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Updated: May 26, 2025
I remember thinking that the doggerel might have been the creation of my fat contributor from Stettin, Herr Mitmann, and that if the music-hall public had reached this stage, I must have been oversensitive in my somewhat hostile and critical attitude toward the writings of that ponderous Teuton.
I remember Herr Mitmann found the occasion opportune for the airing of what I suppose he would have called his sense of humour. His English and his front teeth were equally badly broken, and his taste in jokes was almost as swinishly gross as his appearance. But I was able to be quit of him at length, and then Rivers ushered in Miss Constance Grey.
But I had had no part nor lot in the preservation of that navvy's simple patriotism. Rather, by a good deal, had the tendency of all I said and wrote been toward weakening the sturdy growth, and causing it to be deprecated as a thing archaic, an obstacle in the way of progress. Progress! The expounding of Herr Mitmann of Stettin! That Monday was a minor day of judgment for others beside myself.
Across his words now the hoarse yell of an approaching newsboy smote upon my ears: "Extry speshul! Sixpence! German Army Corps in England! Speshul! Invashen er Sufferk! Speshul sixpence! German Army Corps sixpence! Invashen!" "By Jove!" I thought. "That's rough on our disarmament feature from Herr Mitmann!" I very well remember that that precisely was my thought.
The faces of the soldiers were all the same; they all had the face of Herr Mitmann of Stettin. And a hot wave of angry resentment and hatred of these machine-like invaders of a peaceful unprotected countryside pulsed through my veins. Could they dare here on English soil? My fists clenched under the bed-clothes. If it was true, by heavens, there was work for Englishmen toward!
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