded men, painfully making their way

towards safety. These men looked utterly exhausted and seemed exceedingly

pleased to see us; one of them said ‘You are badly wanted,’ though at

the time we never realised how desperate the situation was. On the other

hand, another straggler cheerfully informed us that we had only to take

one more trench and then the whole of Belgium would be in our hands.

This man was the cause of raising many false hopes, soon to be violently

dispelled.

At last, as it was night, we approached the ruins of Ypres, and the

roar of the guns was tremendous. We marched past the famous Cloth Hall

(even then badly knocked about), and began to move at the double, so as

to escape being shelled. It was too late, however, and we were brought

to a halt in the grand square of Ypres, opposite the cathedral. Shells

were bursting all round us, and the Brigadier seemed uncertain whether

he should proceed. It seems that spies were sheltered in the place, and

signalled our arrival to the Germans, who gave us a very uncomfortable

ten minutes. The first casualties occurred in No. 1 Platoon, a shell

bursting at the head of the battalion, and wounding several men. For a

moment there was almost a panic; but by great efforts we kept the men in

their places, and after that they behaved splendidly. I had a close shave

for a start, a shell bursting close to my platoon, and wounding Private

Henderson, who was next to me, in the foot.

The cathedral was on fire, and made a glorious, but sad, spectacle. At

this time it was still more or less intact, as were the majority of the

deserted houses.

At last we moved on, and debouched from the town without further loss. We

could clearly see the German lines, which were lit up by large coloured

flares, as a safeguard against night attacks. The flares reminded one of

fireworks and were quite pretty to watch. We had not gone far before we

turned off into a field, and lay down and rested. Each platoon lay in a

group by itself, so as to minimise the danger from the enemy’s shells,

which were falling thick and fast. It was also wet and damp, and however

elevated we might be morally, we felt extremely miserable. An hour or so

before dawn on the 25th we were collected together, and more ammunition

was issued. This operation took some time in the dark, and ought to have

been done before we entered Ypres, as a few shells might have wiped us

out.

At last we were on the forward road again, and after a mile or two turned

to our left down a narrow lane, and were there halted. Dawn was now

breaking, and none of us had the least idea what we were going to do. It

was cold, muddy, and sopping wet. I never felt more miserable in all my

life. However, there was nothing we could do but try and make the best of

it, till the sun should come out and dry us.

I afterwards discovered that we were rather to the right of Hill 60,

and that the British position, a mile or two ahead, was being held by a

handful of men. In parts of the line this handful had been overwhelmed,

and we were ordered to go forward and try to save the situation. The

Canadians had been fighting against enormous odds, and were almost

exhausted; a great many of them had been gassed, and some, whom our men

came across, said that they could do no more. In such circumstances

we were ordered to advance, although we had no precise instructions;

apparently we were to go on as far as we could, and drive the Germans

back, or at least hold them.

We commenced our advance in ‘artillery formation,’ but soon extended into

‘open order.’ I won’t attempt to give many details of that long morning,

as they are too complicated. We advanced and retired, and then advanced

again, during which time several casualties occurred. The bursting of the

shells all round one was rather trying, and a very strange experience

to the uninitiated! A shell unfortunately burst in the middle of No. 1

Platoon (Morpeth), very seriously wounding Second Lieutenant Adams, and

killing and wounding several of his men. Captain Flint, also of this

company, was blown up by a shell, though not actually touched. He jarred

his spine on landing again, having been carried to a great height. Some

of the Germans were very close, and several of our men almost ran into

them accidentally. This was made possible by the undulating nature of the

ground.

Our advance was a complete success, and the advance posts of the enemy

withdrew. They could probably have overwhelmed our battalion, but

fortunately were under the impression that they were opposed by a much

larger force than they really were. The G.O.C. used our brigade as a

bluff, and the fact that our men, in their enthusiasm, advanced at a

great pace, lent colour to this. A Seaforth Highlander’s letter appeared

in an Edinburgh paper, in which he said that they had received a terrible

shelling, and had made up their minds that their last hour had come. Then

suddenly they observed that the shells were passing over their heads,

and looking back they saw to their joy the Northumberlands, advancing in

perfect order, as if on parade.

These Germans, who withdrew before us, I have since discovered, were

beginning to come through the gap which had been made in our front line.

If they had only known the number of British reinforcements, and had

pushed their attack home, they might perhaps, to use an expression,

have been marching into Ypres ‘in fours’ in the evening. As it was, our

advance in open country completely bluffed them: they hesitated and were

lost. Their hesitation enabled our front line to close its gap, and

several of the enemy, who had broken through, and then withdrew before

our advance, were captured.

Finally on that day we took up a defensive line on the hillside. We had

not a very large ‘field of fire,’ because after about 60 or 100 yards the

ground sloped downwards, and so if the enemy should attack we should have

to be extremely smart with our rifles. In front, however, somewhere on

the slope, out of sight, the London Rifle Brigade were entrenched. We did

not know for certain, but heard rumours that they were hard pressed and

that a party of Germans had broken through and might be on us any minute.

My platoon was in a ditch with a hedge in front of it, and underwent

a terrible shelling in the afternoon, which slackened off towards the

evening. Shells burst continually all along the long, thin line of

our battalion, some bursting just short, some just beyond, and others

crashing through and making cruel gaps among our men. I had many almost

miraculous escapes. A bullet passed through my cap, and I was all but

buried by a shell, which tore away half of a little shelter I had crawled

into. One shell, which burst a yard or two off me, killed two of my men

and injured another. The two men displayed great heroism in their dying

agony. One of them, Bob Young, as he was carried away, minus his legs,

called upon an officer, who was almost overcome by the sight, to ‘be a

man’; and I was further told that he died kissing his wife’s photograph,

with the word ‘Tipperary’ on his lips. Such were the men the Germans

failed to break, men with an unconquerable spirit which no human horror

could overcome.

The most trying time was when it became dark, because, had the Germans

attacked us, we should have been unable to shoot many. We waited with

fixed bayonets and found it bitterly cold. I spent a good part of that

long afternoon and evening in sorting out my men, finding them scattered

about the line, and getting them together, so that when we should march

off there would be less confusion, and No. 7 Platoon would be ready.

There was a ruined farm just behind our line, and there we obtained some

good water from a pump. There Donkin showed me his bleeding foot, which

had received a dose of shrapnel.

At last, between ten and eleven P.M., under cover of the night, we were

relieved by other troops, and retired to almost the same place from

whence we started in the morning. We lay down in a field and slept,

in spite of the cold, for we were worn out; we had been marching and

fighting for about thirty-six hours on end, and the only food we had

had was the iron ration we carried with us, and the water we got at the

farmhouse. I lost my ration as a matter of fact, as it became unfastened

from my belt in the course of the advance. The battalion in these

operations lost about 150 killed and wounded, including the two young

Wakes (Wilf and Tom) of Bamburgh, both killed by the same shell.

Three officers were wounded, whom I have already mentioned, viz. Captain

Flint, Second Lieutenant Adams, and T. Donkin of Rothbury. Donkin’s

injury was slight, and we rather envied him. I should mention that

the officer in command of my company, Captain T. O. Wood, was absent,

having been detained at Havre, while the second in command, Captain

Hugh Liddell, was temporarily incapacitated by a shell which burst near

him, so I, as senior subaltern, commanded No. 2 Company for most of the

day. In my own platoon I had thirteen casualties, most of them only

wounded, and all the lads gave me the greatest assistance and seemed

quite fearless, so much that I feel the praise bestowed upon us, both

by Sir John French and the Commander of the Canadian Division, was

fully justified. During the day I had to throw away my greatcoat, as I

found it so heavy, and now, as I lay on the field, which was very damp,

I felt bitterly cold. I got in, however, between two of my men, and

notwithstanding the possibility of more shells and the intense cold I was

soon fast asleep.

We were roused up early in the morning (April 25), still feeling

extremely cold. We made some tea, however, at a ruined farmhouse close

by, and this brought warmth and comfort. One of my men lent me his

greatcoat, and insisted that I should wear it for a bit. Captain Wood

turned up, and took over the command of the company. Before long the sun

came out, and we had a gloriously fine day. The battalion moved into an

adjoining field, and rested there for the morning; this rest was very

welcome, and the sun dried our clothes. We spent the time cleaning our

rifles, several also taking the opportunity to write home. The subalterns

busied themselves making out lists of casualties for the Divisional Staff

Orderly. Rations arrived, and by mid-day we sat down to a good meal.

We were much interested by a force of Indians close to us, the Lahore

Division I heard afterwards, and they seemed full of the stoicism of the

East. Though no shells fell amongst us, we saw one burst with sad effect

among a column of Indians on the march. Our quiet morning was a great

contrast to our desperate advance in the afternoon. I must here explain

in a few words the situation. We were in the Ypres salient and were thus

exposed to the enemy from the east, north, and south. On the previous day

we had checked the enemy on the east, but a new danger now threatened

the British positions from the north side of the salient, the French

colonials having been driven out of the village of St. Julien. There

was thus a danger of the troops in the salient being overwhelmed by an

advance of the enemy from St. Julien, with the consequent fall of Ypres.

As this town was the old capital of Flanders, the moral effect would have

been great, besides opening the road for further progress towards Calais;

it had therefore to be defended at all costs. The position of the English

troops was insecure; they had suffered great losses; their artillery was

almost powerless owing to lack of ammunition, and England’s new armies

were hardly yet ready. In such circumstances the arrival of the Division

was most opportune, and behind them more troops were being hurried up

from all directions. Cavalry, even the Life Guards, were compelled to do

infantry work in the trenches, and it was thought that by sending our

Brigade against the strong position of St. Julien (an almost impossible

task) the Germans would be bluffed, and would remain on the defensive.

This being the state of affairs, we were ordered shortly after lunch to

attack St. Julien immediately, and to take it at all costs. We were off

almost at once. We advanced at a great rate, in artillery formation, soon

extending, however, into open order. If yesterday had been heavy, to-day

was ten times worse. The German fire was terrific, and we had to face a

hail of shells and bullets. The neighbourhood was infested with snipers,

cleverly concealed, who made a point of picking off senior officers or

despatching the wounded. It is a wonder that the whole battalion was not

exterminated. The men, however, went forward with such spirit, and kept

such magnificent discipline, that casualties, heavy as they were, were

thus minimised. Now, perhaps, some of us for the first time realised the

value of good discipline and good training.

We found that the only way to advance was for a few men, under an officer

or an N.C.O., to make a short rush forward, and then to lie down flat and

regain their breath. The whole battalion was mixed up, and I found myself

on its left flank, where it joined on to the 6th Northumberlands. It was

a case of every man using his own intelligence with courage. We made a

good deal of progress, and took up a strong line with a hedge in front

of it, which afforded some shelter. The order came down, however, that

the advance had to be continued. I consulted an officer of the 6th and we

decided to lead the men on at once. We advanced about thirty yards where

the men could take cover behind another hedge, while others a little

more to the right could take cover behind a sandbag wall, made on some

former occasion, and which acted as a continuation of the hedge. On the

right of this wall was a ruined farm building. In front of this position

was a large open field, and at the other end of it, a few hundred yards

distant, lay the village of St. Julien and the Germans. To cross this

field without adequate artillery support was impossible, and yet we had

been ordered to advance. Our present position by the farm, however, was

being shelled to such an extent, that as far as our safety went it did

not much matter where we were.

While I was taking a short rest behind this last sandbag wall, I met a

young officer of the 6th Northumberland Fusiliers wounded in the arm,

who told me that he was in the office of Messrs. Dees and Thompson, my

father’s solicitors. He and some other officers all insisted that I was

their senior, and must take command of the troops in this part of the

attack. We began our last advance, and made two or three short rushes. I

had just finished the last of these, and was going to lie down, when I

received a staggering blow on the back and fell forward. I suffered an

agonising pain, and soon felt another blow on the back, also extremely

violent. I began to find difficulty in breathing, and wondered if I

would ever leave this spot. Any moment I expected would be my last. I

felt faint, and called to a soldier near by, and asked him to give me

some water; he at once threw me his water-bottle, and that somewhat

revived me. I felt, however, that I might bleed to death, and I called

to the man to see if he could come and help me. He came at once, but

was unfortunately wounded in the leg in so doing. My position was a

perilous one, as the Germans swept the plain with their murderous fire,

and to stand up was certain death. Projectiles of all kinds were falling

round me, and I began to realise that my chance of getting out alive was

dubious. The man who had already befriended me now said that there was a

ditch close by, and if I could crawl on my stomach he would try to pull

me along by the leg. Every movement was agonising, but at last we managed

to reach the ditch and lie there exhausted. By this time our advance was

quite held up, and we had reached further forward than the other part of

the battalion. Soon others began to crawl into the ditch, including two

very nice officers of the 6th Northumberland Fusiliers, who were most

sympathetic. Besides them, I heard Corporal (later Sergeant) Renwick’s

cheery voice, and he was straining every nerve on my behalf, regardless

of danger to himself. He afterwards told me that a colour-sergeant, when

I had finished my painful trek, pushed me into the ditch, to be himself

blown to pieces immediately after by a shell. There were two dead men,

apparently, lying by my side, though I was unaware of these facts.

The afternoon wore on, and I continued in great pain, though some brandy

was passed up to me. After a long wait, it seemed likely that our men

would have to retire a little, and as I could not move I was in danger of

being captured. To have carried me away would have been an impossibility,

as we should most certainly have been shot down by a heartless enemy.

Sergeant Renwick was anxious to risk it, but the young officers insisted

on taking the risk themselves. At last, when Sergeant Renwick had

crawled away to get help, one of the young officers told me that it was

imperative I should make every effort to get away; so I crawled for

about fifteen yards over a specially dangerous zone, and was then helped

up, and supported by an officer on one side, Lieutenant Bruce Ramsay of

the 6th, and by a soldier on the other. I managed to struggle along,

supported by them, to the ruined farmhouse, which was being defended

by some soldiers of the D.C.L.I., I think. The officer in command told

Ramsay that it was against the regulations to help me and that he must

therefore join his own battalion, while he himself would look after me.

Part of the ruined farm was being used as a field dressing station; but

before I could reach it I had a miraculous escape from two shells, which

apparently fell on a manure heap close by which I was standing, and which

prevented them doing any further mischief.

I was most kindly treated at this station, and the D.C.L.I. officer soon

had me sent away on a stretcher towards the Ypres road, and it was with

a feeling of relief that I left this infernal charnel-house, and found

myself gradually entering a safe zone. We stopped at a farm building

by the roadside, where I was laid on some straw in the open courtyard.

Darkness was now coming on, and for some time I received but scanty

attention. At last some medical men came and questioned me, and I told

them my name and regiment; they seemed interested, and asked me if I was

Lord Armstrong’s son. There were very few ambulances, and by mistake I

was not put into one of them. When the officers discovered this they had

me taken down by stretcher to a dressing station near Ypres where I was

well attended to, and received an injection of morphia to deaden the

pain. It was probably here, unless it was at the first field dressing

station, that I received the anti-tetanus serum, and was given a Tommy’s

greatcoat. I slept here apparently for several hours, and Major Wright,

also wounded, remembers seeing me here. Eventually I was placed in an

ambulance which brought me to Poperinghe, several miles from the front.

We had gaily marched through this town only a few days before.

In the meantime my battalion was unaware that I had been rescued, and

Sergeant Renwick, who, as I stated, had gone to get help, came back with

a party only to find that I had disappeared. Company Quartermaster Turner

also went out to look for me, and I understand that all betrayed great

anxiety on my behalf and feared the worst. Major Mackay, who displayed

the greatest gallantry in attending to the wounded throughout the battle,

and who has since been awarded the C.M.G., was also very upset in being

unable to find me.

On arriving at Poperinghe, I was taken with others and placed in the

church, which had been turned into an emergency hospital. Before

recounting my experiences in the church, however, and those that followed

on afterwards, I must finish off the account of the battle of St. Julien.

After I was wounded, it was found impossible for the 7th to advance any

further. The plain in front of them was simply swept by a shower of lead

from the enemy’s machine guns, rifles, and artillery, and the wounded

were in a most precarious position. As darkness came on they gradually

removed the wounded, and the battalion held on where they were. Various

reports of the battle were circulated through the Press, and it appears

that some members of the brigade advanced to the outskirts of the

village, but were unable to capture it. The object of the British Staff,

however, had been gained. Ypres was in deadly peril, and its defenders

were short of artillery, ammunition, and men. Every moment saved was of

value, as reinforcements and ammunition were being hurried up. In the

meantime the Germans had to be kept busy and so prevented from advancing.

Hence our brigade was hurled against their position, though there was

no prospect of real success. As has been said before, it was a case of

bluff, and it succeeded, for the Germans, thinking they were going to be

attacked in great numbers, remained on the defensive, and invaluable time

was gained. The cost of more than half of one of Britain’s best infantry

brigades seemed heavy, but what did it matter if Ypres and the worn-out

second army were saved?

The 7th Northumberland Fusiliers suffered very heavily. We lost a great

number of our men, our casualties for this afternoon’s work being about

470 killed and wounded. This added to our former casualties brought

our total number of dead and wounded for the two and a half days up

to about 620. We were fortunate, however, in the large number of only

wounded in proportion to the number killed. Our officer casualties were:

Second Lieutenant Kent killed, and Captains Archer (Adjutant), Wright,

Welsh, and Lambton, and Lieutenants and Second Lieutenants J. Merivale,

Frank Merivale, Herriott, Fenwicke-Clennell, and myself wounded. On the

previous day we had lost, wounded, Captain Flint and Second Lieutenants

Adams and Donkin.

The other battalions in the brigade all suffered heavily, and our

Brigadier himself (Brigadier-General Riddell) was killed. On all this,

we can only comment that it was the ‘fortune of war,’ and what does it

matter who dies, if only England lives?

It is satisfactory to note that Lieutenant Bruce Ramsay, who was so

instrumental in saving my life, has since been awarded the Military

Cross for general good work, and also largely, I hear, for the devotion

he showed in rescuing me. Sergeant Renwick was mentioned in despatches

and recommended for the D.C.M., which, however, he was unfortunate to

miss. Among other honours since awarded to members of the 7th, the D.S.O.

of Lieutenant-Colonel Jackson and the C.M.G. of Major Mackay have been

deservedly popular, as well as the M.C.s of Captains Ball and Vernon

Merivale.

I have one comment to make, however, on all these operations. The

shortage of artillery ammunition was most apparent, and we received

hardly any support from our artillery. The enemy’s shells burst in

hundreds all round and among us, and we could barely reply. The gunners

were wringing their hands, and watching the infantry being mowed

down—infantry whom they were supposed to protect. The great agitation

sprang up soon after in the Press, and many prominent men, including the

Bishop of Pretoria, wrote very strongly from the Front. Whatever the

causes, the fact remains that a great disaster nearly occurred through

lack of shells, and that it was only the almost superhuman courage of the

British infantry which saved Ypres, and did almost alone what should have

been their joint work with the gunners. It was a case of human flesh and

courage against German steel and preparedness. It was not till the great

efforts made in England to rectify this succeeded that the warfare on the

Western Front began to be waged on terms of more equality.

On the arrival of the ambulance at Poperinghe I was, as I have already

mentioned, placed inside the large church which adorns this town. It

was packed with all sorts of wounded, including Indians. Belgian ladies

kindly brought tea to the sufferers, and chaplains came and wrote out

field postcards for the men. I was feeling fairly easy, and the tea

much refreshed me. I heard a familiar voice near me, and it was Frankie

Merivale, who had luckily received only a slight wound. I could not move

round and so was unable to see him, but we conversed for a little. I

directed some field postcards, the chaplain doing the writing of course.

I cannot tell how long I stayed there, but I may have slept a night

there. At any rate I remember being suddenly taken out of the church in

broad daylight, and then, to my horror, found German shells bursting

everywhere. I was left alone in the open for some minutes, and a shell

burst within a few yards of me and shook me uncomfortably. At last,

however, I was put into an ambulance, and taken to Hazebrouck, a town a

few miles on the French side of the frontier.

I spent a month in this town, in No. 10 Casualty Clearing Station. The

weather was extremely hot, and the wards small and stuffy. At first I was

very ill indeed, being in a critical condition, and receiving frequent

injections. A visit from my father, however, greatly cheered me up, and

everybody showered kindness on me. The Staff were terribly overworked, as

the wounded and gassed cases were pouring in from the great battle, which

was still raging, and the issue of which was so doubtful that we hardly

knew if Hazebrouck would continue to be safe. I was much troubled by an

incessant cough, and suffered a great deal of pain. Nevertheless I made

progress, and must pay a high tribute to the kindness and devotion shown

on all sides, by doctors, nurses, orderlies, and military chaplains. The

orderlies were as gentle as angels and would sit for hours at my bedside.

There was one lad of about seventeen, Private McIntyre, of Glasgow, who

used to spend practically whole nights procuring me milk etc. General Sir

Horace Smith-Dorrien came and visited me, and greatly pleased and cheered

me by saying how well we had all done. Colonel Rutherford, R.A.M.C., of

our Division, and my cousin Major-General Stopford also came and saw me,

and the latter was most kind in procuring me various things. The Senior

Chaplain, Archdeacon Southwell, was most thoughtful, and a kinder man it

would be hard to find. He would write letters for me, and when I got a

bit better I much amused him by dictating a letter to Monsieur Albin in

French. He richly deserves the C.M.G. which he has been awarded.

For a time I had a young Belgian R.A.M.C. officer as my companion, who

had suffered from a concussion, apparently by a fall from his horse. He

spoke hardly any English, and feeble as my voice was I had often to try

to do the necessary interpreting on his behalf. He thought I was a French

officer, and had to be assured that I was not! Parcels and letters from

home were a source of delight to me.

After about a month I was able to be moved to No. 7 Stationary Hospital

at Boulogne, where I remained till June 25. Again I became very ill, as

blood-poisoning supervened and nearly ended my life. I had an operation

to get the empyema out of my chest, and another one to draw the abscess

which formed on my leg and which fortunately collected and threw off

the septicæmia. I was one of the lucky 25 per cent. who recover from

this terrible form of blood-poisoning. I was much cheered, however, by

the presence of my father, who remained at the French port for about

three weeks, and brought me much fruit, strawberries being my especial

favourite.

Sister Dodds, who nursed me very devotedly, brought a splendid gramophone

into my room, and my father used to manipulate this for me very

efficiently. I was especially fond of ‘By the silvery, silvery sea,’

‘Girls, girls everywhere,’ and ‘Let’s all go down the Strand.’ Music did

me a great deal of good, and brought smiles back to my face, which for

some weeks past had been more often twisted with pain. Private C. G.

Brown, A.S.C., also visited me and brought me some lovely fresh eggs. As

at Hazebrouck, so at Boulogne, I became impatient towards night-time for

my injection, which had the most soothing effect, and, banishing for the

moment pain and restlessness, allowed my brain to think calmly in peace.

Again I had most expert medical treatment, and the nurses, both Scotch

and English, were very kind. As the weeks went on, I gradually threw off

the poison, and my wounds became healed.

I received a visit from my charming Parisian friends, Madame and

Mademoiselle Lefranc, who were very kind. Mr. Holt, of the British Red

Cross (now a captain in the Army), was also a good friend to me. He kept

my spirits up by amusing stories, and by impressing upon me the necessity

of making an effort, and trying to get to London, he did much to save my

life.

At last the tide turned, and when I landed in England on June 25 I was

much better, though considerably fatigued by the long journey. I was

taken to Lady Ridley’s Hospital, 10 Carlton House Terrace, and there

spent another two months, being well nursed and surrounded by luxuries.

My relatives and friends were all kindness; and this did much to revive

me and to fill me once more with the joy of life.

I made rapid progress, and was discharged from hospital early in

September, when I moved into lodgings for a three weeks’ final treatment

from Dr. Carl Westman. This Swedish doctor, a clever and charming young

man, was instrumental in bringing back full use to my right shoulder,

which otherwise would have remained permanently stiff. On September 28 I

was at last enabled to leave London for Cragside, and once more reached

home after several months’ sojourn in strange parts, having passed

through many vicissitudes and experiences.

Afterword:—

I spent a pleasant convalescence, and joined the 7th (Reserve)

Battalion of the Northumberland Fusiliers, stationed at Alnwick under

Lieutenant-Colonel J. Gillespie, T.D., at the end of January 1916,

having been passed for light duty. I continued to make progress, and was

enabled, after a time, to attend a musketry course at Strensall, and a

general one at Cannock Chase. Altogether I was awarded £250 compensation

for my wounds, and I am glad to state that I am now in a position to

repay the Government all the money spent on me by personal service, and

leave home to-morrow, _en route_ to rejoin the old first line of the 7th

in Flanders. There I hope I may be enabled to partake in those final

great victories which will bring about the ruin and destruction of that

plague-spot which has arisen on God’s fair earth, the German Empire.

PRESS BUREAU: PASSED FOR PUBLICATION.

_‘SWEEP’ VILLERS._

BY ARNOLD LUNN.

Before Villers had been a month at school he had betrayed his master

passion. He discovered that his housemaster was expecting an heir.

Delicacy was not Villers’ strong point, and he at once proceeded to

organise a sixpenny sweepstake among the fags. He took no chances, as

Knox who drew ‘triplets’ discovered. Villers, himself, drew a blank, but

he bought ‘assorted twins’ from Mixon Minor for ninepence, and Villers

was, perhaps, the only person who was really pleased when Mrs. Strange

presented her husband with—assorted twins: to wit, a thriving boy and

girl.

‘Sweep’ Villers, as he was speedily christened, was no good at games, but

despite this handicap he soon made a position for himself in the house.

Villers was a ‘card,’ to borrow Mr. Bennett’s pet word, and boys will

forgive much to a genuine ‘card.’ Betting and sweepstakes were the two

main interests of his life. It was, of course, too risky to bet on racing

save in an informal fashion with his young friends, but Villers contrived

to get a good deal of amusement without troubling London bookmakers.

Villers regarded Providence as a kind of super-bookie and the future as

the raw material for bets. Sweepstakes were his main diversion, but he

was always ready for a wager. He lost no chances. When Allen, a house

prefect, was just on the point of giving Villers a few flicks with a cane

for ‘cutting’ fag duty, Villers, who had assumed the orthodox position,

glanced over his shoulder and remarked, ‘Bet you a bob, Allen, I don’t

get up between the shots.’ ‘I’ll take you,’ said Allen grimly, ‘but I

shall give you an extra two for cheek.’ ‘However,’ as Villers afterwards

confided to an admiring circle, ‘I scored all along the line. Allen was

so keen to win his bet that he lost his length after the first shot. He

didn’t keep his eye on the ball. He began to press, and, instead of four

beefy drives, he could only manage six regular foozles. And I won my bob.’

To Villers a sweepstake was not only an end in itself but an instrument

for investing tedious events with the glamour of adventitious excitement.

Moony’s terminal sermon, for instance, could scarcely be regarded as

anything but an inevitable ordeal, for the dear gentleman never preached

for less than half an hour, and within the memory of man he never said

anything which bordered on the interesting. But once, at least, in his

life he had an excited audience. Once at least he had a listener who

was bitterly disappointed when he petered out under the half-hour.

That listener was Villers, who had drawn ‘thirty-five minutes’ in the

sweepstake on Moony’s evening run.

So, too, the Fortnightly Orders were a subject of interest only to

a few eccentrics. But one day Villers decided that the Fortnightly

Orders should be made an event of first-class importance. He suggested

a sweepstake on the result, and the Lower Fifth welcomed the idea

with enthusiasm. Twenty-four members of the form contrived to raise

a shilling. The twenty-fifth member of the form declined to enter.

‘Tomkins,’ said Villers with sour contempt, ‘won’t go in. He’s pi. I

expect his father is a Baptist.’ There was no truth in the deduction from

Tomkins’ piety, but none the less it was thenceforward accepted as a fact

that Tomkins came of Baptist stock, and nothing that Tomkins could say to

the contrary could wipe out this stigma on the family name.

It was an interesting draw. Everybody was pleased when Glover and Taylor

drew each other. It should be explained that there were two prizes: one

for the boy who drew the top of the form, another for the boy who drew

the bottom. Now Glover and Taylor were two veterans who had moved up the

school with more dignity than speed. They averaged a remove per annum.

They were very ancient and very lazy, and the last two places in the form

were theirs by immemorial right.

Now, since there was a prize for the drawer of the bottom boy, Taylor

and Glover each had a lively interest in insuring that the other should

be bottom. Each of them argued that if he could just beat the other he

would win twelve shillings, for neither of them could conceive that the

wooden spoon should become the property of any other member of the form.

Both of them, therefore, while making a great parade of laziness, began

surreptitiously to neglect their work a shade less thoroughly than before.

There were two favourites for the other prize. Poor Tomkins had declined

to enter for the sweepstake, but his name had been entered and had been

drawn by Cork. Cork was in the same house as Tomkins, but whereas Tomkins

was a mere insignificant scholar Cork was in the Cricket Eleven and a

great man. Hitherto he had treated Tomkins with good-humoured contempt.

Tomkins was useful to him. Tomkins was responsible for Cork’s classical

studies, his French, and his mathematics. Cork did not overwork Tomkins;

he did not give him his essays. Somebody else did the essays.

In consideration for these services Cork had not interfered with Tomkins’

ambition to work hard. Cork was a man of large tolerance. If Tomkins

liked to ‘sweat himself blue’ that was Tomkins’ look-out. So he contented

himself with occasional badinage in which Tomkins was asked to explain

the pleasure he derived from ‘oiling.’

But, of course, the sweepstake altered Cork’s attitude. He had drawn

Tomkins and, if Tomkins could beat Rolland, Cork would win twelve

shillings. Clearly Tomkins must spare no effort to beat Rolland. ‘Oil,’

instead of seeming an eccentric hobby, became a civic virtue. Cork began

to take the liveliest interest in the progress of his young ward. Cork

had been left near the bottom of the form, and Tomkins, who had come up

with a head remove, sat just behind him. When Tomkins missed a question,

Cork turned round and expressed by crude but intelligible signs his

bitter disappointment.

Mr. Strange, who was Cork’s housemaster as well as form-master, was very

puzzled by this new development. ‘Why this sudden interest in Tomkins?’

he said one day. ‘I’m not sure that Tomkins is altogether grateful for

your attentions.’

Tomkins wasn’t. Cork’s zeal quite put him off. Tomkins began to lose his

nerve, and Rolland beat him all along the line.

Cork was quite embittered by Tomkins’ failure. ‘Oh, yes, Tomkins,’ he

said one day, ‘you can oil all right when it’s only to please yourself,

but when it’s a question of twelve bob for me you simply foozle

everything. You did a rotten rep. this morning. Your father’s a Baptist,

isn’t he? Well, by gum! if you don’t come out top I’ll baptise you.’

Tomkins murmured nervously that his father was Church of England.

Cork sat next to Mr. Strange at lunch, and on the fatal Sunday he did

his best to pump Mr. Strange. ‘Has Tomkins come out top?’ he pleaded

wistfully. ‘I should so like to know, sir.’

‘My dear Cork,’ said Mr. Strange, ‘I can’t make you out. You don’t

usually condescend to take the least interest in your work or anybody

else’s. What’s in the wind?’

Cork was understood to say that the honour of the house was very dear

to him, and that while he was doing his best for the house at footer,

he expected Tomkins as the star scholar to do his best for the house in

school. Mr. Strange asked him if he was feeling the heat.

That afternoon a murmur of excitement ran round the form-room when Mr.

Strange appeared. Besides the sweepstake, most of the Lower Fifth had

contracted a number of side-bets on the result of the Fortnightly Order.

Tomkins and Rolland both carried money, and for the first time in their

school careers their respective achievements were a matter of general

interest. Cork had despaired of Tomkins, and had vainly tried to ‘sell’

him for half a crown. But there were no offers.

Glover and Taylor, who had both been working a little harder and cribbing

a great deal more thoroughly, were each convinced that they had beaten

the other. Five to four against either of them was freely quoted. Glover

was sure that Taylor would be bottom and that he would therefore win the

prize allotted to the lucky drawer of the bottom man. Taylor was no less

confident that Glover would occupy that ignoble position.

Mr. Strange glanced round the room before beginning to read out the

Order, and remarked drily, ‘I am flattered, but a little surprised,

at the sudden interest which some of you seem to be taking in the

Form Order. This is such a contrast to your usual attitude of bland

indifference that I really wonder whether you’ve been betting on it. The

only objection to this theory is that I don’t suppose for a moment that

any of you consider your school work of sufficient importance to risk a

spare sixpence on it.’

Mr. Strange, it will be seen, was a cynic. Only cynics understand boys.

The Form Order was a surprise and a shock to a good many people.

Cork gave a resigned snort when Tomkins was read out second, but Cork’s

disappointment was mild compared to the fury of Glover and Taylor, who,

thanks to their sudden zeal, had risen ten places and were bracketed

fifteenth. Never was promotion less welcome. ‘This is most gratifying,’

said Mr. Strange—‘most gratifying. Our stalwarts, our Arcades Ambo,

have at last shown what they are capable of. I always suspected, my

dear Glover, that it was energy rather than brains that you lacked; and

you, Taylor, have, I feel sure, done yourself an injustice in the past

by your pathetic insistence on your small intellectual endowment. This

improvement must be maintained. I shall be very angry with you if you

sink back to bottom again.’

Glover and Taylor began to devise some effective punishment for Villers.

Villers and his rotten sweepstakes! Good Heavens, just think of it!

They had been bamboozled out of a prize, and they had set themselves an

impossible standard of hard work for the future.

The Form Order contained yet another sensation.

‘Sweep’ Villers had sunk from twelfth to twenty-fifth. Curiously enough,

when his name was read out bottom of the form a smile of relief seemed

to cross his face. Mr. Strange caught this smile. It did not improve

matters. ‘Don’t sit there smiling,’ he said. ‘It’s no use trying to

carry off this disgraceful exhibition with an affectation of jaunty

indifference. You don’t deceive me, I assure you.’

None the less, he was deceived. For Villers’ smile was a smile of genuine

and unaffected joy. You see, he had drawn himself in the sweepstake, and,

as he had managed to come out bottom, he had won twelve shillings.

_THE VOICE OF THE GUNS._

BY F. J. SALMON.

What man, unless he be entirely devoid of imagination, has not been

profoundly impressed when, for the first time, he hears the distant roll

of the guns? How many a soldier makes it the theme of his first letter

home? It is the first intimation his relatives get that he is really at

the front. And yet, from the sound alone, he will get very little idea as

to how far off the line really is. The conformation of the ground, the

wind and possibly other climatic conditions affect the transmission of

sound in an extraordinary way. One can often hear the guns from very far

back, whereas from closer up nothing can be heard at all. If there is a

bombardment on, the noise is continuous but varies in intensity either

with the wind or according to the number of heavy pieces that are firing

at the same instant.

Later on, if he is observant, the soldier may get to know the individual

voices of some of these guns and recognise the bursts of their shell.

On first coming into the line he is unable to distinguish the meaning of

the various sounds, and the report of one of our own field-guns firing

behind him is likely to cause him more alarm than a Boche rifleman

sniping at his unwittingly exposed head. The 18-pounder field-gun makes

a most ear-splitting crack for those who stand in front of the battery,

and, moreover, the sound seems to come from only a few yards away. The

sniper’s bullet will strike the parapet with a resounding crack, followed

by the whirr of its passage through the air, and a new-comer might easily

imagine that one of our own men had fired from the next traverse.

The German field-gun, in common with our own 18-pounder, and, in fact,

all high-velocity guns, always sounds a good deal nearer than it really

is, and as the shell travels very fast and reaches the front-line

trenches very shortly after, or, sometimes, even before, the whizz of its

approach, it gives the infantry the impression that the battery is in

some impossible position just behind the German support line.

The ‘whizz-bang’ and the ‘pip-squeak’ are terms applied to the same

German field-gun by people who are shot at by him at different ranges.

In the first case there is a warning whirr of approach, but the shell

reaches the man who is ‘pip-squeaked’ while it is still travelling faster

than sound, and he gets the ‘pip’ of the explosion first and the whizz

afterwards—if there is enough of him left to hear it!

The voice of the German 77-millimetre field-gun can usually be

distinguished from the various other guns, trench mortars, bombs and

shells that are continually heard along the line. It sounds like two

planks being banged together in a courtyard where there is some echo from

the walls.

The heavy howitzers make far less noise, and the report cannot always be

detected, but the sound of the shell in the air is unmistakable. It is a

curious, intermittent, hollow, rushing sound, with an ever-deepening note

which dies away, if it is not coming near you, just before the rending

‘crump’ of the explosion.

This ‘crump’ is a sound-phenomenon which I am unable to explain. Whereas

the lighter shell goes off with an ordinary ‘bang,’ the 15-centimetre and

larger projectiles sound like a whole family of explosions going off not

quite at the same instant.

The German light field-howitzer in its acoustic effects is much like a

smaller edition of its larger brothers. Of the huge 42-centimetre shells

I have had, I am glad to say, no experience so far.

Another sound that one gets to know with experience is the report of the

trench mortar. This is not distinguishable if there is much noise going

on, and is best likened to the ‘clap’ of a pigeon-trap. My ear has been

somewhat trained by much _shikar_ in Ceylon jungles, and this has held me

in good stead on at least one occasion, when, after blowing a mine, the

Germans fired four trench mortars at a group of miners and myself in a

front-line sap. I distinctly heard the ‘clap’ of the report and was able

to give the warning to disperse. There was not much cover, but we had

good luck and no one was hit.

A pleasant ‘drawing-room’ voice is that of our beautiful little

field-howitzer. It goes off with more of a puff than a bang, and the

shell sails away with a soft whirring note which is lost in the distance

long before the formidable crash of the burst is wafted back from the

German lines.

An alarming sound that one used to hear earlier in the war, when

ammunition was of a lower quality than it is now, was that of a shell

with a ‘stripped’ driving band. Such a shell will whirl through the air

at any angle and will land, possibly base first, a mile or two short of

its mark.

One of the most encouraging of sounds is the dull thud of a German

‘blind’ shell, especially if, as often happens, they are coming over

in appreciable numbers. We are sometimes treated to furious ‘strafes’

with shells of the ‘toy-shop’ quality, of which only a small percentage

detonate properly, while a somewhat larger proportion go off with an

impotent pop, and the majority fail to explode at all.

‘Smoky Bill’ used to fire such shells. ‘Smoky Bill’ was a funny old

thing dating back from the ’seventies. A vast column of smoke rising

from behind a certain wood in the German lines was the first signal that

he had fired, and this was followed by a fearsome whirr in the air, and

then, five times out of six, by a dull thud and nothing more! We knew

where ‘Smoky Bill’ was, but nobody ever fired at him—he was one of the

side-shows of that sector and never did anyone any harm.

Now ‘Percy’ is another fellow altogether. ‘Percy’ is the long

13-centimetre high-velocity German gun. At most ranges ‘Percy’ comes

quicker than sound, and there is no warning of his approach. He goes off

with a mighty bang, and his shell, when you do hear it, comes along with

a terrific shriek. The only encouraging thought about ‘Percy’ is that he

is not very common down the line, whereas we have many guns that must

give the enemy similar thrills.

In order to feel thoroughly optimistic about the war one must hear the

voice of the French ‘75’ when he is really angry. I happened to be at

an observation-post down in the French lines one evening when word

had come down from the front line that enemy trench mortars were very

active in a certain sector. Two batteries of ‘75’s’ immediately took

on the offenders. One or two rounds for _réglage_ were sent over from

the _première pièce_ of each battery, there was a slight correction for

range (‘_diminuez de cinquante!_’), and then they literally pummelled

the Hun trenches for about a minute and a half. A confused roar of

ear-splitting cracks, a wild swirl of shells, and two continuous rows of

black spurts shot up from the German trenches. There was one gap in the

wall of bursting melinite, which gradually narrowed, and then the firing

stopped. A few words down the telephone, and then, with a loud crash, two

salvoes went into the remaining gap. The captain in the observation-post

merely remarked ‘_Bon!_’ and sat down to record his targets. These short

vigorous strafes must be very disconcerting to friend Hun, and although,

of course, every round did not actually hit the mark, the shooting was

remarkably accurate and the majority did get some part of the trench.

One can imagine the effect of the last two salvoes on the previously

unstrafed portion where seekers after shelter would have gathered!

On another occasion, at the beginning of one of the minor battles of

the war, I was at the same post, and these two batteries were firing

at a most remarkable speed, the general principle being to return

anything that was sent over by the enemy with interest—a thing that the

Frenchman always seems able to do unless his guns happen to be hopelessly

outnumbered by some local concentration of the Germans.

Many and interesting are the various sound-phenomena of the battlefield.

Why is it, for instance, that once when a certain battery was firing over

my head from behind a crest the rush of the shell was heard going away

in an opposite direction, so that it seemed, at first, as if the breech

had blown out; and that when I approached the battery the shells sounded

as if they were going straight up in the air? Why is it that, from some

positions, the shells from our own batteries are heard to give forth a

crackling sound instead of the usual swirl when speeding over to the

enemy? This last effect may occasionally be due to a badly centred shell,

but, I think, not always. One is too busy in war-time to look into these

interesting details, and in peace-time one has not the opportunity!

I remember an occasion when the guns made a very effective accompaniment

to a song. I was lunching below ground in an observation-post dug-out,

and a very pleasant-voiced lady was singing to us from a gramophone. I

forget what the song was, but the regular bang and whirr of a battery

firing overhead certainly improved the effect. We shouted up to the

observer to know if the shells were ‘ours’ or ‘theirs,’ and elicited the

interesting information that it was the Germans who were supplying the

accompaniment!

The sound of the enemy shells is all too well known to most of us out

here, but there appear to be not many who have actually seen one in

the air. I have seen German shells coming towards me on two separate

occasions, but have, so far, never met anyone who has had the same

experience. This seems strange, for there is no reason why it should

not happen fairly frequently. It is quite an easy matter to see one of

our own shells leaving a howitzer, and sometimes a gun, if one stands

straight behind it, and it should only be a question of happening to look

in the right direction to see one coming the other way.

It was in the spring of last year near ‘Windy Corner’ that I first saw

a German shell on the wing. I had not been long at the front, and I

instinctively looked up when I heard it coming. What I saw was a minute

but very rapidly increasing speck in the sky, moving so fast that I was

somehow unable to judge where it was going to fall. I accordingly made

myself as small as possible, but it burst in a farm at the comparatively

safe distance of some 150 yards. It was from a 15-centimetre howitzer,

and was immediately followed by another, which I again saw by looking in

the same direction. As this was followed by a flight of ‘whizz bangs,’

and as I had no pressing business there at the moment, I hurried from

that well-known and unwholesome spot.

It was many months before I again had a similar experience, and this

time it was rather more thrilling. I was walking over some open country

towards the trenches in company with my sergeant-major, and the Germans

had started shelling a battery behind us. They were firing with the

ordinary 77-millimetre field-gun, and the first few rounds were short

and unpleasantly close to us. The Hun battery must have been some way

back, as we heard the report and the warning whistle of the shell some

two or three seconds before it arrived. At the next report I looked up

instinctively to gauge the direction in which the shell was going. The

range had been increased, and I caught a fleeting glimpse of a tiny

speck in the sky which grew larger and disappeared close over my head in

a small fraction of a second. It did not appear to come straight, but

described a ‘googly’ curve. How much of this was due to its actual path,

and how much the mere effect produced on the eye by its extreme speed, I

cannot say, but I know that shells do not travel straight but affect a

kind of ‘slice.’

On such occasions those who duck or take cover are usually too late. The

rush of its near approach reached my sergeant-major after I had seen it

go over, and though he has a delightful contempt for Germany’s efforts

to destroy him, which I am not always able to share, on this occasion it

was I who stood up apparently unconcerned while he crouched on the ground

waiting for a shell which had already burst in the battery some 200

yards behind us!

When a shell passes very near to one its whistle increases to the roar of

an express train, and when there is anything like a heavy bombardment on

it is only those shells which pass dangerously close that one can hear

above the general din.

More disconcerting than the actual burst of the shell is the ‘whirr’

of the splinters or, in the case of shrapnel, the loud ‘miaow’ of the

flying bullets. I suppose our gallant airmen have more shrapnel fired

at them than anyone else, and the loud ‘clump, clump, clump’ of the

bursting ‘Archies,’ followed by the whine of three hundred bullets flying

from each shell, is an almost continuous tune down the line even on the

quietest of days.

Happily, man can accustom himself to most things, and to the seasoned

soldier these sounds arouse little more interest than the rumble of

London traffic to the Cockney—unless, of course, he is actually being

fired at himself!

But to-day (July 1) the distant sound of the guns is once more stirring

me as it did on my first morning in Flanders over a year ago. The rumble

is more persistent and continuous than it has ever been. Yesterday my

work took me down to the line, and I witnessed some pretty ‘strafing,’

but it is only back here at head-quarters that the true meaning of things

is borne in upon me. Whichever side of the hill I stand, and according

as the breeze varies, the thud and roar is continuous—it comes from

three points of the compass. It is useless to speculate, but, whatever

may happen in the future, this, at least, is a black day for Germany—the

voices of the mighty guns of Britain and of France are raised in such a

chorus as was never heard before.

_‘DO’-NO-WHO’._

It is over a year ago since an Irish private, known to his pals by the

above rather obvious contortion of the proper name of Donohue, was

brought into hospital. He came with a convoy of British who, nearly all,

were suffering from gas poisoning as well as wounds. Those being the

early days of ‘the gaz,’ as Do’-no-who called it, arrangements for its

defeat were not yet altogether successful. After all, who could then have

foreseen such a devilish invention of war? However, the poor, panting,

choking, indeed in some cases retching, men who came to us had been given

some kind of protection. Each one clung still to his particular mask,

limp, blackened, flimsy affair that it was.

Poor old Do’-no-who’s condition was pretty desperate. You could hear him

breathing fifty yards away. He was sustained from first to last by the

most indomitable fighting spirit I ever came across. During a struggle of

several days’ duration there was only one order which he utterly declined

to obey. Nothing would, nobody _could_ keep him from talking—even in his

sleep. I am bound to say it chiefly took the form of endless ejaculation.

As, for instance, when with intense difficulty he managed at first to

gulp down a little champagne, it was like this—‘Isn’t that fine now?’

‘Grand!’ or ‘That’s killin’ the divil’s own gaz’—a word at a time between

every sip.

Soon realising that every known resource was being tried to relieve

his sufferings, old Do’-no-who did his level best to respond to it and

to cheer us on. ‘Och, I’m finely now,’ or ‘It’s only the gaz that’s

hindering ye’s all,’ he would say, with a sorry attempt to smile. But

sometimes there would be anxious moments, when he would lie back only

partially conscious. Then it seemed as though he was engaged in some most

exciting and exhausting struggle. Little exclamations of despair or joy

in turn would escape him.

‘Sure this gaz’ll defate me!’ ‘Deed it will that!’

Then, after renewed panting, the perspiration would pour down his cheeks,

and ‘I have it!’ ‘Isn’t it weighty now?’ and the puff! puff! puff!

greater than ever made one wonder what huge burden he thought he was

lifting.

‘I’m afraid he’s a little delirious,’ said the doctor, as he put his

finger again on the patient’s pulse. Old Do’-no-who seemed to hear this.

He would open his eyes and say in a tone of triumph: ‘Sure! Won’t I be

comminded for conspicuous gallantry!’ So, whilst some doubted, others

could only see conviction in his clear steady blue eye as he again

thankfully attempted to inhale more oxygen. His hands were continually

seeking and fingering a little string of beads that lay beside him: ‘It

was me rosary brought me t’rough,’ he said, as he relapsed into a painful

sleep.

Once he overheard some remark that rather pleased him, and he cut in

rather unexpectedly: ‘Yes, prayer is the foundation of all graces.’

In spite of the constant and hideous strain of the breathing, we were

amazed at the way his constitution bore him along. Also he had certain

intervals of marked improvement and we almost dared to hope. So did

Do’-no-who. ‘Sure we’ll niver die!’ he said, and his eyes shone with such

confidence and joy that we began to think he was right.

Even in his worst agony he had always managed to fling an occasional word

of wit or chaff towards his companions. Now it was impossible to suppress

him. Carried outside in his bed in the glorious sun, he and several of

the patients quite revived under the influence of that soft May air.

It was a pathetic little row of beds; some of the men’s faces so deadly

white, others still of that dark uncanny colour which tells its own story

of asphyxiation. Yet few there were, indeed hardly one of those men

within earshot of Do’-no-who, that did not shake with weak giggling if he

so much as opened his lips or looked across at them. There indeed was the

medicine of the merry heart.

Alas! for us all when one morning Do’-no-who began to show signs of

relapse. He had had a bad night and was unmistakably low in his mind.

Instead of the usual radiant smile and the variable welcome ‘I’m

grand!’ or ‘Sure, I’ll be rightly sune,’ it was a kind of beaten look

that greeted us. His glad expression had suddenly changed to one of

unutterable sadness. He gravely shook his head without a word, and then

sank back on the pillow.

Every effort was still being put forth to relieve him, but oxygen,

‘dry-cupping,’ and various other remedies seemed this time to have lost

their power. Only, strange to say, the doctor found his pulse had lost

little of its strength. He told him so.

‘Mebbe, yer honour, but I’m greatly fataagued,’ murmured Do’-no-who, as

he wearily closed his eyes.

The truth was he had given himself up. Once a man does that it is little

use to argue with him. Poor old Do’-no-who’s Gethsemane took the form of

dire disappointment. ‘Sure, I’ll miss mi rewa-r-rd,’ he faintly whispered.

Spite of all our attempts to keep bright, an atmosphere of depression

was gradually creeping over the ward. The sudden change in Bed 14 was

responsible for it all. Do’-no-who lay there perfectly helpless, his

painful breathing sounding more like the regular sawing of a piece of

wood than anything else.

In the afternoon there was little change, except that his pulse at last

showed signs of weakening, the light had gone out of his eyes, and he was

unable to swallow anything.

By this time some of the patients were beginning to get along well: so

much easier was their breathing they were able to sleep in comparative

comfort. Others, however, were wakeful. They only wished to lie quiet.

Some indeed tried to look at picture papers, but you could tell by the

quick anxious glances they gave towards Bed 14 from time to time that

their thoughts were centred entirely on one person.

As the hours progressed we found that Do’-no-who’s strength was gradually

waning. His pulse was faint and fluttering, he had fallen into a heavy

drowsy state, and his breathing came in short light puffs. Yet all the

time, strange to say, he would insist on keeping that great strong

arm of his right up at the back of his head which lay so still on the

pillow. He remained like that for hours, whilst the breathing gradually

slowed, faltered and went on again, till it was almost inaudible and the

fluttering pulse could scarcely be felt. Then—quite suddenly—as he slept

the tired head fell over and the big hand relaxed. He had stepped over

the border without a struggle. We placed his hand gently beside him, and

took the rosary from the other one and hung it round his neck.

‘The strong man must go:

For the journey is done and the summit attained

And the barriers fall.

...

Sudden the worst turns the best to the brave

The black minute’s at end.’

BROWNING.

Before very long some orderlies came and fetched Do’-no-who. It was

touching to see the patients—all who could—standing at attention as the

stretcher came down the ward and was carried out through the door. Even

those in bed managed to raise a weak hand to their forehead as the big

frame of Donohue wrapped in a Union Jack passed along.

One, Murphy, a quiet little Irishman with ferrety eyes who occupied the

adjoining bed, had scarcely spoken all the time. We were not surprised,

for he too had suffered badly from the gas, but judging by the way he

kept his eyes rivetted on Do’-no-who we felt he took more than ordinary

interest in his case. Now, as the sad little procession disappeared,

Murphy turned right over on his pillow and quietly covered his face with

his sheet. When a little later we told him we had put his supper near

him, he left it untouched, and silently declined to emerge from his

retreat.

That night when most of the others had gone to sleep, Murphy was seen

to uncover his face, and as the night Sister passed down the ward he

signalled to her.

Most pitifully red and tear-stained though he was, he had evidently

something important to say. He began abruptly:

‘I’m spakin’ God’s truth to ye, Sister, I tell you I saw him miself.’

‘Saw whom, Murphy?’

‘Yon man,’ waving toward the empty bed. ‘Don’t ye mind what he told ye

about conspicuous gallantry?’

‘Oh to be sure. You mean poor Donohue? But didn’t the doctor say he was

delirious?’

‘God’s truth,’ again said Murphy. ‘Do’-no-who was no man for lying. I’ll

tell ye all I saw, Sister.’

‘Don’t you think you had better try and sleep now? We can talk better in

the morning.’

‘Deed no, it’s little sleep I’ll get till me mind’s relaised,’ and poor

Murphy looked so distressed and worried the Sister saw it was best to let

him have his way. This is what he told her.

‘Do ye mind the day we was brought in? It was that fore-neune we’d had

the biggest gaz battle that iver ye saw. Sure, we’d shtarted attackin’

finely. We Irish boys was with the Highlanders. We’d quit our trenches

and was for dashing right across to the Boches, when all in a minute we

seemed to come intil a gaz cloud. It set us shtrugglin’ and imprecatin’

and shplutterin’. Do’-no-who was beside me. We would have suffocated

entoirely, so we got to runnin’. Do’-no-who, strong boy that he was, was

prancin’ along past me, chokin’ and trying to git his mask fix’d on him,

when he stopped all of a sudden. He might have been par’rlised.

‘“Come along,” ses I, what with the gaz.

‘“Divil a bit,” ses he. “I’ve just moinded the machane-gun. We’ve left it

for the Boches.”

‘“How could we help ’t?” ses I. “Think o’ yiself and quit troublin’ about

machane-guns.”

‘“I _am_ thinkin’ of miself,” ses Do’-no-who. “Sure I’m the boy that can

fetch it out.” With that, he lept off and back into the gaz cloud, whilst

I did nothin’—may the holy Virgin forgive me! I went on runnin’ and

shtrugglin’ to get clear o’ the gaz which was killin’ me.’

Here Murphy broke down and sobbed aloud with the memory.

‘After a wee while,’ he went on presently, ‘whin I’d joined the boys

and was for settin’ beside thim, where we was all coughin’ and chokin’

and shpittin’, I saw the stritcher bearers comin’ along. They had been

pickin’ up several of us and on the last stritcher of all didn’t I see

puir old Do’-no-who? Ooh! but he was pantin’ like a shteam roller and

black in the face.

‘“Are ye dead?” ses I intil his ear as he passed me.

‘“I’m not,” he whishpor’d, “only spacheless.”

‘That was all, and I shtaggared on after them. ’Twas the divil’s own

tramp to the dressin’ station. I could see them takin’ Do’-no-who in.

After a while one of his stritcher bearers came out, so I got spakin’

till him.

‘“Yon’s a grand man,” ses he.

‘“He is. Where did ye find him?” ses I. “I lost him in the misht.”

‘“We caught sight of him comin’ thro’ the gaz,” ses he. “He was rollin’

and shtumblin’ like as he was in drink, but he was bringin’ somethin’

along on his shoulders. We couldn’t see what it was at first. It seemed

weighty—he was doubled up under it like a camel. We’d got near him, about

fifty yards off, when he giv another big shtumble and over he trip’t and

fell over all in a big wee bonch. When we got till him he was shtretched

out flat and a machane-gun was lying beside him. Ochone, it’s done for

him I’m thinkin’, but sure, hadn’t he the divil’s own pluck to bring it

that far?” ses he.’

Murphy lay very quiet after he had finished his tale, but he was now

distinctly relieved. He submitted to having his bed made comfortable and

his pillows shaken, and he let the Sister give him a little soup before

settling off.

She passed him half an hour afterwards and was thankful to see that the

ferrety eyes were closed. By the difficult but regular breathing that

came from that tired little body she knew that sleep, in merciful pity,

had wiped out the memory of the machine-gun tragedy—for a few hours at

any rate.

DOSIA BAGOT.

_BALLIOL MEMORIES._

BY THE HON. A. E. GATHORNE-HARDY.

On March 28, 1916, in a blizzard of snow and a tempest of wind, which

might bear comparison with the storm during which Oliver Cromwell passed

away, celebrated by Tennyson’s ‘Talking Oak’—

‘When that wild wind made work

In which the gloomy brewer’s soul

Went by me, like a stork’

—the gentle and loving spirit of James Leigh Strachan-Davidson passed

away. During his early manhood his health had been so weak that he had

been regularly compelled to winter abroad, and few would have anticipated

that he would have exceeded by three years the Psalmist’s allotted span

of threescore and ten; but his dauntless courage, serene patience, and

strong sense of duty carried him through a long career of usefulness.

I had known and loved him for more than half a century, and when I saw

the news in _The Times_ of the following morning my thoughts went back

to the last occasion when we met at a rather remarkable gathering of old

Balliol contemporaries which had taken place annually during all that

period, nothing but the sternest necessity keeping any of us away. We had

dined together once every year since 1867, generally on the second day

of the University cricket match, and we met for the last time under the

presidency of Sir Horatio Shephard, long a distinguished Indian Judge,

on July 6, 1914. Although there was a full attendance, two or three

had dropped out of our ranks since the last meeting, when twenty-three

out of a possible twenty-four had been present, but gaps were to be

expected when the youngest of the gathering, myself, was on the verge

of seventy, and I voiced a pretty general feeling when I proposed that

after our next dinner (actually the 46th) we should wind up voluntarily,

finishing in 1915 with a special Jubilee Festival. My resolution was

carried unanimously, but, alas for the vanity of human wishes! in one

short month Armageddon was upon us, and in 1915, when the day came round

for the University match and our dinner, the rival blues, both sides one

khaki-clad phalanx, were fighting side by side ‘somewhere in France’ or

on the shrapnel-swept heights of Gallipoli; and we ourselves, with sons

and grandsons at the front, had no heart for festivities. Our ‘Balliol

dinner’ was fated to die a natural death, but it should not be allowed

to come to an end ‘without the meed of a melodious tear.’ I typed a

copy of the book in which all our meetings are recorded in the hands of

the successive presidents, from the first dinner, under the presidency

of Archer Clive, in 1867, at the Castle Hotel, Richmond, with all the

names of those attending, excuses for absence, and comments upon the

quality of the menu, the wine, and the waiting. We were forty-three in

all from first to last, and the bright promise of that generation of

Balliol undergraduates had in many cases ripened into fulfilment. Among

politicians we numbered the Marquis of Lansdowne, the Earls of Morley

and Jersey, Matt Ridley, afterwards the first Lord Ridley, and Sir

William Anson, even more distinguished as an embodiment of the spirit

of Oxford, Warden of All Souls, Vice-Chancellor, and historian of the

Constitution, than as a member of Parliament, Privy Councillor, and

Minister of Education. We had altogether three Heads of Colleges, Anson,

our dear Master of Balliol, and Wright Henderson, Warden of Wadham; Wood

was Head Master of Harrow, while Raper and Papillon held their place

high among choicest representatives of Oxford scholarship. John Julius

Hannah, Dean of Chichester, Canon Argles, and a round dozen of beloved

Rectors and Vicars, doing excellent and unostentatious work in various

country parishes, represented the Church. Then we had the head officials

at the table of both Houses of Parliament; Sir Henry Graham, Clerk of the

Parliaments, was and still is leading luminary in the House of Lords,

and Sir Courtenay Peregrine Ilbert occupies a similar place as first

Clerk in the House of Commons. Other lesser luminaries distinguished in

the Civil Service were Sneyd Kynnersley, who has recorded his career as

a School Inspector with rich humour in that amusing book ‘H.M.I.,’ and

Charles Vertue and Hamilton Hoare, of the Education Office. Sir Francis

Horner was a successful Commissioner of Woods, and the well loved ‘Mike,’

R. A. H. Mitchell, the mighty cricketer of the ’sixties, did useful

work as one of the best and most popular of Eton House Masters. Truly

a goodly company! And there were others of a promise as bright which

never had time to ripen: Barratt, the Rugby Scholar who obtained the

unprecedented number of five first classes, Classical and Mathematical

‘Mods’ and Greats, and Law and History, then the only other final school,

and only stopped because, like Alexander, he could find no more worlds

to conquer, and Archer Clive, the brilliant son of a distinguished

Herefordshire family, who gained the highest honours at the University

and a fellowship at Lincoln, but never attained that success at the Bar

which his great intellect led his contemporaries to expect. He was chosen

with Henry Northcote (the late Lord Northcote) to accompany Sir Stafford

Northcote and his colleagues to America as Secretary to the Mission which

negotiated the Alabama Treaty, and gained great credit from his chief

in that capacity. A singular incident, now almost forgotten, occurred

in the year when he took his degree at Oxford. After the examination

some practical joker sent a forged ‘Greats’ Class List to _The Times_.

It failed in its object of deceiving anyone who really knew anything

about the prospects of Honour Candidates, for it placed Archer Clive

in the Third Class, which, as Euclid would have put it, was absurd. He

‘devilled’ at the Bar for Lord James of Hereford, whose pupil he had been

and who entertained the highest appreciation of his abilities, but soon

after his return from America he developed symptoms of pulmonary disease,

which shortly afterwards proved fatal.