Men, women, and children have really gone Tipperary-mad; they make the most gallant efforts to master the tune, hum it all the time, ask for it in the café or theatre, and put the Tipperary record on the gramophone every night before going to bed.
When at the Hague I saw at a music-hall a _revue_ in which the Tipperary tune returned over and over again like a nightmare, and a Dutchman at my side observed to his wife, who was marking time to the music by alternating movements of her head, causing her corkscrew earrings to rattle to and fro: "Isn't it a charming melody?"
At any rate, the "charming melody" has been officially acknowledged in Holland, and I heard the military band at the Bosch playing it in front of the Royal villa.
"That's a real breach of neutrality," I remarked to a Dutch officer who was with me. "If you are not careful you will have serious trouble with Berlin!"
"Oh, no; we are very neutral. I, personally, am absolutely impartial, and don't care a scrap, for instance, whether Berlin is blown up or burnt down," he answered, repeating, for the hundredth time, a joke which has lately captured Dutch sympathies at least as much as "Tipperary."
Walking through the wonderful wood which probably has no equal in Europe, calm and imposing as it is with its green ponds and its gigantic lime-trees, we came to the large avenue on which is the Palace of Peace, the greatest irony in brick and stone human mind has ever conceived.
"You should be ashamed to talk like that, you official guardian of the temple of European peace," I said.
"We are jolly glad to have this big palace here," he answered, smiling. "We are short of large barracks at the Hague!"
The names of Nispen, Rosendaal, Bergen-op-Zoom, and of many other little towns and villages of North Brabant, will always in future call to my mind the most touching scenes I have ever witnessed. The multitude of refugees who have found asylum in the frontier towns of Holland called to my memory the crowds of starving folk in the best of Goya's sanguines, or the intricate groups of absent-minded humanity in some of Previati's wonderful drawings. Every face, every movement, not only of men and women who have _seen_ and _understood_, but even of children, is full of pathos and tragedy.