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wooden head and his nightgown of tintacks. But (on the whole) I took few chances of letting the 
Germans perceive the tongue in my cheek. 
One day, however, I got genuinely drunk, not with alcohol but with indignation. It was the day of 
the murder of Edith Cavell. I sat down and wrote an article --- a stained glass window representing 
von Bissing as Jesus Christ, "that great-hearted, simple-minded, trusting German". He extends his 
hand to her; and says, with tears in his eyes, "Miss Cavell, I trust you!" Then she acts the part of 
Judas; and I conclude with a display of fireworks, in which she is welcomed to hell by Lucrezia 
Borgia and the Marchioness de Brinvilliers and several other vampires, whose names I have 
forgotten, having others closer to hand. 
It makes me weep for Germany when I think the Viereck published such hideous and transparent 
irony without turning a hair! Americans do not understand irony at all. But Viereck should have done 
so, considering the Jewish hetaera and the wily old robber baron in his ancestry. But are any tears 
salt enough to weep for England when I think that none of my countrymen could read my bitterness 
and anger between the lines of that comic travesty of blasphemy? 
I must explain here that I had more than one string to my bow. It was really a minor part of my 
programme to wreck the German propaganda on the proof of reductio ad absurdum. I had hoped to 
gain the full confidence of the conspirators whom I had identified and deal with them as somebody 
whose name I forget dealt with Cataline; and Lord Mount Eagle or whoever it was, with Guy Faux. 
But nobody in British Intelligence had sufficient of that quality to notice me. 
I have always been unduly optimistic about England. I know such a lot of people who are far from 
being fools. But war seems to deaden perception. Men who are in ordinary times quite acute 
become ready to assume that anyone who is waving a Union Jack and singing "Britannia Rules the 
Waves" must be an Admiral of the Fleet. Everybody assumed that the irritating 
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balderdash I wrote for The Fatherland must be the stark treason that the Germans were stupid 
enough to think it was. 
A person in my position is liable to see Sherlock Homes in the most beefwitted policeman. I did not 
feel that I was advancing in the confidence of the Germans. I got no secrets worth reporting to 
London, and I was not at all sure whether the cut of my clothes had not outweighed the eloquence 
of my conversation. I thought I would do something more public. I wrote a long parody on the 
Declaration of Independence and applied it to Ireland. 
I invited a young lady violinist who has some Irish blood in her, behind the more evident stigmata of 
the ornithorhyncus and the wombat. Adding to our number about four other debauched persons on 
the verge of delirium tremens, we went out in a motor boat before dawn on the third of July to the 
rejected statue of Commerce for the Suez Canal, which Americans fondly suppose to be Liberty 
Enlightening The World. 
There I read my Declaration of Independence. I threw an old envelope into the bay, pretending that 
it was my British passport. We hoisted the Irish flag. The violinist played the "Wearing of the Green". 
The crews of the interned German ships cheered us all the way up the Hudson, probably because 
they estimated the degree of our intoxication with scientific precision. Finally, we went to Jack's 
for breakfast, and home to sleep it off. The New York Times gave us three columns and Viereck was 
distinctly friendly. 
Over in England there was consternation. I cannot think what had happened to their sense of 
humour. To pretend to take it seriously was natural enough in New York, where everybody is afraid 
of the Irish, not knowing what they may do next. But London was having bombs dropped on it. There 
was, however, one person in England who knew me --- also a joke when he saw it: the Honourable 
A. B., my old friend aforesaid. Owing to the confusion inevitably attached to the mud with which