LEAVSS IN THE' WIND hy Alpha. ofthz^ PiouCh Illu*ini*d\ by CJive iGardinerl \ •i'N Class '\G0i_3 ^ Book. ^ /^ 6 L 4- COPYRIGHT DEPOSm «^M«*)k^^^jMiiA LEAVES IN THE WIND BY THE SAME AUTHOR PEBBLES ON THE SHORE With go Illustrations BY C. E. BROCK Net $2.00 Also published in THE wayfarer's LIBRARY at 75 cents net E. P. BUTTON & COMPANY '*^\^ ^ ^ ^ ^ < m ^ iL 1 ri W i 1 T^ 1 b t' V^ CUvi c\«--*-~-. kK^I iSmawH^jtO^iJi ^lll Copyright, 1919. by e. p. button & company All Rights Reserved Printed in the United States of America J"L1''>I9I9 Q^,^^. 529 226 3 TO MY CHILDREN AUTHOR'S NOTE The welcome given to "Pebbles on the Shore" is the excuse for this volume, collected for the most part from the same source, the columns of The Star and other papers, in which the articles appeared from week to week. Some of them have been ex- tended and a few are now published for the first time. The leaves are slight, and if they have any collective value it is as symptoms of the wind that blows them. They were written during the third and fourth years of the War, and in some measure reflect, incidentally rather than intentionally, the emotional experiences of the most disquieting period of the struggle. CONTENTS PAGE A Fellow Traveller i On a Famous Sermon 6 On Pockets and Things 12 On a Country Platform 20 On a Distant View of a Pig 25 In Defence of Ignorance 3' On a Shiny Night 37 On Giving Up Tobacco 42 The Great God Gun 49 On a Legend of the War 58 On Talk and Talkers 64 On a Vision of Eden 7° On a Comic Genius 75 On a Vanished Garden 80 All About a Dog 9^ ix X CONTENTS PAGE On the American Soldier 97 'Appy 'Einrich 103 On Fear 108 On Being Called Thompson 113 On Thinking FOR One's Self 118 On Sawing Wood 123 Variations on an Old Theme . . . . 128 On Clothes 147 The Duel That Failed 153 On Early Rising 158 On Being Known 163 On a Map of the Oberland 168 On a Talk in a Bus 181 On Virtues That Don't Count . . . . 186 On Hate and the Soldier 192 On Taking the Call 199 A Dithyramb on a Dog 204 On Happy Faces in the Strand .... 209 On Word-Magic 223 Odin Grown Old 229 On a Smile in a Shaving Glass .... 235 On the Rule of the Road 241 On the Indifference of Nature . . . 250 If Jeremy Came Back 257 On Sleep and Thought 264 On Mowing 269 LIST OF FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS PAGE Frontispiece Meeting of the S. P. R. A. W 17 - "The art of diplomacy ..." AS Whose tassels the bold militiamen . . . would gaily pluck as they passed 89 This generation has companioned Death too closely to see him again quite as the hooded terror of old 130 ^ Wherever he turned he was baulked 175 "A real smile ..." 221 l>^ LEAVES IN THE WIND A FELLOW TRAVELLER I DO not know which of us got into the carriage first. Indeed I did not know he was in the carriage at all for some time. It was the last train from London to a Midland town — a stopping train, an infinitely leisurely train, one of those trains which give you an understanding of eternity. It was tolerably full when it started, but as we stopped at the suburban stations the travellers alighted in ones and twos, and by the time we had left the outer ring of London behind I was alone — or, rather, I thought I was alone. There is a pleasant sense of freedom about being alone in a carriage that is jolting noisily through the night. It is liberty and unrestraint in a very agree- able form. You can do anything you like. You can talk to yourself as loud as you please and no one will hear you. You can have that argument out with Jones and roll him triumphantly in the dust without fear of a counterstroke. You can stand on your head and no one will see you. You can sing, or dance a two-step, 2 A FELLOW TRAVELLER or practise a golf stroke, or play marbles on the floor without let or hindrance. You can open the window or shut it without provoking a protest. You can open both windows or shut both. Indeed, you can go on opening them and shutting them as a sort of festival of freedom. You can have any corner you choose and try all of them in turn. You can lie at full length on the cushions and enjoy the luxury of breaking the regu- lations and possibly the heart of D.O.R.A. herself. Only D.O.R.A. will not know that her heart is broken. You have escaped even D.O.R.A. On this night I did not do any of these things. They did not happen to occur to me. What I did was much more ordinary. When the last of my fellow- passengers had gone I put down my paper, stretched my arms and my legs, stood up and looked out of the window on the calm summer night through which I was journeying, noting the pale reminiscence of day that still lingered in the northern sky ; crossed the car- riage and looked out of the other window; lit a cig- arette, sat down, and began to read again. It was then that I became aware of my fellow traveller. He came and sat on my nose. . . . He was one of those wingy, nippy. Intrepid insects that we call, vaguely, mosquitoes. I flicked him off my nose, and he made a tour of the compartment, investigated its three dimensions, visited each window, fluttered round the light, decided that there was nothing so interesting as that large animal in the corner, came and had a look at my neck. I flicked him off again. He skipped away, took another jaunt round the compartment, returned, and A FELLOW TRAVELLER 3 seated himself impudently on the back of my hand. It is enough, I said; magnanimity has its limits. Twice you have been warned that I am someone in particular, that my august person resents the tickling imperti- nences of strangers. I assume the black cap. I con- demn you to death. Justice demands it, and the court awards it. The counts against you are many. You are a vagrant; you are a public nuisance; you are travelling without a ticket ; you have no meat coupon. For these and many other misdemeanours you are about to die. I struck a swift, lethal blow with my right hand. He dodged the attack with an insolent ease that humiliated me. My personal vanity was aroused. I lunged at him with my hand, with my paper; I jumped on the seat and pursued him round the lamp ; I adopted tactics of feline cunning, waiting till he had alighted, approaching with a horrible stealthiness, striking with a sudden and terrible swiftness. It was all in vain. He played with me, openly and ostentatiously, like a skilful matador finessing round an infuriated bull. It was obvious that he was en- joying himself, that it was for this that he had dis- turbed my repose. He wanted a little sport, and what sport like being chased by this huge, lumbering wind- mill of a creature, who tasted so good and seemed so helpless and so stupid ? I began to enter into the spirit of the fellow. He was no longer a mere insect. He was developing into a personality, an intelligence that challenged the possession of this compartment with me on equal terms. I felt my heart warming towards him and the sense of superiority fading. How could I 4 A FELLOW TRAVELLER feel superior to a creature who was so manifestly my master in the only competition in which we had ever engaged? Why not be magnanimous again? Mag- nanimity and mercy were the noblest attributes of man. In the exercise of these high qualities I could recover my prestige. At present I was a ridiculous figure, a thing for laughter and derision. By being merciful I could reassert the moral dignity of man and go back to my corner with honour. I withdraw the sentence of death, I said, returning to my seat. I cannot kill you, but I can reprieve you, I do it. I took up my paper and he came and sat on it. Foolish fellow, I said, you have delivered yourself into my hands. I have but to give this respectable weekly organ of opinion a smack on both covers and you are a corpse, neatly sandwiched between an article on "Peace Traps" and another on "The Modesty of Mr. Hughes." But I shall not do it. I have reprieved you, and I will satisfy you that when this large animal says a thing he means it. Moreover, I no longer desire to kill you. Through knowing you better I have come to feel — shall I say? — a sort of affection for you. I fancy that St. Francis would have called you "little brother." I cannot go so far as that in Christian charity and civility. But I recognise a more distant relationship. Fortune has made us fellow-travellers on this summer night. I have interested you and you have entertained me. The obligation is mutual and it is founded on the fundamental fact that we are fel- low mortals. The miracle of life is ours in common and its mystery too. I suppose you don't know any- A FELLOW TRAVELLER 5 thing about your journey. I'm not sure that I know much about mine. We are really, when you come to think of it, a good deal alike — ^just apparitions that are and then are not, coming out of the night into the lighted carriage, fluttering about the lamp for a while and going out into the night again. Perhaps. . . . "Going on to-night, sir?" said a voice at the win- dow. It was a friendly porter giving me a hint that this was my station. I thanked him and said I must have been dozing. And seizing my hat and stick I went out into the cool summer night. As I closed the door of the compartment I saw my fellow traveller fluttering round the lamp. . . . ON A FAMOUS SERMON I SEE that Queen Alexandra has made a further dis- tribution among charities of the profits from the sale of the late Canon Fleming's sermon, "On Recognition in Eternity." The sermon was preached on the occa- sion of the death of the Duke of Clarence, and judging from its popularity I have no doubt it is a good ser- mon. But I am tempted to write on the subject by a mischievous thought suggested by the authorship of this famous sermon. There is no idea which makes so universal an appeal to the deepest instincts of hu- manity as the idea that when we awake from the dream of life we shall pass into the companionship of those who have shared and lightened our pilgrimage here. The intellect may dismiss the idea as unscientific, but, as Newman says, the finite can tell us nothing about 6 ON A FAMOUS SERMON 7 the infinite Creator, and the Quaker poet's serene as- surance — Yet love will hope and faith will trust (Since He Who knows our needs is just) That somehow, sonaewhere, meet we must — defies all the bufifetings of reason. Even Shelley, for all his aggressive Atheism, could not, as Francis Thompson points out, escape the in- stinct of personal immortality. In his glorious elegy on Keats he implicitly assumes the personal immortal- ity vi^hich the poem explicitly denies, as when, to greet the dead youth, The inheritors of unfulfilled renown Rose from their thrones, built beyond mortal thought Far in the unapparent. And it is on the same note that the poem reaches its sublime and prophetic close: — I am borne darkly, fearfully afar; Whilst, burning through the inmost veil of heaven, The soul of Adonais like a star Beacons from the abode where the eternal are. The ink of that immortal strain was hardly dry upon the page when the vision was fulfilled, for only a few months elapsed between the death of Keats and the drowning of Shelley, and in the interval the great monody had been written. I refuse, for the sake of the feelings of Mr. J. 8 ON A FAMOUS SERMON M. Robertson and Mr. Foote and the other stern old dogmatists of Rationalism, to deny myself the pleasure of imagining the meeting of Shelley and Keats in the Elysian Fields. If Shelley, "borne darkly, fearfully afar" beyond the confines of reason, could feel that grand assurance why should I, who dislike the dog- matists of Rationalism as much as the dogmatists of Orthodoxy, deny myself that beautiful solace? I like to think of those passionate spirits in eternal comrade- ship, pausing in their eager talk to salute deep-browed Homer as, perchance, he passes in grave discourse with the "mighty-mouthed inventor of harmonies." I like to think of Dante meeting Beatrice by some crystal stream, of Lincoln wandering side by side with Lee, of poor Mary Lamb reunited to the mother she loved and whom she slew in one of her fits of insanity, and of an innumerable host of humbler recognitions no less sweet. But Canon Fleming's name reminds me that all the recognitions will not be agreeable. I cannot im- agine that eminent Court preacher showing any eager- ness to recognise or be recognised by that other emi- nent preacher, Dr. Talmage. For it was Talmage's sermon on the wickedness of great cities that Fleming so unblushingly preached and published as his own, simply altering the names of American cities to those of European cities. Some cruel editor printed the two sermons side by side, I think in the old St. James's Gazette, and the poor Canon's excuse only made mat- ters rather worse. The incident did not prevent him securing preferment, and his sermon on "Recognition ON A FAMOUS SERMON 9 in Eternity" still goes on selling. But he will not be comfortable when he sees Talmage coming his way across the Elysian Fields. I do not think he will offer him the very unconvincing explanation he offered to the British public. He will make a frank confession and Talmage will no doubt give him absolution. There will be many such awkward meetings. With what emotions of shame, for example, will Charles I. see Strafford approaching. "Not a hair of your head shall be touched by Parliament" was his promise to that in- strument of his despotic rule, but when Parliament de- manded the head itself he endorsed the verdict that sent Strafford to the scaffold. And I can imagine there will be a little coldness between Cromwell and Charles when they pass, though in the larger understanding of that world Charles, I fancy, will see that he was quite impossible, and that he left the grim old Puritan no other way. It is this thought of the larger understanding that will come when we have put off the coarse vesture of things that makes this speculation reasonable. That admirable woman, Mrs. Berry, in "Richard Feverel," had the recognitions of eternity in her mind when she declared that widows ought not to remarry. "And to think," she said, "o' two (husbands) claimin' o' me then, it makes me hot all over." Mrs. Berry's mis- take was in thinking of Elysium in the terms of earth. It is precisely because we shall have escaped from the encumbering flesh and all the bewilderments of this clumsy world that we cannot merely tolerate the idea, lo ON A FAMOUS SERMON but can find in it a promised explanation of the inex- plicable. It is the same mistake that I find in Mr. Belloc, who, I see from yesterday's paper, has been denounc- ing the "tomfoolery" of spiritualism, and describing the miracles of Lourdes as "a. special providential act designed to convert, change, upset, and disintegrate the materialism of the nineteenth century." I want to see the materialism of the nineteenth century converted, changed, upset and disintegrated, as much as Mr. Bel- loc does, but I have as little regard for the instrument he trusts in as for the "tomfoolery" of spiritualism. And when he goes on to denounce a Miss Posthle- thwaite, a Catholic spiritualist, for having declared that in the next world she found people of all religions and did not find that Mohammedans suffered more than others I feel that he is as materialistic as Mrs. Berry. He sees heaven in the terms of the trouble- some little sectarianisms of the earth, with an as- cendency party in possession, and no non-alcoholic Puri- tans, Jews, or Mohammedans visible to his august eye. They will all be in another place, and very uncom- fortable indeed. He really has not advanced beyond that infantile partisanship satirised, I think, by Swift: — We are God's chosen few. All others will be damned. There is no place in heaven for you; We can't have heaven crammed. No, no, Mr. Belloc. The judgments of eternity will not be so vulgar as this, nor the companionship so ON A FAMOUS SERMON ii painfully exclusive. You will not walk the infinite meadows of heaven alone with the sect you adorned on earth. You will find all sorts of people there re- gardless of the quaint little creeds they professed in the elementary school of life. I am sure you will find Mrs. Berry there, for that simple woman had the root of the true gospel in her. "I think it's al'ays the plan in a dielemma," she said "to pray God and walk for- ward." I think it is possible that in the larger atmos- phere you will discover that she was a wiser pupil in the elementary school than you were. ON POCKETS AND THINGS I SUPPOSE most men felt, as I felt, the reasonable- ness of Mr. Justice Bray's remarks the other day on the preference of women for bags instead of pockets. A case was before him in which a woman had gone into a shop, had put down her satchel containing her money and valuables, turned to pick it up a little later, found it had been stolen, and thereupon brought an action against the owners of the shop for the re- covery of her losses. The jury were unsympathetic, found that in the circumstances the woman was re- sponsible, and gave a verdict against her. 12 ON POCKETS AND THINGS 13 Of course the jury were men, all of them prejudiced on this subject of pockets. At a guess I should say that there were not fewer than 150 pockets in that jury-box, and not one satchel. You, madam, may re- tort that this is only another instance of the scandal of this man-ridden world. Why were there no women in that jury-box? Why are all the decisions of the courts, from the High Court to the coroner's court, left to the judgment of men? Madam, I share your in- dignation. I would "comb-out" the jury-box. I would send half the jurymen, if not into the trenches, at least to hoe turnips, and fill their places with a row of women. Women are just as capable as men of forming an opinion about facts, they have at least as much time to spare, and their point of view is as es- sential to justice. What can there be more ridiculous, for example, than a jury of men sitting for a whole day to decide the question of the cut of a gown with- out a single woman's expert opinion to guide them, or more unjust than to leave an issue between a man and a woman entirely in the hands of men? Yes, cer- tainly, madam, I am with you on the general question. But when we come to the subject of pockets, I am bound to confess that I am with the jury. If I had been on that jury I should have voted with fervour for making the woman responsible for her own loss. If it were possible for women to put their satchels down on counters, or the seats of buses, or any odd place they thought of, and then to make some innocent person responsible because they were stolen, there would be no security for anybody. It would be a 14 ON POCKETS AND THINGS travesty of justice — a premium upon recklessness and even fraud. Moreover, people who won't wear pockets deserve to be punished. They ask for trouble and ought not to complain when they get it. I have never been able to fathom the obduracy of women in this matter of pockets. It is not the only reflection upon their common-sense which is implicit in their dress. If we were to pass judgment on the relative intelligence of the sexes by their codes of cos- tume, sanity would pronounce overwhelmingly in fa- vour of men. Imagine a man who buttoned his coat and waistcoat