CLARION

Quinbus Flestrin, A Tale of a Turnip, Clarion, 26 December 1891, p. 6. Ed. Carpenter, Saved by a Nose, Clarion, Christmas Number 1892, pp. 558. MGinnis, Posterity, Clarion, 9 December 1893, p. 6. Citizen, Little Maggies Boots, Clarion, 6 January 1894, p. 8. J. Bruce Glasier, Telby Torbald: or, A Socialist Transformed, Clarion, 18 May 1895, p. 159. Margaret McMillan, Marys Lover, Clarion, 15 February 1896, p. 56.

Louis Becke, A Touch of the Tar Brush, Clarion, 10 April 1897, pp. 11314. Harry Lowerison, Auld Randy, Clarion, 16 December 1899, p. 404.

The Clarion (18911935) was the socialist movements bestselling periodical and one of the longest running. It was founded by Robert Peel Glanville Blatchford (18511943), his brother Montagu (18481910), Alexander Thompson (18611948) and Edward Fay (185396), and it launched on 12 December 1891. A weekly periodical priced at one penny, it was first published in Manchester by the Co-Operative Newspaper Printing Society and then by the Clarion Press. In 1895 the Clarion relocated to London, where Blatchford remained the primary editor but was occasionally aided by Thompson. Sales of the Clarion were higher than most of the other socialist periodicals of this period, averaging around 34,000 in the 1890s. The popularity of the Clarion rose significantly after the publication of Blatchfords influential socialist treatise Merrie England, which was initially serialized in the periodical in 1893. Blatchford and the Clarion group generally eschewed party politics, despite early connections with the Independent Labour Party; this connection was short-lived because ILP chairman James Keir Hardies (18561915) puritanical views jarred with Blatchford and the rest of the Clarion members appreciation of entertainment and culture. The Clarion group also promoted a sociable form of socialism, and members
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formed numerous social clubs under the Clarion name, including cycle clubs, Cinderella Clubs providing entertainment and education for slum children, glee clubs and choirs. In 1896 Julia Dawson (the pseudonym of Mrs D. Middleton Worrall (n.d.)) began the Clarion van project, with horse-drawn vans taking both the periodical and the message across the country. The Clarion had a high literary content and from the first issue carried poetry, short stories and serial fiction. In the selection presented in this volume, there is a greater range of socialist authors from outside the Clarion group than there would be later in the periodicals life. John Bruce Glasier (18591920), the son of a Glaswegian farmer and cattle dealer, joined the Land League in 1879, the Scottish Land Restoration League, and helped to found the Social Democratic Federation in 1884. He became secretary of the Glasgow branch of the Socialist League, and upon its disintegration he joined the ILP in 1893. Glasier went on become one of the men who would steer the Labour Party towards Liberal support, criticizing the efforts of Blatchford and Hyndman to create a unified socialist group to compete against the Labour Party in the first decade of the twentieth century. Edward Carpenter (18441929), author, socialist and champion of homosexual rights, became involved in socialism through reading Henry Mayers Hyndmans England for All (1881) while creating a smallholding at Millthorpe near Sheffield. He wrote the socialist marching song England Arise (1886) after having joined the SDF in 1883. His publications included arguments for socialism (Towards Democracy (four editions; 1883, 1885, 1892 and 1905) and Civilization: Its Cause and Cure (1889)) and homosexual freedom (Loves Coming-of-Age (1896, 1906) and The Intermediate Sex (1908)). Bellerby (Harry) Lowerison (18631935) was the son of a County Durham coal miner. He trained to be a teacher and joined the Fabian Society after becoming interested in socialism during the 1889 London dock strike. He wrote for both Justice and the Clarion; his letters to the latter brought his socialism to the attention of the school board, and he was dismissed from his employment. Using funds donated by Clarion readers, he established the Ruskin School at Hunstanton in Norfolk to create a learning environment far removed from the strict rote-learning regimes of the board schools. Many authors, particularly members of the Clarion group, would publish under one or more pseudonyms. Quinbus Flestrin (in Jonathan Swifts Gullivers Travels, the name the Lilliputians gave to Gulliver, meaning man mountain) was a pseudonym used by Edward Francis Fay in reference to his stature. Fay was described by Blatchford as a big athletic man, standing six feet two in his usually neglected socks.1 Fay, who also published as The Bounder, was born in Ireland and was one of the founding members of the Clarion, having met Blatchford while both were working at Edward Hultons (18691925) paper Bells Life.

Clarion

MGinnis, sometimes spelled McGinnis, is a pseudonym of Robert Blatchford. Born in Maidstone to travelling actors, he ran away from his apprenticeship as a brush maker, joined the army, worked as a store keeper and became a journalist, at which time he met Alex Thompson, who helped him to turn his part-time journalism into full-time employment. While working for Edward Hulton on the Sunday Chronicle, Blatchford visited the slums of Manchester and became a committed socialist. Hulton presented him with an ultimatum: to stop writing socialist articles or to leave. He left Hultons employ in 1891 and spent a few months working on Joseph Burgesss (18531934) Workmans Times before starting the Clarion. Blatchford edited the Clarion during its moment of influence as it became the bestselling socialist periodical of the 1890s and 1900s. However, his pro-army stance lost him support and a number of Clarion readers during the Second Boer War (18991902) and the years leading up to the First World War (191418). He left the Clarion permanently in 1913 and wrote for the Weekly Dispatch until 1916; he returned to Hultons Sunday Chronicle the same year and remained there until 1924. He then wrote for the Sunday News until 1927, when he became a freelance journalist publishing in the Sunday Chronicle, the Sunday News, the Sunday Graphic and the Manchester Evening News. Although not a Clarion member, James Sexton (18561938) also used a pseudonym, publishing fiction under Citizen. Sexton was born in Newcastle-upon-Tyne, the son of Irish immigrants who settled in St Helens (then Lancashire, now Merseyside). He was employed at the docks in Liverpool until he was seriously injured in an accident, after which he became a self-employed coal merchant. He got involved with the National Union of Dock Labourers (NUDL), established in Liverpool in 1889, and rose to the position of general secretary in 1893. He was a militant unionist in terms of membership, which extended to his refusal to sit on an employment committee with ILP member James Larkin because Larkin was a non, i.e. not a member of any trade union. Sexton was also a founder member of the ILP and Labour MP for St Helens between 1918 and 1931; he was awarded a CBE in 1917 and knighted in 1931. He published regularly in the socialist press, contributing articles to the Clarion, the Labour Leader and the Workmans Times under both his own name and his pseudonym Citizen. As Citizen he published poetry, short stories and his novel, The Blackleg, and he is attributed as the Author of A Dockers Story, Jimmy Ducks, Lot 27 &c., &c. at the beginning of this serialization. Sexton also published The Riot Act: A Play in Three Parts in 1914 and the autobiography Sir James Sexton: Agitator in 1936. Louis Becke, the pen-name of George Lewis (Louis) Becke (18551913), is anomalous, being the only author in this selection of Clarion fiction who was not a British socialist. He was a prolific Australian author whose background included a youthful entanglement with piracy, sailing as the supercargo for

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W. H. Bully Hayes on the Leonora. Becke was tried and acquitted of piracy after the ship was sunk. His writing was based on his travels in the Pacific and often featured the theme of the European settler descending into savagery in the Pacific wilderness. Notes
1. R. Blatchford, My Eighty Years (London: Cassell and Co., 1931), p. 175.

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Quinbus Flestrin, A Tale of a Turnip (1891)

In truth, Face was a bad lot. Face was the standing dish of scandal in the suburban village of Snubley. Face got valiantly intoxicated every Saturday night with a consistency which in itself was a virtue, and displayed the thoroughness of the man. Face was an old solider, who worked in the brickfields, squat, but broad and powerful of frame, with a bullet head, an unlimited capacity for four ale and unsweetened,1 and every inch a Cockney.2 Face would defend himself, when efforts were made for his reformation, by saying that he earned his money fair, and that he would spend it as seemed to him best. It is well known that when the Hon. and Rev. Mr. Septimus Sidebotham approached him on the subject of temperance reform,3 the hon. and reverend gentleman was much pained by Faces expletives, which were painful and frequent and free. There was no help for it. Face was incorrigible. He would get drunk o Saturday nights at the Dog and Duck;4 he would relate marvellous stories of military life to an admiring crowd of co-artists in clay; he would troll wonderful lyrics in praise of Bacchus and Mars;5 and if he had had an extra pot (his pots for financial reasons were generally limited numberically), he would sally forth to the neighbouring Horns and Chequers, where he would express a desire for combat Voutrance6 with Bill Cherry, the chimney sweep, accompanied with a dire threat to knock his bally filbert off. After a time Snubley grew tired of its ineffectual efforts to reform Face. Besides, it is necessary for a respectable suburban neighbourhood to have a scapegoat, by which their gentility shall show more gracious; and Face fulfilled the function admirably. Mr. William Cherry, the village sweep, occupied this post before the arrival of Face, but he was by no means a perfect scapegrace.7 Bill was amenable to the exhortations of the Rev. Septimus, and not unsusceptible to the blandishments of the Church ladies; he had lucid intervals during which he would forswear sack and walk most delectably in the narrow way. For six weeks they battled for the scapegrace championship of Snubley. And so it went on, until Bill had one of his lucid intervals, and Face was awarded the post of scapegrace by default. Bill made one or two subsequent

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efforts to recover the Championship, but he had lost prestige, and although the old feud still slumbered, Face held the post against all comers. I earn my money fair, he would say to the Parson, and I aint got no book larning, and I likes my pot o beer. I dont interfere wi you, why should you interfere wi me? If I want to get drunk, Ill get drunk. The position was indefeasible, and to give Face his due, he did get drunk. No person ever got drunker. And when the respectable automata of the semidetached residences, decorously marching to church on Sabbath mornings, with ivory-backed prayer-books, ostensibly displayed, would see Face lying on the brickfields, sleeping off his previous nights debauch, they would look the other way. Still, as I have said, a Scapegrace is necessary. No respectable family, society or newspaper staff can be considered complete without one. In the cast of the newspaper staff he is absolutely indispensable, and almost worth his weight in gold. Should anybodys copy be late, or a plate break, or the machine go wrong, behold there is your scapegrace! All friction is thereby avoided; and I really believe that had Face migrated to the neighbouring suburb of Snobbington, that the Snubleyites would have brought an action against the Snobbingtonians for his recovery, assessing the damages at a high figure. But when Legs came all this was changed. Face was bad enough, but he was endurable. But Legs Where Legs came from no one ever knew. He was a gaunt man about 6 feet 3 inches in height, and as wiry as a bit of whalebone, without a superfluous ounce of flesh on his bones. Further than that they were both old soldiers, there was no apparent reason for the firm friendship that grew up between them. To question Legs was useless. He was the very genius of taciturnity, and in his wrath terrible. So these inseparable companions became known to the village as Legs and Face. It was about this time that Mr. Cherry, who had abandoned the narrow path, made his last stand for the scapegrace championship, attacking Face on the narrow bridge, which spans the narrow stream, and divides the Dog and Duck from the Horns and Chequers. Bill being supported by half-a-dozen adherents, Face, who was in a minority of one to seven, was being very badly mauled when Legs came to his assistance. The Battle of the Bridge is still spoken of among the inhabitants; and the cool manner in which Legs took up Mr. Cherry and his partizans one by one, and bent them over his knee, is frequently the theme of conversation in adjacent taprooms. I happened to be in the Private Bar of the Dog and Duck ordering a case of mineral water when the first meeting between these heroes took place. They were in the taproom.8 They were drinking out of the same pot, using the same spittoon,9 and smoking shag10 that was calculated to kill at a thousand paces. Face had evidently just finished relating a military experience, and, after a few reflecting puffs at his well-seasoned clay,11 thus questioned him vis--vis:

Flestrin, A Tale of a Turnip

Face (diagnosing Legs critically): Youve bin in the Awmy, aint yer? Legs (curtly): Shed think I wawse. Face: Ever bin in trouble? Legs: I wawse (with peculiar accent on the I). Face: What wawse it? Legs: Drunk, and absent from Church paroide. (Sympathetic interval) Face: In the band? Legs: I wawse. Face: Wot instrument dyer play? Legs: Euphonium. Face: Wots that? Legs: Bass melody brawse instrument. (Second interval for refreshment and expectoration.) Face: Wot did yer get? Legs: Seven days, and arf a crahn. Face: Wot did yer git drunk on? Legs (evasively): I met a mate, and we gits drunk. Face (impatiently): But where dyer get it? For the first time Legs displayed a little animation. He took his pipe out of his mouth, bent his head down, and conveyed the wished-for information in a whisper. I only heard the words, Pilot Point (perhaps Nunquam may enlighten our darkness on this point);12 but, from the secrecy displayed, I should be inclined to think that the refreshment was not obtained through the usual channels. The conversation was then resumed: Legs (explanatory): You see, this is ow it wawse. There was another chap in the Rigiment called Jinkins. See? And he goes and gits drunk too. See? And the Colonel begins reading of this ere blokes sheet. See? So I up and tells im ow it wawse, and strike me crule if ever I see seech a take dahn. The Colonel ses to me, Your names Jinkins? and I says, Yus. And he ses, You were drunk? and I ses I wawse. And he ses, Is there another man named Jinkins? and I ses, Yes. And he ses, Was he drunk too? And I ses, He wawse. And blimy if they didnt all but bust out a larfin, and I only gits sivin days, and arf-a-crahn. But I lost a badge.13 The last item had the most paralysing effect on Face. He opened his mouth, gasped, and asked, with faltering accents, Did yer ave a badge? to which Legs replied, with something like scorn in his voice, I had two!! Face regarded his companion with profound wonder and admiration. It was obvious that he had never been possessed of a badge. It was further clear that he would not have had the remotest chance of getting a badge had he lived to the age of Methusaleh.14 He fell into a moody reverie, and having instructed the Host to supply the ex-

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Warriors with a pot of old six, I left them puffing away in silent communion. As I passed over the threshold I heard the following: Face: You were bleedin lucky. Legs: I wawse. And so Legs settled down in Snubley, and not being skilled in the handling of clay,15 obtained employment on Farmer Purpletops large turnip field, doing occasional odd jobs at the Lodge; and he and Face, after a brief campaign, held undisputed sway and supremacy over all comers, not only in the Brickfields, but also in the large turnip fields. Notwithstanding his taciturnity and terrible truculence when in his cups, Legs gradually grew into the life of the neighbourhood, and after he beat Gipsy George, who came over from Snobbington (it was surmised that he had been subsidised by the deposed Cherry), he became quite a personage. The last opponent brought to dispute his right of champion, was a brawny Irish Navvy, Buffing Dan, who came with a great reputation and influential support from a new railway, which was in the course of construction in the neighbourhood. A terrible engagement ensued, for when Buffing Dan was bent like the rest, his influential support took up the cudgel literally, and the Dog and Duck contingent were in imminent danger of succumbing to superior numbers, when Bill Cherry (to his honour be it said) came with his forces to the rescue of his quondam enemy, and the Navvies were routed with great slaughter. Snubley was saved, and from that time there was a truce between the rival (public) houses. Legs was always making history. His next achievement was to wipe the pavement with a few Bank Holiday cads, who had molested Miss Tiplady. It is remembered to this day with what tender ease he raised the young lady in his arms (she had fainted at the sight of his cruel usage of the young men), and with what exquisite care and solicitude he bore her to the shop of MPhiltre, the Scotch apothecary. It is also remembered how, during the long summer afternoons, when there was no work in the turnip fields, he wold roost on the fence at the lodge gates; and it is on record also that Miss Tiplady was the only being who was known to have raised a smile on that grim graven visage. After her rescue from the hands of the Bank Holiday young men she had always a pleasant smile and a bow for Legs as she drove past in her neat little basket chaise,16 accompanied frequently by her fiance, young Algernon Gillyflower, son of the Snubley solicitor, who would bring his eyeglass to bear upon the curious figure on the fence with a languid and wooden interest. As for Legs, upon these occasions he would remove his pipe and weather-beaten bowler with the same movement, and a wonderful smile, like a sunburst, would obliterate all the hard lines and grizzles which time and carking care had sown upon his case. It is well within my memory that on one summers afternoon I met the basket chaise in the Lodge-road, and fully a couple of minutes afterwards I came to Legs on the fence, still transfigured with a smile. Tempora mutantur.17 The Brick Fields were no more, for the suburb of Snubley was built over, and Faces occupation was gone. Mr William Cherry also

Flestrin, A Tale of a Turnip

stumbled upon evil times, for there came to the Suburb a Respectable Temperance Chimney Sweep, who was a bit of a Poet withal, and of a humorous turn, as witness his prospectus:
Henry Snooks does live here. He sweeps chinmeys. His charge is not dear If your chimney is on fire He will put it out at your desire. Chimneys swept with the Most Improved Machines Or climed. All orders Town or Country punctually Attended by your Humble servant H Snooks Temperance Chimney Sweep, and dealer in Black Flour.

Snooks secured the Church Patronage. He swept the chimneys of the Honourable and Reverent Septimus Sidebotham; he swept the chimneys of all the Respectable Automata, and Cherry, whose lucid intervals had been growing smaller by degrees and beautifully less, became a hopeless castaway. He and Face now joined Legs in the Turnip Field, and the trio entered into an offensive and defensive alliance. As Mr. Wellbeloved-the-Family observed in the smokingroom of the Black Bull (the respectable Hotel), such an unholy triple alliance boded no good. He was right. The next day, Farmer Purpletops Prize Turnip disappeared, and for the next two days the Society of Snubley was agitated and shaken by the great Turnip mystery. There was no gainsaying that Farmer Purpletop was a hard taskmaster; but, at the same time, he worked very hard himself, and it was not known upon what terms he rented his farm from Miss Tipladys papa, Captain Tiplady. Captain Tiplady, with Mrs. Tiplady, was travelling abroad, but expected back shortly for his daughters wedding, and also to stand as a Conservative candidate for the Snubley division of Loamshire.18 When two days afterwards the valuable prize turnip was discovered stuck on a pole, carved by no unskilful hand into a graven image of Purpletop himself, the farmers rage knew no bounds and, from the information received, he immediately dispensed with the services of the trio. Cherry and Face hitched their gaberdines about them, and departed for fresh turnip fields and pastures new; but Legs, like Byrons black friar that sitteth on Norman stane,19 refused to be driven away. Summer deepened into autumn and autumn merged into grey winter, and still Legs hung about doing odd jobs, and roosted as of yore upon the fence. He often struck me as a man who was waiting for something. As it was told to me, Miss Tiplady behaved splendidly. The horse had overpowered her, but she stuck to the reins with singular spirit; and had young

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Gillyflower rendered her any assistance, there would have been no need for Legss last deed of heroism. But young Gillyflower was only skilled in the nice conduct of an eyeglass, and before he had time to realise the position, Legs had saved the chaise from absolute destruction brought it up short of the bridge parapet. Young Gillyflower sustained the loss of his eyeglass, a loss which occasioned him considerable grief, for he had inherited peculiar vision from his legal progenitors, and couldnt easily see straight, without artificial aid; Miss Tiplady was confined to her room for a week with shock to the system; and as for Legs, he never spake more home had gone and taen his wages20 long ere Miss Tiplady was about again.

***
Captain Tiplady delivered himself of the most noble sentiments at his daughters wedding. He spoke of domestic virtue as peculiar and indigenous to English soil, and alluded incidentally for the benefit no doubt of young Gillyflower the young Tobias.21 I read shortly afterwards (for I had left Snubley) of his triumphant return for the Subley division. It would be nearly a year afterwards that I came across Face, rather pinched of feature, and not nearly so rubicund of visage. I told him of Legss fate, and how Captain Tiplady at the wedding breakfast had, amongst other things, regretted, with some emotion, that he could not meet and thank the man who saved his daughters life. Its praps as well for the Capting, said Face, with a dark expression, as he didnt meet him. Why? I asked. Why! retorted Face, because Miss Tiplady aint no more a daughter of the Captings than she is of yourn. Then, whose daughter is she? I demanded. Why, she was Legss daughter, that what she wawse. Legss daughter! I exclaimed with astonishment, Did he tell you so? No, he didnt tell nobody nothink. I heerd it from a man in his regiment I met last winter in the the Workus.22 He knew Long Jinkins well, and he said as ow there wasnt a finer soldier in the army, till the Capting tuk his missus and kiddie away. Twawsnt the missus he so much minded, but he was fond of the little kiddie, and that broke him up, and he tuk to drink.

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This is an unpretentious story, without any claim to particular merit save Truth if that can be called a merit in these latter days. Legs sleeps his last sleep in the Parish reservation of Snubley Cemetery, and it is to be hoped that after lifes fitful fever he sleeps well. No storied urn or animated bust marks his resting place, and perhaps it is as well, for if all mens lives were laid bare, few would be found worthy an epitaph.

Ed. Carpenter, Saved by a Nose (1892)

Late in the summer of 1871 I and a friend of mine passed through Paris. The Treaty of Peace1 had only been signed a few weeks before. The city was quiet. People sat out at the cafs, and sipped their absinthe2 as though nothing had happened. But it was an extraordinary sight. A large part of the Rue de Rivoli lay thrown forward high buildings and handsome shop fronts a mass of ruins in the street. Behind were scarred precipices of rear-walls, and jagged and torn floors blackened by petroleum and explosives. The Vendme column stretched its huge, dislocated joints along the ground, a witness to the hatred felt by the Commune3 for military glory and the jingoism of the Second Empire. All over Paris it was the same. The Htel de Ville was gutted, and lifted gaunt chimneys and roofless walls to the sky. Everywhere on streets and buildings were marks of shot and shell. I knew little about revolutionary matters at that time. The word Communist was hardly more than a word to me. Farthest of all from my thoughts was it for me to be arrested as a revolutionary. A week or two later, however, my friend and I returned homewards down the Rhine. He had to be in England immediately; I had two or three days to spare. I parted from him at a little place on the banks of the castle-crowned river, and, sending on my box to Coblentz,4 took simply a light overcoat with me, and a few things in the pockets thereof, and set out to walk across that angle of country which lies between the Rhine and the Moselle, and which is practically quite unfrequented by the tourist, in order to reach the old historic town of Trves.5 I was alone, but I had a pleasant walk through a quiet sunny land of cornfields, and by evening reached a little country town, where I thought I had best pass the night. Castel was, I think, the name of the place. There was not much accommodation for the traveller, but here were two or three small inns, at one of which, somewhat thronged by country folk, I stopped. I had my supper in a corner of the room. The good people eyed me a little curiously, as being a stranger, and exchanged a few remarks with me; then I went to bed and slept. The next morning, enquiring of mine host the further route, he told me that at one oclock there would start a diligence6 in the direction of Trves. Then I would go by the diligence, and would spend the morning looking round the town

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and neighourhood, I said. There was a Castle to be seen, and I sallied forth. I explored the old ruin, and then, sitting down by the wayside under a tree, pulled a book from my pocket, and began to read. Presently I heard steps as of one running. Who could want to run on such a morning as this, in this lazy, hot landscape? The feet turned the corner of the road. Lo! mine host, stout and puff y, in a wild headlong career! It flashed upon me at once, He thinks I am off without paying my score travelling on the cheap, eh? And indeed he might well see colour for such a conclusion, since I had only left in pledge the smallest travelling gear a bit of soap, and a toothbrush, and such-like articles, whose value and even whose use might well seem doubtful to him. Where are you going to, then? puffed he. I am not going anywhere, I am sitting here, reading. No, but where are you going? I have seen the Castle, I quietly replied, and am coming back soon to have something to eat, and then am going by the diligence; and I proceeded to order a meal in detail, thinking this would soothe him. Not a bit of it. He was checked but not defeated. He would not go; but hung about, making aimless conversation, yet unable to come to the point. At last I had to help him out. You did not think I was going without paying, did you? No, not exactly, he said, with a sheepish grin. But you would rather have me pay you now? Yes yes I would, with alacrity. So I paid him his modest thaler,7 and thought that the matter was at an end while he went off promising to have a meal ready for my return. But I was mistaken. The fellow must have gone direct to the Burgomaster8 and told him I dont know what yarns. For when I returned half-an-hour later to the village, I was confronted by a Prussian soldier in a spiked helmet, who asked for my passport. Passport! passport indeed! Why my passport is in my box at Coblentz. Then you must come to the Burgomaster. So I was marched through the village much to the delight of the women and children to the little town hall. The Burgomaster was the usual little round fussy German official, pot bellied, with large goggles on. What are you doing in this neighbourhood? said he. To see the beauty of which your land is famed, I came. But he was too old a bird to be caught. What is your business? I am a student from England, on a holiday. Where is your passport? I have not got it. It is in my box at Coblentz.

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This is very serious and the genial little man tried to look equal to his words There are many Communists coming over the frontiers from France, and we have strict orders to arrest them. Suspicion falls on you, and we shall have to detain you till you can identify yourself. I could not help laughing. It seemed so comical the fussy little Burgomaster, the other rustic officials eyeing me suspiciously, and the idea that I should be taken for a Communist a thing, at that time, as I have said, so strange and unknown to me I could not believe that the matter was serious. You are an Englishman, then? said the Burgomaster. Yes. Examine this person in English, if you please, said he to the schoolmaster, who was present; and I was forthwith taken aside by the schoolmaster, while the others conferred from a distance on my appearance. The schoolmaster spoke English nicely. It is, indeed, surprising how far the Germans are advanced in the matter of this kind of education a little country place, and a schoolmaster who could talk English! Fancy the schoolmaster of an English village being expected to converse with the first sauerkraut-eating traveller, who might come that way in German. And then to be examined in ones own native tongue! That was a curious sensation. Luckily, he didnt go into grammar, or I should have been floored. On the whole, he seemed to be satisfied with my performance. It was, at any rate, better than my German. I, in turn, complimented the schoolmaster on his English, and that seemed to have a good effect. He communicated his impressions to the Burgomaster. Can you speak French? said the latter. I blushfully acknowledged that I could parlez-voo9 a little; then immediately saw that I had made a mistake in tactics. That is very suspicious, very suspicious, he thoughtfully repeated, and then added: I shall now take down your description Clerk, attend to my dictation. The clerk took a bit of paper. Blessed description, it was this which saved me! Drawing himself up to his full height, with his shoulder to mine, and glancing up at the top of my head, he said in a loud voice: Height five feet eight (German inches, I suppose); then, turning round, continued: Hair brown; forehead medium; eyes dark; nose . Now I am not especially chuff about my nasal organ, and never expect to be complimented on that particular feature; in fact, I have sometimes felt a difficulty as to how it should be properly described; and, on this occasion, I confess I was quite curious to know what epithet he would find suitable. But he hesitated not a moment. Stumpf, he shouted; Nase stumpf.10

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That settled it. I had not met with the word before, but it did not require a dictionary. The rest of the description was soon over; but I was seized with an almost incontrollable fit of laughter which only increased as I pondered more and more on the marvellous expressiveness of the German language. A reflection of my amusement appeared in the Burgomasters eye. It seemed to me that he was beginning to think there could not be much amiss. I suppose a straightforward laugh commends itself somehow to the human heart. Perhaps he imagined a Communist to be a kind of person who never laughed. Besides I looked at him was not his own nose stumpf? I looked again yes, decidedly it was; there could be no doubt about it. His nose was stumpf. Ah! Burgomaster, you are undone! A fellow-feeling makes us wondrous kind.11 He said nothing, but I was aware of a change in his mind. A secret unspoken bond had sprung up between us. After a pause, we lapsed into quite a friendly chat. Then he said he did not think under the circumstances it would be necessary to detain me. Then we talked again. Finally we parted with a friendly hand-shake, and I left the room. But just as I was departing and this was a pretty touch he called me back, and said: But I have one favour to ask of you, and that is that you will leave this part of the country and get back to your passport as soon as possible, for in case you are a Communist, you see, it might be very awkward or me. By which I take it he meant that if I, being a Communist, was, after all, caught and landed by some other Burgomaster, he would naturally be severely blamed for letting me slip through the meshes of his net. Good old man! I have often wondered whether beneath the folds of your capacious frock coat you did not conceal a secret sympathy with the Commune, or whether it was the nase stumpf alone which melted your official severity. At any rate, I shook hands with him again, and departing found myself just in time to catch the one oclock diligence, by which in due course I proceeded on my way to Trves.