a British general. During the Boer War, when I was residing in a
small garrison town on the Rhine, German military men would draw me
aside and ask of me my own private personal views as to the conduct
of the campaign. I would give them my views freely, explain to them
how I would finish the whole thing in a week.

"But how in the face of the enemy's tactics--" one of them would
begin.

"Bother the enemy's tactics," I would reply. "Who cares for
tactics?"

"But surely a British general--" they would persist. "Who's a
British general?" I would retort, "I am talking to you merely as a
plain commonsense man, with a head on my shoulders."

They would apologize for their mistake. But this is leading me away
from that German Kurhaus.

[Recreation for the Higher clergy.]

My clergyman friend found life there dull. The generals and the
spinsters left to themselves might have played cards, but they
thought of the poor bishops who would have had to look on envious.
The bishops and the spinsters might have sung ballads, but the
British general after dinner does not care for ballads, and had
mentioned it. The bishops and the generals might have told each
other stories, but could not before the ladies. My clergyman friend
stood the awful solemnity of three evenings, then cautiously felt his
way towards revelry. He started with an intellectual game called