CHAPTER XX

SIEGE WARFARE

The kind of modern siege in which the Allies are engaged, unlike the

bombardment of a modern fortress, but like the sieges of old times, is

bound to be a protracted affair. Still it is not likely that Germany

will hold out as long as Troy did. From her geographical position,

nearly surrounded by the host of enemies that her arrogance and

self-seeking have arrayed against her, she was bound sooner or later to

be the besieged party, unless she succeeded in crushing one or more of

them by her first impetuous rush. It was not enough to drive them back.

She had to annihilate them or at least to bring them to terms at the

outset, and that she failed to do. Now, for the time being, she has

created troublesome diversions in the Balkans and other parts of the

world outside the main field of action, and has even opened a sally-port

in the direction of Constantinople. But everywhere else her exits, and

to a certain extent her entrances, are barred, north and south by the

fleets of the Allies and the hitherto no-man’s land of two neutral

states, on the east by the armies of Russia, and on the west by lines of

trenches every bit as strong as her own.

It is on this side that the pressure of the siege bears most heavily

upon her, and that in all probability the breach in her defences will be

made. But, as has been ably pointed out in _The Times_ by Colonel

Repington, whose military judgment carries more weight in France than

that of any other English writer on the war, that breach will only be

made by an even and continuous distribution of the pressure exerted

along the whole of the western line, simultaneously with a sustained

attack on the eastern front. It will not be effected by local

offensives, however carefully prepared and however gallantly carried

out. The day of brilliant cavalry charges on a grand scale is over. Even

combined advances of infantry are a form of tactics that must be used as

sparingly as possible, because of the enormous waste of life which under

present conditions they necessarily entail. The slight advantage gained

by the English last September at Loos and the French in Champagne was

far too dearly earned. It was magnificent, but it was not siege tactics,

and it is only by acting on the principle that the war, more

particularly in the west, is not a series of battles but a siege, that

it can be won. The time has come when it must be realized that partial

offensives of this kind, carried on over a minute section of the front,

are not worth the cost. The advance must be made by continuous sapping,

that is to say by hammering away with artillery, and, so far as is

possible, with nothing but artillery, along the whole line of the

enemy’s trenches at the same time, without giving them any rest or any

chance of shifting reinforcements from one part of the line or from one

front to another.

During the months of comparative stagnation which are now, it may be

hoped, drawing to a close, this policy has not been adopted, partly, no

doubt, because it could not be. There were not enough guns and not

enough high explosive shells. Once or twice they have been massed in

huge quantities at some given point, as on those twenty-five miles

between Auberives and Massiges in the Champagne country, and they have

shown what can be done—provided that too much is not attempted. Our one

object is to drive the enemy back. We have to oust them from the ground

which they now occupy. That is what is going finally to break the

_morale_ of Germany and the German army. We shall never do it, except at

a prohibitive cost, as long as in our attacks we sacrifice length to

depth. It is far more valuable to us, and far surer and less costly, to

gain say one hundred square miles of ground by advancing a quarter of a

mile along a front of four hundred miles than to win back the same

acreage by pushing the enemy back five miles along a front of twenty.

But all this is in the future, and is the business of strategists and

generals, and not of a newspaper correspondent, who may, after all, be

completely wrong in his ideas. All that he can usefully do is to try to

give his personal impressions of the way in which the present (or the

old) plan has worked. Up till now it has in all probability been the

only method that could be adopted, because of the lack of the guns and

munitions necessary for a more comprehensive plan of action. It is

commonly supposed that in this respect the French have been better off

than the English. But in any case they, too, have been hampered in their

general scheme of attack by a similar necessity for a sparing use of

artillery ammunition, and it is this shortage which has principally

dictated their conduct of the war of the trenches ever since it began.

At certain points all along the line, from the Channel to Verdun and

from Verdun to the Vosges, there are what the German journalist quoted

in the last chapter called “Craters of Death,” where, as the siege has

progressed, both French and English have, so to speak, brought their

battering-rams to bear on the defences. These points have not been

chosen because they are the weakest, for there are no weakest points in

continuous lines of trenches. One part of the system is as strong as

another. But there are, though it sounds paradoxical to say so,

strongest points, where the enemy, either because he is particularly

well served by lines of communication behind, or because he is

particularly anxious for strategical reasons to break through in front,

has for months past concentrated greater numbers of guns and men. And

since these strongest points have no “weakest” points on either side of

them by which they might be turned, it is precisely there that the

besiegers have been obliged to concentrate their attack. At the same

time any attempt to rush the less thickly manned lines of trenches in

between them has been rendered practically impossible by the fact that

owing to aeroplanes and telephones and motor-traction any given part of

the line can be very quickly strengthened, even to the extent of

bringing fresh bodies of troops halfway across Europe for the purpose.

Under these conditions the position of stalemate to which both besiegers

and besieged have very nearly been reduced was practically unavoidable.

This second stage of the war, that is to say the whole wearisome period

of the fighting in the trenches, I do not propose to follow at all

closely. Even in the struggles round the “craters of death” there was,

except on rare occasions, a sameness and a lack of dramatic incident

which would be bound to depress the spirits of the general reader. As

regards its bearing on the final issue, by far its most important

feature is that it has not depressed the spirits of the French soldiers.

Even more remarkable than the heroism which from time to time they have

shown in making or repelling attacks on a more or less extended scale is

the extraordinary cheerfulness with which they have accepted the dreary

monotony as well as the wearing daily attrition imposed upon them by the

stagnant immobility of the trenches. I have spoken already of this

remarkable buoyancy of spirits, which so far as I have seen is

characteristic of the whole of the French armies, and need not enlarge

upon it again, except to remark that it is one of the most valuable

assets upon which the Allies are able to count.

But there is one special aspect of it about which I should like to say a

word or two, though it deserves a whole volume to itself. Because the

Army of the Republic is a national army, there is no trade or calling or

profession which is not represented in its ranks. France not only

expects but requires that every able-bodied man of military age shall do

his duty in the defence of his country, unless she has other work to put

into his hands. Amongst the rest she calls upon the clergy, and with one

consent these men of peace, instead of beginning to make excuse, have

answered to the call with a fervour of patriotism which is excelled by

no single class of their fellow-countrymen. Before the divorce between

Church and State, garrison chaplains, bearing duly specified military

grades, were part of the regular equipment of the army. When the State

refused to recognize them any longer as functionaries, all priests

became at once liable along with the laymen of their own year to

ordinary military service. Consequently in the present war, either as

men on the active list or as reservists or territorials, thousands of

_abbés_ and _curés_, besides monks, novices, choristers, lay brothers,

and other servants of the Church, are now serving with the colours.

As far as possible they are employed in the non-combatant ranks, but

large numbers of them, both as officers and privates, serve shoulder to

shoulder in the trenches and on the field of battle with the other

fighting-men. As a body they seem to be inspired, even more than most

soldiers, by the courage which springs from contempt of death. In nearly

all the countless stories that are told of their heroism the dominant

note is the same. Having once, in the pronouncement of their clerical

vows, laid down their lives in the service of God, they are always ready

to lay them down again in the service of their fellow-soldiers, whenever

and wherever the need arises, without for one moment counting the cost.

Time after time, like the many humble village _curés_, too old or too

weak to serve their country in arms, who have nevertheless gone to meet

the barbarians and death without flinching, they have shown to the enemy

and to all the world that France has no more gallant sons and soldiers

than her priests.

But they have done something more than that. Though they have become the

soldiers of France they have remained the soldiers of Christ. Here is

one of many instances that come crowding into my mind. A private

soldier, badly wounded, was lying in one of the military hospitals, and,

believing that he was on the point of death, asked anxiously for the

services of a priest. At the moment none was to be found. The man in the

next bed, with his thigh hideously shattered by a shell, was lying

almost unconscious in a state of partial coma. Gradually, however, he

realized what the doctor and the nurses of the ward were talking about.

Weak and exhausted as he was, he managed to make one of them understand

that he was himself a priest, and would pronounce the absolution of his

fellow-soldier if she would hold up his hand; and then, as he whispered

the words that brought to the other the comfort that he wanted, his own

soul passed away.

That story is typical of the kind of lives which numbers of these men in

their double capacity have led and are leading at the present moment. In

out-of-the-way corners of the field, far from any church or chaplain, it

is an everyday occurrence for some private soldier, with his clerical

robes hastily thrown over his uniform, to celebrate mass for the men and

officers of his regiment before the battle begins; or, when it is over,

with the grime and the blood of it still thick upon him, to hear the

confessions of the dying and give them the last consolations of their

faith. Undoubtedly the influence of these soldier-priests and the

influence of the religion for which they stand have had a large share in

maintaining the wonderful _morale_ of the French troops. Even the _franc

maçons_, consciously or unconsciously, are affected by it. The war has

brought the whole nation as well as the armies face to face with the

realities of life and death. They have this enormous advantage over the

Germans, that for them the war they are engaged in is a holy war. They

are not fighting for what they can get. They are fighting to defend and

to free their homes, and therefore they feel and know that they are on

the side of freedom and justice and right. In their trouble and peril

they have turned instinctively to the consolations and the sustaining

strength of what through long ages was their national as well as their

personal religion. They have returned to the faith of their fathers. Not

only individual soldiers and civilians but the authorities of the State

themselves have awakened to the fact that in the great crises of life

men and women have a natural craving for something spiritual, something

outside of and higher than themselves.

Right at the beginning of the war the official rulers of the State and

the Army did a wonderful thing. They took the step of reappointing

regular _aumoniers_, or military chaplains, to the troops of the

Republic; that is to say, they had the courage to undo their own work by

deliberately revoking part of the anti-clerical legislation which, some

years before, the Government had imposed on the country. In the autumn

of 1914 I saw in a town near the eastern frontier a remarkable example

of this same disposition on the part of the officials of the State to

close, at all events to some extent, the breach between State and

Church. In the cathedral of the town (a favourite target for the bombs

of German aeroplanes), a solemn service was being celebrated in memory

of the soldiers who had fallen during the war. And inside the rails of

the chancel, on a chair placed opposite to the throne of the Archbishop

and by the side of the General commanding the district, was seated the

Prefect of the Department. It was the first time for fifteen years that

a Prefect of France, acting in his official capacity and wearing his

official uniform, had attended any form of public religious service. To

the congregation, therefore, his presence at that solemn moment, while

the thunder of Beethoven’s funeral march on the cathedral organ was

almost drowned by the thunder of the guns on the heights outside the

town, was a fact of the deepest significance. It was the outward and

visible sign of the spirit of national unity and brotherly love which

sprang into life all over France at the moment when war was declared. It

was one of many proofs that for France and her highest interests the war

has not been fought and the dead have not died in vain.

* * * * * *

Before I was carried away into this digression by the admiration which

every one must feel for these brave soldier-priests of France, I was

talking of the way in which, on the eastern half of the front, the chief

energy of the war of the trenches has been concentrated at certain

definite points or “craters of death.” West of the Vosges these points

are all in the plain of the Woevre and the Hauts de Meuse, that is to

say, along the sides of the St. Mihiel salient. The chief of them are at

Les Eparges, on the north side of the angle, in the Forest of Apremont

at the angle itself, and near Pont-à-Mousson at the eastern extremity of

its southern side. At, and to a lesser extent between, these points the

French and the Germans have now been at it, hammer and tongs, for more

than a year. I use the expression “hammer and tongs” designedly, because

I can think of no other that so well expresses the position. St. Mihiel

and the Camp des Romains are situated at the hinge of the tongs, Les

Eparges and Pont-à-Mousson towards the extremities of the two legs. With

the object of squeezing the legs closer and closer together, so as to

crush the German forces between them or at least to force them to retire

on Metz, the French have been hammering away at these places for months

past, in accordance with sound dynamic principles. At the same time from

the Forest of Apremont they have pounded even more vigorously at the

Camp des Romains. Dynamically the process of applying the force of the

hammer at the St. Mihiel end of the tongs is not so advantageous, but it

is, as I have tried to show, necessary. Force must be met by an

equivalent force if it is desired to prevent motion in a particular

direction, and they have at least so far succeeded in their object as to

produce a state of equilibrium.

[Illustration: LA WOEVRE.]

The position is one of great interest. What the Germans were trying to

do at the end of September, 1914, they were still aiming at a year

later, and, for all that one can foresee, the situation may be unchanged

up to the time when this book is published, or even later. They wanted,

and they still want, to cross the Meuse at St. Mihiel and in a sense

complete the investment of Verdun. At any time since their first attempt

at this manœuvre failed they might have repeated it, or would have

repeated it if they could. If they had succeeded the consequences for

the French and the whole of the Allies’ line would have been just as

serious as at the beginning. Never was there a clearer case of “As you

were,” and the fact that the point of danger for the French and the

point of opportunity for the Germans was at the angle of the salient has

made the situation there more pregnant with possibilities than at almost

any other part of the front. The unsatisfactory side of it for our

Allies is that because of their failure to turn the enemy out of the

Camp des Romains they have not been able to put an end to the occupation

of the Woevre, and that to a certain extent the menace of a forward

movement still exists. On the other hand, the menace has always been

held well in check, and the legs of the tongs are sensibly nearer to

each other than they were fifteen months ago.

Through the closing months of 1914 and the whole of the following year a

steady pressure was kept up on both sides of the salient by part of the

Verdun garrison force and of the Third Army on the north side, that is

to say, from the Meuse eastwards, and by part of the Toul garrison and

of the Second Army operating from the south towards the Rupt de Mad. As

the result of this general pressure, supplemented by occasional

offensive movements in greater force, the enemy were driven back

slightly on both their fronts.

The first of these offensive movements was made directly on St. Mihiel

from the west. An attack was made on the German troops occupying the

left bank of the river, and at first it had every appearance of being

successful. The enemy were driven out of the suburb and barracks of

Chauvoncourt and retired across the Meuse. Following in hot pursuit, the

leading French troops took possession of the barracks—and fell into a

trap. The ground had been mined by the Germans before their retreat, and

the French paid the consequences of their impetuous advance. Practically

the whole of the force that had entered the barracks was destroyed, and

in the confusion the enemy successfully counter-attacked and remained

masters of Chauvoncourt, which they still hold.

The next attack, a much bigger and brilliantly successful affair, was

made at Les Eparges, twelve or thirteen miles north of St. Mihiel and

the same distance south-east of Verdun. One of its objects was to defeat

the enemy’s project of investing Verdun by driving him further back in

the direction of Vigneulles, which lies about mid-way between the two

fronts of the salient, and at the same time to threaten his position in

the Forest of La Mortagne, to the west of the road from Vigneulles to

Les Eparges. The operations, which began on February 17th and lasted

till April 10th, were carried out with great determination by the

French, and in the end they not only pushed their trenches forward a

considerable distance, but were able to occupy a much safer and more

commanding position. Before the advance was made the Germans had

constructed a very strong redoubt, to the east of the village of Les

Eparges, which was the main objective of the attack. After a careful

preparation first by saps and mines, and then by sustained artillery

fire, it was gallantly stormed and then evacuated and finally retaken,

after a fierce hand-to-hand struggle, on February 19th. For the next six

or seven weeks there was continual fighting on more or less the same

ground till, at the beginning of April, the Crown Prince, who had

returned from one of his prolonged and mysterious absences to the

command of the Fifth Army, had the mortification of adding yet another

to the list of his failures, and the French finally and conclusively

gained the upper hand. They had fought with extraordinary dash and

courage, and had suffered severely. But the result was well worth the

cost. The position which they now hold commands a wide view northwards

and eastwards over the plain of the Woevre. From the east side of the

Forest of Amblonville, in which they have their main cantonments, the

ground falls with a fairly steep descent till it rises again to the long

bare spur of Les Eparges, over a thousand feet high, looking out over

the plain. They are no longer exposed to the risk of an unexpected

attack, as it is impossible for the enemy to concentrate troops in the

ravines and behind the slopes which separate the forest from Les Eparges

without being seen. The other main advantages which the French have

gained on this side of the wedge are that they have made some advance on

the two main roads, six or seven miles apart, which run between Verdun

and Metz, one along the valley of the Orne past Etain, the other from

Fresnes in the direction of Mars-la-Tour. They have also made a slight

move forward on the centre of the German line at Lamorville, a few miles

to the north of St. Mihiel.

On the southern side of the wedge the chief French efforts have been

made at the two extremities of the line, at the Bois d’Ailly and the

Bois Brulé, in the Forest of Apremont, and, fourteen and twenty-one

miles further east, at the Bois de Mort-Mare, directly south of

Thiaucourt, and the Bois le Prêtre, a little to the west of

Pont-à-Mousson. The approach to the Forest of Apremont from the Meuse is

one of the many places on this part of the front where the French side

of the low hills behind the trenches are for miles honeycombed with

cave-dwellings. They have been there so long now that they have become

part of the landscape and look as if they had always belonged to it. I

suppose when the war is over they will still be left for the edification

of the cheap trippers and tourists of the world. What will not be left

for them to see, for it is gone already, is the Bois Brulé. In the

height of summer you can walk for hours along the trenches, through

acres of what was once a green forest, and see never a leaf. Nothing is

left of the trees but shattered stumps, cut clean off by the shells

close to the ground. That gives one some idea of the severity of the

endless duel of the guns. At the east end of the wood the hill on which

it stands drops down sharply into the plain, and through the loopholes

in the front trenches (where you do not linger for more than a few

seconds at a time) you look down on the brown roofs of the village of

Apremont, three or four hundred feet below you. It is full of Germans,

though they never show themselves. But their advanced trenches are much

closer than that, on the top of the reverse slope of the hill, in some

places at the regulation nearest distance of about fifteen yards. Behind

the hill, that is to say, on the south or French side of it, and as far

as one can see to the east, the plain stretches out flat and unbroken

(except by the lines of French and German trenches cut across it),

backed on the south by a series of long, straight, level-topped hills,

écheloned one behind the other, and ending far away to the right in the

blue haze where the heights of the Moselle begin. That is where

Pont-à-Mousson lies, and Bois le Prêtre, the greater part of it another

dreary forest of stumps, through which the battle raged backwards and

forwards again and again for months—or is it centuries?—till at last the

whole of it was won and kept for France by her splendid soldiers.

And that is what they are doing all along the line. The progress is

slow, but what changes there are in the position of the trenches are in

favour of the French. Foot by foot they are winning back the land which

was ravished from them at the beginning, and the longer the struggle for

the possession of the Woevre goes on the surer it becomes that the

occasional offensive movements of the French are assaults and those of

the German attempts at sallies. The St. Mihiel salient is still a

nuisance, but it has almost, if not quite, ceased to be a danger, and

sooner or later it is practically certain that the prolonged attempt to

cross the Meuse will have to be abandoned, and that not a single German

will be left in France from Verdun to the Vosges.

In the Vosges themselves and in the Sundgau, ever since the retirement

from Mulhouse, there has been continual fighting, sometimes of the most

violent description, in which the Chasseurs Alpins and the

Chasseurs-à-pied, splendidly supported by the French field artillery

(supplemented during the latter part of last year with guns of heavier

calibre), have done wonderfully fine work. They have not only

successfully carried out their main task, which was to prevent the enemy

from setting foot on the western slopes of the Vosges, but in the

valleys of the Thur and the Doller and at other points along the line

have gained a considerable amount of valuable ground. Further north, in

the district of Senones, though they have not succeeded in penetrating

again into the valley of the Bruche, they have kept the enemy well in

check, and at the extreme right of the line, towards the Swiss frontier,

have established themselves in a very strong position from which they

are able to keep a watchful eye on Altkirch and Mulhouse, and at the

same time to guard effectively against any attempt at either a

straightforward or a roundabout attack on Belfort.

The main fighting has centred round Thann, Hartmannsweilerkopf, Cernay,

Steinbach, the Ballon of Guebweiler, the valley of the Fecht,

Reichackerkopf, and the valley of Münster, but from the Donon to

Pfetterhausen on the Swiss frontier, especially on the southern section

of this front, there is hardly any ground that has not been the scene of

repeated combats, the net result of which is that the French have almost

everywhere made slight advances. The summit of Hartmannsweilerkopf in

particular, because it guards the entrance to the valley of St. Amarin,

has been bathed in blood over and over again. Four or five times it has

been taken and retaken, with dogged perseverance and extraordinary

heroism, first by the French and then by the Germans, and the struggle

for its possession still continues, though at present it is in the hands

of the French. For both sides this famous mountain-top has been one of

the most deadly of all those terrible “craters of death.”

Beyond this short general statement I shall not for the present attempt

to follow the ins and outs of the campaign on this part of the line. Its

strategical importance has been far greater than has appeared, and, once

the weather conditions permit, there is always a chance of its

developing into an attempt at a big offensive movement by one side or

the other. But as regards the story of those heroic struggles we have

had, I think, our fill of fighting. In the daily engagements on the

plain of Alsace and among the fir-clad mountains of the Vosges the men

of the armies of the east have shown the same enthusiastic devotion to

their country, the same quiet disregard of danger and death, and the

same cheerful endurance and unfailing confidence in the final triumph of

right as their brother-soldiers who fought and died for the safety of

Epinal and Nancy and Verdun and Toul. Higher praise than that they

cannot have. The soldiers of France are the fearless sons of a

great-hearted nation.

As I draw near to the end of this imperfect attempt to show the

greatness of the debt which England owes to France, one other thought

about them comes to me with increasing force. The French have played the

game: they have fought the good fight like knights and gentlemen. That,

more than almost anything else, is the reason why Englishmen have come

to look upon them as something much more than Allies. Because of it they

have forged a bond with us and our children’s children which Time itself

will hardly be able to weaken. They are our brothers, not only in arms,

but in all that civilization stands for. The Germans are—different. They

are our enemies, not only because they are fighting against us, but much

more because of the way in which they have fought. As a state, and, in

cases that cannot be numbered, as individuals they have turned their

backs upon principles and ideals by which all honourable nations and men

must strive to rule their lives. Their scutcheon is blackened with arson

and murder and pillage and rape. Their hands are red with the blood of

the innocent. To the ends of the earth and of time they have made their

name a byword and a reproach. But—worse than all this—they glory in

their shame. They claim that their dishonour is honour and their wrong

the right. Their eyes are holden that they cannot see. Some day they

will be opened and they will see themselves and their crimes in all

their revolting ugliness. For it is unbelievable that a whole nation of

ordinary men and women can continue to allow themselves to be blinded by

the false and cruel and iniquitous standards of a few devils in human

form. But for the present all their sense of right and wrong is being

eaten away by a foul and malignant cancer. Till that cancer has been cut

out of their being by the sword they are a deadly danger to the whole

world, for their success would infallibly spread its poison into every

country on which, in their present condition, they were able to lay

their hand. Till the sword has done its work, as firmly and as

thoroughly as the surgeon’s scalpel, there is not one of the allied

nations which can or will think of peace. Then and then only will come

the end of the war.

CHAPTER THE LAST

GERMANY AND THE ALLIES

Once upon a time, in the careless, happy days before the war, a Royal

Scotch Princess was married one fine morning to a Royal Irish Prince in

a Royal English chapel. The chapel was ancient and small, and the young

pair had so many friends that though not nearly all of them could be

invited to the ceremony, they filled it to overflowing. Besides the

Sovereign Head of both their houses and the State, there were present

two Queens (I had almost said two fairy Godmothers) who walked down the

chapel hand-in-hand looking as sweet and almost as young as the bride

herself, I forget how many other princes and princesses, and scores and

scores of the great lights of the land and especially of the legal

profession (for where the country-to-be-ruled is there will the lawyers

be gathered together). There were not many young people—the occasion was

too important and the seats too few—and, except for the brothers and

sisters and cousins of the two principals nearly all the guests were

married and arrived in couples (like the animals coming into the ark out

of the rain) dressed in their finest and full of their own or their

ancestors’ importance. For to be there at all, you understand, you had

to be SOMEBODY, or at least to the third and fourth generation

SOMEBODY’S offspring, unless you belonged to that mischievous but

necessary profession the British Press, the representatives of which,

the only blot on this brilliant assembly, were crowded together in a

narrow position of vantage so close to the highest and furthest back row

of the seats of the mighty that the shadows of the aigrettes in front

quivered and danced upon their note-books.

To the strains of the organ, appropriately tender and jubilant by turns,

the chapel gradually filled with its distinguished audience, and almost

the last to arrive before the Royal party were an old old servant of the

State and his matronly spouse, who took their places on two of the

gilded chairs immediately below the Press box. Before she shook out the

folds of her dress for the last time the lady turned round and, staring

straight into the face of the newspaper man behind her, at a range of

about two feet, said to her husband in a loud, clear voice (he is rather

deaf), “Oh, it’s only reporters.”

Until you have tried it you have no idea of the degree of polite

contempt which can be put into that last word. And even when you have

tried, and tried your hardest, you will still, if you are only an

amateur at the game, fall far short of the dizzy height of scorn reached

by this professional expert without any conscious effort at all. For

pride of rank and contempt of her inferiors had become to her second

nature.

Once upon a time the same great lady (or perhaps it was another) was on

her way to the gilded chamber to which her husband had been raised,

chiefly by his own forensic skill, but partly by the nimble pencils of

the men who recorded his eloquent speeches for the public press. In the

square outside there was a large and excited crowd, some sympathetic,

some jeering and hostile, and for a moment her carriage was stopped

while the police arrested a pale-faced, elderly woman who had been

trying to exercise what she believed to be her legal right of asking for

an audience with the representatives of her sovereign. Once more in the

same high-pitched voice and with an even deeper tinge of scorn, she

explained the situation to her companion: “It’s only one of those

wretched suffragettes.”

This book is not a suffragist or anti-suffragist pamphlet. It is an

attempt to describe a single phase of the war, and at the same time to

consider some of its actual and possible effects. Still, it seems to me

worth saying that in England before the war there was in all classes far

too much of the spirit expressed in the thoughtless and belittling

“only” of these simple little true stories, and that is why I have told

them. We were much too fond of using such phrases as “only a woman” or

“only a parson.” There were cases before the war when the keepers of

public restaurants refused to serve a fellow-subject with food and drink

because he was only a soldier—wearing the King’s uniform. That sounds

odd to-day. There have been times in our history, and not so very long

ago either, when “only a Frenchman” (with or without a qualifying

adjective) was the regulation way of speaking of our present Allies and

tried and trusty friends, not only because they wore the wrong collars

and hats, but because we were generally inclined to believe that an

Englishman could tackle at least three of them with his left hand.

The unwholesome part of this particular form of national pride has, we

may hope, left us for good. (It has now, incidentally, infected the

Bulgarians, who say to-day that the Western nations can only fight in

the trenches, and that in the open field one Bulgar is equal to five

French or English.) We began to learn the folly of it even before the

war. Sous-lieutenant Carpentier, of the French air-service, taught us a

few lessons. So did Jack Johnson—though he was only a nigger. So did the

football teams from Africa and New Zealand, though they were only

Colonials, and so did our competitors in the Olympic Games, though they

were only foreigners. But more than anything else, it is the war that

has been and must be still our tutor. It is teaching us the lesson which

cock-sure St. Peter (who must surely have had English blood in his

veins) learnt long ago at Joppa—that nothing is common or unclean. It is

teaching us that we must get rid of the kind of Lucifer pride that goes

before a fall. It is teaching us to respect not only our Allies and our

foes, but each other. We have found out that the whole of Europe can

fight. As a body of soldiers, General French’s contemptible little army,

which was sent to fill the gap at Mons, was probably the finest fighting

force, regimental officers, non-commissioned officers, and men, that

ever stepped on to a field of battle. But it was we non-combatants who

wore most of their laurels. At the beginning of this war and in all

previous wars, in our complacent English way, we have always thought and

talked of our regular army (when any part of it was at war) as though it

were actually the nation, instead of only a minute fraction of it, as

though it was we ourselves who were doing the fighting. We have a better

right to our national pride now that the Government of the nation has

decided and the nation (or most of it) has willingly agreed that at

least all its unmarried men of military age shall be trained not only to

defend their country but to take their stand beside the other allied

nations in their battle for something that is far greater and more

sacred and more important than the very greatest of them.

[Illustration:

Photograph by Libert-Fernand, Nancy.

CHURCH AT DROUVILLE—MEURTHE ET MOSELLE

]

I take back nothing of what I have written earlier in this book about

our refusal as a nation to bring ourselves in this respect in a line

with our Allies. Our consent is not even now completely whole-hearted.

For seventeen months we did so refuse, and during that time not all the

magnificence of our unparalleled voluntary effort was magnificent enough

to banish from the minds of our Allies the consciousness, however

politely they might conceal it, that we were lagging behind in the

struggle for the freedom of the world. But while we lagged behind—great

as our contribution was even then to the common cause—we were learning.

Outside our own country we have seen the splendid courage of tiny states

like Belgium and Serbia, as well as the wonderful soldier-like qualities

of the huge national armies of France and Russia and Italy and Germany.

From our own people (and from those others as well) we have learnt that

priests and parsons and men of every profession and trade and class and

condition, however insignificant we used to think them, can endure

hardness as good soldiers, and that women, if they cannot fight, can

(besides knitting socks, which was all that they were supposed to be

good for before the war began) do almost everything else connected with

the war which is commonly regarded as men’s work. Now that we have

mastered these elementary principles we shall, if we let the war teach

us all that it can, go on to the obvious corollary that no nation and no

man and no woman has the right to despise another, and that pride and

prejudice are the root of nearly all evil.

The war itself is the strongest possible evidence of that truth. For it

was the pride of Germany that made the war—not her fear of being

strangled by the surrounding nations, not her need of finding colonies

for her surplus population, not her desire for a place under the sun,

not her passionate longing to ensure for the world the liberty of the

seas, not even her jealousy of England, but her overweening pride.

Between the pride of England and the pride of France there are certain

well-marked differences. But both, because of their ancient histories,

have pride of race, wholesomely tempered by the consciousness that

_noblesse oblige_. Germany has the much more aggressive pride of the

successful _parvenu_. Having made herself, within the memory of people

now living, she looked upon her work with all the pride of the self-made

man, and saw that it was good—after its kind—and straightway aspired to

re-make the whole world after her own image and according to her own

material conceptions. To do that she thought, quite wrongly, that it was

necessary first to subdue it by the sword. She would have been wiser to

keep it in its sheath. Her peaceful invasion was far more penetrating

and far more likely to compass the end she had in view of making her the

dominating nation of the earth. All the world takes her Kultur now at

its proper value. But long before the war, up to the very eve of its

declaration, German influence, and above all German finance and

commerce, had been permeating all the nations now at war with her, as

well as all the neutral states, like bindweed and Virginia Creeper

running riot in a suburban garden. If the war had not come the

independent existence of some of them—Switzerland, for example—would

certainly have been choked. Even the larger countries were beginning to

suffer. In England the phrase, “Made in Germany,” first an economic

measure of self-protection, then a rather feeble joke, and then a

byword, was fast becoming a serious menace—if one accepts as just the

principle of England for the English—to the real interests of the

country. In France, in England, and in other countries there were too

many commercial houses and too many people and too many opinions made in

Germany, if those countries were to retain their national

characteristics and national liberty of thought and action. The

seriousness of the mischief in its gravest form all the world has seen

lately in the United States, where the Government have had to struggle

hard, and not always with success, against the crippling influence of

the fear of the German vote, even though, happier than the neutral

states of Europe, they were entirely free from the parallel

influence—the fear of the German sword.

The process of Germanization was, in fact, as events move in history,

rapid and almost universal. But, fortunately for the world, it was not

rapid enough for German pride. So the war was made by the rulers of

Germany to hurry forward the spread of German Kultur and all that the

word implies, or—was permitted by the higher forces or Powers that rule

the evolution of the world, in order to check it. To the Allies, who did

not begin the war, but did everything in their power to prevent it, the

only possible view is that the Powers or rather the Power that rules the

evolution not of Germany alone nor of France nor of England, but of the

whole world, is a greater and higher power than the rulers of Germany.

That is the confidence in which we are fighting. We do not look upon

ourselves as the Chosen People, with a special claim on the mercy of

God. We have no special form of culture which we think or pretend it is

our duty to impose on the rest of the world. We have no need and no

right because our cause is a holy one to invent a special unholy code of

the rules of war, and of might and right, in order to secure its

triumph. These are forged credentials and counterfeit excuses, and not

all the ingenuity of the false prophets who plunged deluded Germany into

this war can make them pass as genuine. The prophets and the professors

prophesied falsely, and the people, whether they loved to have it so or

not, must suffer the consequences.

As for ourselves, we believe, rulers and people, that we went into this

war with clean hands and clear consciences. But that is no proof that we

are right. The Germans, or the majority of them, no doubt think the same

of themselves and their country. At the bar of the nations we must be

judged, when the war is over. But meanwhile, while it is still in

progress, we can get some idea of the way in which the other nations

regard us from the opinion of the neutral states and even of our Allies.

_Fas est et ab amicis doceri._

Since the war began I have watched it and England’s share in it from

Belgium, Holland, France, Italy, and German and French Switzerland, and

have talked about it with the inhabitants of various other countries,

including Serbs, Greeks, Russians, Swedes, Montenegrins, and Americans.

Never once have I heard it said, though I have seen it hinted in

print—in German print—that we came into the war from anything but

disinterested motives. And that is the one thing that matters. I was

once called upon, when the war was less than a year old, to speak about

it at a large meeting of French and German Swiss, specially arranged as

a meeting of neutrals. Strictly speaking, it was neutral only in name

and on the surface, in the sense that the men composing it were

persuaded that their highest duty was to stand together for a United

Switzerland, and to sink their differences and individual opinions for

the sake of their common country. But the differences and individual

opinions were there. Every man in the room, whatever his politics (they

were mostly Socialists), consciously and strongly wanted one side or the

other, France or Germany, to win. But the very fact that as individual

jurymen they were not impartial made their verdict, provided that it was

unanimous, all the more convincing. It was in the days when every one in

Switzerland was still discussing the rights and wrongs of the war—and

before a German airman had dropped bombs on that particular Swiss town.

Having explained that I personally was not a neutral (an obvious remark

which was greeted with loud laughter, as a characteristic specimen of

English humour), I went on to the further statement, not necessarily

quite so obvious to the whole of that particular audience, that England

had come into the war because Germany had been guilty of the violation

of Belgium’s neutrality, and that if we had not done so we could never

have looked the other nations in the face again. Before the words were

out of my mouth they had given their verdict in a unanimous burst of

applause. Every man of them, and not only those who naturally

sympathized with the Allies, showed as clearly as possible that on that

point they needed no persuasion. Germany was guilty, and England had

done the one thing possible. And that, as far as my observation goes, is

the general opinion abroad, not only in Switzerland (in spite of the

natural predisposition of many of the inhabitants to think well of

Germany as well as to fear her) but in Holland, the Americas, Sweden,

and practically the whole of the neutral world.

As for our Allies the French, we have fought side by side for a year and

a half, and each of us knows by now of what mettle the other is made.

They started the war with two fixed ideas about us—that we were not a

military nation (which, if you compare the relative size of our two

armies at the beginning, was, from their point of view, perfectly true),

and that, conscious of the might of our fleet and lulled to a state of

careless repose by the sense of our island security, it would take us a

long time to wake up to the real seriousness of the war. Looking back on

what has passed, it is not easy to say that they were wrong. Some of

us—millions of us—realized it from the first. But very many did not.

Long after the war had begun there were people in England who held that

we were doing more than our share and more than enough, because, as was

true, we were doing far more than we had promised. There were even some

so foolish and so selfish as to say that our soldiers in Flanders were

fighting the battles of France, and not the battles of England, since

England had not been and never could be attacked. The French were more

generous than these narrow-minded myoptics (who, after all, were only a

small minority), and at the same time more clear-sighted. Frankly and

with deep gratitude they owned that but for the help of England France

must have been crushed. But they also believed that when that had

happened our turn would inevitably have come next, and that the only

hope for England and the world was that France and England should face

the foe together with every ounce of their united strength. Small blame

to them, then, if they were seriously concerned when they saw that in

England alone of all the combatant nations—Germany excepted—the

enervating evil of strikes and labour threats could still exist. Small

blame to them if they sometimes wondered how long it would be before,

for our own security, we overcame our timid objections to the principle

of national service.

But they always felt sure, I think, that the time would come—as it has

come, in the last days of 1915—when England would face the necessity of

putting her whole strength into the field in order to bring the war to a

triumphant conclusion, and to complete what a friend of mine, a high

official of France, spoke of in a letter which he wrote to me last May,

as “le grand œuvre de la guerre, c’est à dire la Rédemption.”

“C’est bien en effet de rédemption qu’il s’agit,” he went on, “la

rédemption du monde. L’humanité voit aujourd’hui, elle voit de ses yeux,

ce qu’elle serait devenue si les Boches avaient triomphé, imposant au

monde leur loi morale. Pour moi je suis tenté parfois de remercier les

Boches d’avoir complété ma vie morale: ils m’ont appris la Haine, la

haine forte comme l’Amour, qui emplit le cœur, le réchauffe, le brûle

parfois, qui décuple les forces, qui tranforme la vie. C’est le rôle que

les Boches joueront désormais dans le monde civilisé; ils auront pour

fonction d’être un objet de haine. A cette idée l’Angleterre vient peu à

peu. Elle n’est pas encore au point, puisque les ouvriers de tramways de

Londres ont fait grève: j’ai vu à l’hôpital un petit chasseur-à-pied,

amputé du bras droit, qui en lisant cette nouvelle dans le journal s’est

mis à pleurer. Mais le Boche commetra bien encore quelques infamies

nouvelles, et l’Angleterre tout entière ‘haïra’ d’une haine active et

féconde.”

I doubt myself whether we shall ever quite reach that point. The very

sound of the phrase, “Redemption by Hate,” is rather strong meat for

English minds. We have not got that Latin fervour of expression, and we

have not seen a tithe or anything like a tithe of what the French have

seen of the abominable works of the Boche, especially in the eastern

provinces. I have heard it rumoured that the British soldier—the British

Tommy, that is to say—is by way of thinking and saying that brother

Boche is not such a bad fellow after all, and that he would not mind

making friends with him. At the present moment and until the war is won

anything approaching that frame of mind, if it were at all widespread,

would be a calamitous and fatal mistake. The British soldier, especially

the British soldier of the new armies, has seen, or at least has fought

against, the Germans on the fields of battle and in the trenches, where

they are at their best. For no one can deny their fighting qualities. He

has not seen “with his eyes” what they did behind the present lines of

trenches, when they had to deal not with soldiers, but with defenceless

civilians. He is a light-hearted and forgiving individual, and does not

realize that what they did then they will do again in this war if ever

they get the chance. He cannot be expected in the trenches to grasp the

far graver general danger of the poisonous influence which was being

exercised on the world and on Germany before the war by the whole rotten

system of German Militarism and German Kultur, bolstered up by German

pride. He has no time while he is fighting our battles to reflect that

that influence will infallibly begin its corrupting and deadening work

again after the war, and will spread with far greater rapidity, unless

the Militarist party is beaten to its knees.

But, even admitting that here and there in the ranks there may be some

of this quasi-friendly feeling towards “brother Boche,” the fact, if it

is a fact, need disturb no one. We may not have in England the Latin

quickness and fervour of the French, but what we have got is the bulldog

grip. Once we have taken hold, though we may be slow in starting, we do

not let go. Now that our teeth are set we will hold on to the end—and

God defend the right!

But what is the right? The proud German dream of a Greater Germany? I

think not. I doubt if even the Germans themselves can think so, if they

look at it dispassionately as it was presented—three years before the

war began—by the Pan-Germanist prophet, Otto Richard Tannenberg. We

certainly cannot complain that they did not give us fair warning.

The gist of his country’s dream can be given quite shortly in his own

words. “Greater Germany,” he wrote, “can only be made possible by a

struggle with Europe. Russia, France, and England will oppose the

establishment of Greater Germany. Austria, feeble as she is, will not

weigh heavily in the balance. The Germans will not march against

Germany. The basis of our enterprise must be the Pan-Germanist

principle.

“Some one must make room, either the Slavs of the West or of the South,

or else we ourselves! As we are the strongest the choice will not be

difficult. We must give up our attitude of modest expectation. There can

be no question of remaining without stirring at the point where we stand

to-day.... Since 1871 our neighbours have often enough given us chances

of appealing to the decision of the sword. Only the wish has been

lacking to us. After all, every war can be avoided. But it is also easy

to find motives, when one wants to.... As for us, there is no need to

hunt for one in the vicissitudes of the relations between the various

Courts; one fact is enough for us, that since the foundation, the

consolidation, and the expansion of our empire the Germans are being

harassed and oppressed in all countries. In Russia, in Austria, in

England, in America we have seen a feeling of hatred against Germany

develop which we cannot tolerate much longer without losing our standing

in those countries.”

That was written, remember, not during the war, nor on the eve of it,

but in 1911. We have seen since then how the Pan-Germanist principle

that “after all, every war can be avoided, but it is also easy to find

motives, if one wants to” was carried out. What we will not see and will

not tolerate is the establishment of Greater Germany. For it means

amongst other things, according to the prophet Tannenberg, not only that

Ireland will become independent of England, and that Austria-Hungary

will be incorporated in the German Empire, but that the neutral states

of Holland, Luxembourg, Switzerland, and Belgium, neutral no longer,

will disappear completely from the map of Europe and lose their identity

and their freedom in the maw of the same all-embracing and all-devouring

organization.

What need have we of further witness? Out of their own mouths the

Germans are condemned, for the thousandth time. The war was deliberately

provoked, though “like any war,” it might have been avoided. The excuse

for it, invented long beforehand, that it was to put an end to the

alleged oppression of Germans in Russia, Austria, England, America, and

all other countries, was as false as the pretence that any such

oppression existed. The real object, the aggrandizement of Germany, not

only by the oppression but by the suppression of all the weaker Latin

and German races of Europe, was exhibited naked and unashamed, for all

the world to see, long before the would-be oppressor drew the sword. It

remains to-day more than ever the real object of the war, now that it is

unsheathed. No possible special pleading can maintain, much less prove,

that the suppression of Belgium, Holland, Luxembourg, and Switzerland

(to say nothing of the partial suppression of France, England, Russia,

Italy, and Servia), is right. The mere suggestion of such an idea is an

abominable wrong, which God will not defend, and because of it Great

Britain will not tolerate, in any shape or form, the establishment of a

Greater Germany. We are going to win this war. But let every man of the

Allies and above all every Englishman, reflect on this undoubted fact.

Because it is a war between right and wrong, between the powers of light

and the powers of darkness, we shall not win it until we have learnt its

great lesson, until we know as a nation—and we do not know it yet—that

its particular message to our own country is the duty of self-sacrifice.

* * * * * *

It is the first day of the New Year. Last night the Old Year, the

saddest and most terrible that the world has ever seen, came to its

appointed end.

Five or six miles from where I am writing French and Germans were facing

each other in unwonted silence under the dark night in the unending

vigil of the trenches. A few days and nights ago the roar of the guns at

Hartmannsweilerkopf, at Thann, at Altkirch, at Pfetterhausen, at Moos,

was more violent and more continuous than anything that has been heard

here since the war began. Now there was not a sound. Only in the last

few minutes of 1915 a sudden squall of wind and rain swooped down from a

cloudless sky. Moaning and weeping like a suffering child that cannot

sleep, like a broken-hearted old man worn out by the anguish of life,

the Old Year passed away to make room for the New. To-day in a glorious

burst of sunshine, the New has come—and every second the air quivers to

the shock of the heavy guns. For the weary fight has begun again. The

end is not yet. Perhaps even here, through this peaceful valley, so

little removed from the actual field of battle, the German hosts may

make their last despairing unavailing effort to reach the heart of

France. But they will never reach it. The way is barred by the dead, the

uncounted glorious dead whose graves stretch from here to the English

Channel in an unbroken line. For their sakes, and the sake of all they

fought and died for, France and England can never put up the sword till

the victory is won. “Then shall be brought to pass the saying that is

written, Death is swallowed up in victory. O death, where is thy sting?

O grave, where is thy victory? The sting of death is sin, and the

strength of sin is the law. But thanks be to God, which giveth us the

victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.”

DELÉMONT,

January 1st, 1916.

EPILOGUE

BY MONSIEUR LÉON MIRMAN,

PREFECT OF THE DEPARTMENT OF MEURTHE ET MOSELLE.

[M. L. Mirman, who is a Fellow of the University of Paris and was a

Mathematical Lecturer at the Lycée of Reims, was elected Deputy for

Reims in 1893. He represented the city in Parliament till 1905, when he

resigned his post as Deputy to become _Directeur de l’Assistance et de

l’Hygiène Publiques_. Interesting as this office was in time of peace,

it did not agree in time of war with his ideas of active work, and at

the beginning of the month of August, 1914, he was appointed, at his own

request, to the frontier post of Prefect of Nancy.—G. F. C.]

Nancy, February 2nd, 1916.

MY DEAR CAMPBELL,

You wrote the last words of your book on the 1st of January, 1916,

at Delémont. I am very sorry that you did not open the year 1916 where

you began the year 1915, among your friends at Nancy. You would have

witnessed there a fresh crime, bearing the unmistakable hall-mark of

“Kultur.”

Nancy—as you proved for yourself _de visu_, and as you state in the

course of your book—is a _ville ouverte_, without any fortifications. It

does not contain a single military establishment. The barracks, which

are full of soldiers in time of peace, were emptied on the first day of

the war, and were all converted either into hospitals or else into homes

of refuge for women and children, refugees whom I gathered in from the

destroyed communes. Not one cannon, not one shell, not one soldier is

housed in the town. And yet, by means of a long-range gun, mounted at a

distance of about 33 kilometres, the Boches are sending us shells of 800

kilos., which fall from a height of 8000 metres and crush a house like a

walnut. They have no military objective. What, then, is their purpose?

Their intention is twofold. In the first place they wish to “terrorize”;

these people are fools, they will never understand that they inspire not

fear but horror, and that by acts of this kind they are sowing not

terror but hatred. In the second place, they hope to kill, in this great

industrial town, a few women and children. This object they can

obviously attain more easily than the other; it lies within the reach of

every artilleryman, however poor a gunner he may be, who takes a large

town as his target.

So far this statement tells you nothing that you did not know before. It

is a long time since the Boches gave us their first samples. Every one

is acquainted with their methods. To-day it is only of set purpose that

it is possible to ignore them. The bombardment, without any military

reason, of open towns with no garrison, has become, on the part of the

Germans, an everyday affair. But these last bombardments of Nancy show a

particularly studied nicety, full of the most delicate refinement.

These heavy guns began to fire on our beloved city of Lorraine in the

dawn of the new year, on the sunny morning of the 1st of January, 1916.

Picture to yourself, _cher ami_, on the evening of that 1st of January,

the family hearth of a German intellectual, a chemist, a philosopher, a

historian, or an artist. Herr Doktor is surrounded by his children, they

are celebrating the feast of the New Year by eating sausages and jam, or

black puddings and sugar. The evening paper arrives. The family stop

talking. Herr Doktor unfolds the sheet, and reads aloud the stop-press

news: “To-day, January 1, twelve shells of 800 kilos, were fired on

Nancy. Several houses were reduced to dust. Two old men were buried

under the ruins of one of them. The explosion of a shell killed a child

of fifteen months in the arms of its grandmother....” Herr Doktor

exclaims: “Wife, children, stand up! We must celebrate this victory on

our feet. Hoch! Hoch! Hoch! The children of Nancy have received some New

Year’s presents, some kolossal presents, explosive sugar-plums weighing

800 kilos. The year 1916 has opened magnificently. This victory of Nancy

will fill with pride and enthusiasm all the sons of Great Germany. Let

us thank our old German God for having granted it to us. Let us praise

our mighty Emperor. Hoch! Hoch! Hoch!”

As for us we buried our dead, poor innocent victims, in silence. We

washed the pavement red with blood. We put down this new crime in the

list of accounts that has to be settled. And we set ourselves again to

our work, with our spirits not cast down but invigorated by the ordeal.

German crimes! You have seen some of them, my dear Campbell, in

Lorraine. A day will come when we shall have to make a complete list of

them, for the instruction of future generations. There will be some of

us, I hope, who will devote ourselves to this task. It would be too

monstrous that the veil of oblivion should be drawn over all these

crimes.

It is imperative that we should know, that the whole world shall

recognize, that our school-children shall learn all the evil that the

German has done to mankind. At the head of these plain statements—all

the more terrible indictments for the dryness of the official reports—we

will place the following declarations, the authors of which are classed

amongst the most notorious German writers:

“There is nothing in common between them (Kultur and Civilization). The

war which is being waged is that of Kultur against Civilization. Kultur,

the spiritual (!) organization of the world, which does not exclude

bloody savagery—Kultur which is above morals, reason, science; Kultur,

die Sublimerung des Dämonischen.” This unforgettable profession of faith

appeared under the signature of Thomas Mann in the _Neue Rundschau_, in

the number of November, 1914.[A]

-----

Footnote A:

This quotation is second-hand; I have taken it from the _Au-dessus de

la Mélée_ of Romain Rolland. We know that he belongs to the small

number of those men, if I may dare call them so, who at the moment

when their family is massacred, their house set on fire, their old

father shot, their sister violated, isolate themselves in a tower of

ivory, from the top of which, looking on at these crimes, and striving

to hold an even balance between the assassins and the victims, they

proclaim themselves “Above the conflict.”... This state of mind is at

least a guarantee to us of the accuracy of the expressions which he

quotes from the profession of faith of his “brother” Thomas Mann.

-----

And this criticism, addressed by Maximilian Harden to the German

Government, after having treated as lies their distracted efforts to

excuse the violation of Belgium neutrality:—

“What is the use of all this fuss?... Might creates right for us. Does a

strong man ever submit to the foolish pretensions or the sentimentality

of a band of weaklings?”

You know, my dear Campbell, the spirit in which we began this war—the

same spirit as that of our English friends. For our part we were

governed by respect for treaties, for international agreements, for the

laws of war, for the rights of nations, for everything by which men, in

their bloody struggles one against the other, had tried to raise

themselves little by little above the level of wild beasts. Since the

war had come, since it had been forced upon us by the enemy—who, after

an elaborate preparation, had chosen his own time—we wished, while

engaging in it and carrying it through, to minimize its calamities as

much as possible, by strictly observing the articles of agreement by

which the nations had mutually bound themselves to consider the wounded

as _res sacra_, not to maltreat civilians, not to bombard open towns,

and so on. We have paid dearly for the chivalrous illusions which we had

at the outset.

Let me give you two examples of the state of mind which prevailed in

France at that moment.

The Boches—I say it not to justify but to explain their acts of

murder—pretended, as you remind us in the course of your book, that

civilians had fired upon them. It is a cynical falsehood. Since the

beginning of August, 1914, I have administered the Department of Meurthe

et Moselle, and I have made a searching investigation in all my

communes. I affirm that no non-combatant, no man not regularly classed

in the ranks of the army, has ever fired on the enemy. Never? I

exaggerate. There has been one case. One day, in 1914, a German

aeroplane flew over the plains of Lorraine; it dropped murderous bombs

at random on the peaceable population of certain rural communes. On

seeing this, the Mayor of one of these communes, close to Nancy, lost

his sangfroid, armed himself with an old fowling-piece, and began to

fire at the aeroplane. There was certainly some excuse for him, was

there not? But I considered that he was at fault. Assassins must not be

killed by passers-by; it is the business of the gendarmes to arrest

them. In war it is the army’s business—it is strong enough for the

job—to punish the enemy. Consequently the action of this mayor called

for censure. I did not hesitate to make an order against this honest but

over-strung magistrate; in virtue of the powers conferred upon me by the

law, I suspended him from his functions. This order was universally

approved; it interpreted the unanimous wish of all civilians not to

provide any pretext for German brutality.

I take another example of our standard of behaviour from the story of

Badonviller. This Lorraine commune was one of the first that suffered

the horrors of Kultur. It was entered by the Germans at the beginning of

the month of August. Because our troops had met them with a stubborn

resistance which cost them dear, they were mad with fury when they

entered the little town; it was there that they first used the special

implements with which their soldiers had been supplied for methodical

and “scientific” house-burnings; they destroyed, with fire applied by

hand, half the commune. That was not enough for them; they shot down the

people in the streets like rabbits, they killed women and children on

the threshold of their doors. The mayor, M. Benoit, a much-respected

business man, saw his young wife assassinated before his eyes; he saw

his house burnt, and was himself the object of the worst forms of

violence. These scenes of outrage only lasted for a short time. On the

next day the French troops retook Badonviller by a vigorous effort, and,

after a hot pursuit, made a number of prisoners. These prisoners were

brought to the square in front of the Mairie. They were some of the

brute-beasts with human faces, who, a few hours before, had burnt the

commune and bathed it in blood. The houses to which they had set fire

were still smoking. The bodies of their innocent victims were not yet

buried. A crowd of infuriated peasants gathered round them, shaking

their fists at them, and abusing them with angry cries. The situation

was becoming awkward, when the mayor arrived. M. Benoit had just seen

his poor wife placed in her coffin. He had no longer a home. His house

was a mass of smoking ashes. He was ruined. His heart was broken. He

drew near the scene. The prisoners thought that their last hour had

come, and turned livid with terror.

But M. Benoit is a Mayor of France. He knows the traditions of our

country. He respects the law. He forced a way through the crowd. With a

single gesture he called for silence. He reminded them that these men

were prisoners, that prisoners were protected by international

agreements, and that no one had a right to lay a finger on them—no, not

even on them. He put himself in front of them. He made a rampart for

them with his body. He declared that while he lived not a hair of the

head of one of these prisoners of war should be touched. And the

peasants, mastered by their sense of duty, stifled their cries of anger,

unclenched their fists, and respectfully moved away and went into their

houses.

The Bavarian assassins were decorated by the Kaiser, for their crimes,

with the Iron Cross. The French Government at my request granted to M.

Benoit the Cross of the Legion of Honour, and a few days later I

presented it to him with my own hands.

Those are the principles with which, on one side and the other, we began

the war, and these two incidents, taken at random from a hundred of the

same kind, seem to me to show accurately the difference between the two

methods, the difference between the Civilization on which Thomas Mann

heaps his contempt, jeering at its “reason, its gentleness, and its

emancipation,” and the Kultur which, according to him, is “above

morality, reason, and science,” the Kultur which he hails as “die

Subliemerung des Dämonischen.”

* * * * *

Have these principles been modified? Those of the Germans, no; our own,

yes. The Germans have systematically continued the practical application

of their gentlemanly instincts. After the crimes of Lorraine and Belgium

came the unpardonable outrage of the _Lusitania_, followed by others so

numerous and so varied that I must give up the idea of finding room for

them in this letter; a whole volume would not be long enough to give a

full list of them.

If the principles of the Boches have remained the same and have incited

them every day to the commission of fresh outrages, ours—I say it

frankly—have changed.

We want three things—to-day reprisals of defence—to-morrow

compensations—finally, to save the future, punishment.

Reprisals? Most certainly. There are two kinds of reprisals, those of

vengeance and those of defence. The first I reject; the second I demand.

I should be proud if French soldiers and their brothers-in-arms kept

their hands clean when they penetrate into Germany. I swear that no

violence could have stained them if the Boches had not been piling up

provocations for months and months. In any case I am quite sure that if,

contrary to my hopes, they were to give way to these provocations, our

dear soldiers would never commit a tenth part of the acts of violence

which have been suffered by our unhappy populations; they would dismiss

with horror the idea of setting fire to ambulances, or of massacring old

men and women and children.

But there are reprisals of defence. These I hope for, and our Nations

demand them. We have got to defend our soldiers and our civilians. To

reply, in the trenches, to grenades with oranges, to gases which kill

with gases which make the eyes smart, to liquid fire with cold water,

would not only be idiotic, it would be criminal. In battle, an eye for

an eye, a tooth for a tooth. Abel must fight with the same weapons as

Cain. However varied the forms of human folly may be, I imagine that no

one will dispute this necessity. If, however, any soft-hearted

philanthropists raise a protest and entreat us not to answer gas by gas

and fire by fire, it would be easy to form a few gangs of them and place

them in the front-line trenches, with instructions, when asphyxiating

gases of the enemy arrive, to disperse the clouds by blowing upon them,

and to put out the flames of the liquid fire with their gentle tears.

We have also got to defend civilians. Intoxicated by their philosophers

the Boches can only understand the arguments of force. They laugh

ponderously at our protests in the name of right. Blows are the only

things that they can feel. We ought thoroughly to convince them that

every time that one of our open towns is bombarded by cannon, by

Zeppelin, or by aeroplanes, one of our aeroplanes, while we are waiting

for something better, will bombard one of theirs. An excellent effect

was produced by the operations at Carlsruhe and Stuttgart. Let us equip

hundreds of aeroplanes for purposes of bombardment, and let each outrage

of the Boches on our towns be followed by an immediate riposte, frankly

announced in the newspapers to the whole world. Is that cruelty? I would

accept that reproach from no one. I have immense pity in my heart—pity

for our children and our women who are the victims of German assassins,

pity for our children and our women whom it is our duty to protect, and

whom we can protect in this way only! That, I repeat, is not a reprisal

of vengeance, but a reprisal of defence. The people who protest against

the use of such means ought not to remain far from the danger zone. Let

them go—not alone, that would be too easy, but with their family, their

old mothers, their wives, their children—let them go and take up their

abode in the open towns which serve most often as targets, to Reims, to

Pont-à-Mousson, to Nancy, to Dunkerque; let them go and live there in

the houses of the poor, which are crushed like walnuts by big shells and

split from top to bottom by Zeppelin bombs, or else let them take a

berth for a few months on a transatlantic steamer; when they have been

there long enough, when they have observed at close quarters the acts of

the Boches, when they have seen some loved one fall by their side, when

they have felt on their own brow the wind of a Camarde, then, if they

still demand that the Allies should not engage in reprisals of defence,

their advice, though it may not be wise, will at least be worthy of

respect. In the meantime, in the name of the women and children already

assassinated, and that the list of these pitiable victims may not be

lengthened, those people had better be silent who, from the asylum of

their safe and comfortable homes, invite us to reply to crime by

diplomatic notes or by prayers, and to counter actions that kill with

words that lull to sleep!

I said that from to-day our wish is for reprisals of defence, and that

to-morrow we shall want compensation and punishment.

One word only about _compensations_. It is not enough that everything

which has been destroyed and can be paid for shall be paid for. Those

who have wilfully set our villages on fire must be compelled to rebuild

them; we shall, I hope, requisition in “Boche”-land enough manual labour

to repair all that can be repaired of their crimes. When they have not

destroyed our manufactories they have pillaged them, stealing raw

material, manufactured articles, and machines; I sincerely hope that

they will be compelled to restore our plant to us in good condition,

that in case of need, while we wait for better, we shall not hesitate to

take theirs in place of our own, which they have no doubt broken up, and

that we shall have the sense to impose upon them a whole category of

economic measures calculated to restore those of our industries which

they have deliberately ruined.

And I imagine also that in the domain of art, compensations will be put

down in settling up the accounts. We will leave them all their own

public monuments, in the clumsy bad taste of which they take such pride.

But there are in the German and Austrian museums masterpieces of art—not

of German art, but of Flemish or Italian, Dutch or French, Russian or

English. The Boches will entertain profound respect for us if we collect

all these works, which in any case they do not understand, and form with

them in beautiful maltreated towns such as Louvain, Ypres, Reims, and

Arras, museums of the Great War. If we do not act in this way they would

feel no gratitude towards us, but would treat us simply as imbeciles,

and for once I should be of their opinion.

But to come to a graver question: the necessity for punishment. It will

not be enough that the material and economic damage which they have done

shall be repaired, it will not be enough that the Monster which has

steeped the whole world in blood shall be struck down and rent limb from

limb, and placed for ever in a condition in which it can do no harm. The

outraged conscience of humanity demands personal decrees against the

assassins.

Ah! If the sponge were to be passed over all the crimes that have been

committed, over all the outrages and all the violations of the rights of

nations, if this war were to be ended by an ordinary treaty modifying

the frontiers, and stipulating for financial and economic conditions and

nothing more, and if, after this treaty, wearied of hating and giving in

to a great craving for moral peace, the hostile Nations were to blot

from their memories the recollection of the Evil accomplished, and were

to throw themselves into each other’s arms and exchange a mighty kiss of

concord and of love—let us take every precaution against such a

possibility! A misfortune would overtake humanity far more serious for

it than all the catastrophes which it has suffered in the course of its

sorrowful history. I say that if we do not strike at the head of the

most exalted, the most powerful among the responsible authors of these

crimes—those who let loose the war, those who gloried in tearing up

treaties like “scraps of paper,” those who ordered the sinking of the

_Lusitania_ and the _Persia_ and their thousands of passengers, those

who first bombarded open towns, those who for the first time launched

aeroplanes and Zeppelins over our industrial cities on both sides of the

Channel (to speak only of our own front) those who burnt Louvain, who

murdered the Cathedral of Reims, those who gave the order for the first

acts of incendiarism and pillage and assassination, those who splashed

the statue of Charity with the noble blood of Miss Cavell, those who

started the _régime_ of asphyxiating gases and liquid fire, and all who

have placed themselves beyond the pale of the law, and of humanity—if

the sword of the law does not fall on all these men personally, this is

what will happen: man will no longer believe in honour, he will no

longer believe in right, he will no longer believe in justice, he will

no longer believe in anything. His faith in a better future will vanish

and be dispelled for ever, along with the beautiful dreams which—whether

they were realizable or not—were our joy, our hope, and our pride, in

which we were constructing, on the foundation of Law and of Right,

better national and international organizations than those by which man

up to our day had protected himself. If the criminals do not bear the

punishment of their crimes the principle of responsibility gives way,

carrying with it all our codes and laws. It will remain a settled

principle that only Force counts. The force of Germany will not have

triumphed this time, but its hateful doctrine will remain all-powerful,

and that would be for humanity a terrible moral relapse.

The Germans have taught us to hate—and perhaps that is their greatest

moral crime. To this new passion, but lately still unknown to us, we had

for long ages closed our hearts. We should not have allowed it to enter

them, if, whether as conquerors or conquered, we had been challenged by

our enemies to an honourable combat. Under the repeated blows of their

outrages our hearts ended by giving it admittance; hatred has entered

into them, it has settled itself there, and taken up its abode. It will

stay there till justice has been done. Our soul will not be freed from

hatred till the day when the expiation of the chief culprits has been

carried out. Then, and then only, humanity will be able to resume its

enthusiastic and yet halting march in the direction of Progress.

These are not the extravagant visions of a solitary dreamer. You

recognize these sentiments, friend Campbell. You have felt how strongly

they were imposed upon upright consciences, however enamoured of the

ideal, by the stern contact with realities. No one can remain a stranger

to that fact who has made the melancholy pilgrimages which you have in

the murdered lands,—for example, in the wasted fields of Lorraine or

Champagne—if, in the cities of Reims or of Pont-à-Mousson, in Sermaize

or Clermont en Argonne, in Nomeny or Gerbéviller—and all the other

places, alas! where innocent blood has flowed—he can hear and remember

with a brotherly heart the cries of the martyrs, as he passes through

the midst of the ruins.

* * * * *

Is it impossible to realize these projects? Is it an idle fancy to talk

of such conditions and to demand such punishments, while the enemy is

still burrowing in trenches dug in our soil? No! No! Whatever trials we

may still have to submit to, whatever long sufferings we may still have

to endure, in France, as in England, in Russia, in Italy, in Belgium,

and in Servia, we all know perfectly well—as the rest of the world is

beginning to know—that absolute victory, with the conditions dictated by

us, will without any doubt be the prize of our efforts, if we pursue

those efforts with enough resolution and method, that is to say if we

are determined to have it, if our determination and our actions are in

proportion to the importance of the object we have to attain. And you,

friend Campbell, will have the honour of being of the number of those

who, from the first hour, have had a clear vision of the future, of

those who have taught your noble Nation to _understand_ and to be

_determined_. And so with all my heart I give you my hand.

Yours truly,

LÉON MIRMAN.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, LONDON AND DECCLES.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Telegrams: 41 and 43 Maddox Street,

“Scholarly, Reg. London.” Bond Street, London, W.

Telephone: _October, 1916._

No. 1883 Mayfair.

Mr. Edward Arnold’s

AUTUMN

ANNOUNCEMENTS, 1916.

--------------

CHAPTERS FROM MY OFFICIAL

LIFE.

By SIR C. RIVERS WILSON, G.C.M.G.

Edited by E. MACALISTER.

_One Volume. With Portraits. Demy 8vo. Cloth._ =12s. 6d. net.=

The autobiography of Sir C. Rivers Wilson covers a long period and

touches on many interesting historical events. Sir Rivers, who was born

in 1831 and died in 1916, passed the greater part of his life in the

service of his country. While still a young man at the Treasury, he was

for some time private secretary to Mr. Disraeli, of whom he has some

good stories to tell, and he has much to say about the celebrated “Bob

Lowe,” whose notorious “match tax” has lately been passed by Mr.

McKenna. For over twenty years Sir Rivers Wilson was the head of the

National Debt Office, but his most interesting work during that time was

when he was specially detached for financial diplomacy in Egypt, and his

account of his difficult dealings with the Khedive Ismail Pasha brings

much that is new to light. It is particularly relevant at the present

time, when Prince Hussein, the son of Ismail Pasha, has been established

as independent Sultan of Egypt under the British Protectorate. Sir

Rivers gives us most entertaining chapters on Ferdinand de Lesseps, le

Grand Français, whom he knew intimately, and on many other Parisian

celebrities of later days. At the age of sixty-four Sir Rivers became

connected with America, first through C. P. Huntington and the Central

Pacific Railway, then as President of the Grand Trunk Railway, which he

raised to a position of great prosperity. All this he tells in a modest

and unassuming way, with many touches of humour. His style is “chatty”

and genial, and it is obvious that Sir Rivers Wilson was a man of few

enemies and many friends.

------------------------------------

LONDON: EDWARD ARNOLD, 41 & 43 MADDOX STREET, W.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

FROM SAIL TO STEAM.

NAVAL RECOLLECTIONS, 1878-1905.

By ADMIRAL C. C. PENROSE FITZGERALD,

AUTHOR OF “MEMORIES OF THE SEA.”

_With numerous full-page Illustrations. Demy 8vo._ =12s. 6d. net.=

Admiral Fitzgerald’s life has been an exceptionally full and varied one,

and whether he was afloat or ashore, engaged in his professional duties,

or enjoying a strenuous sporting holiday, he is always interesting,

because whatever he turned his hand to—work or play—he did it with all

his might. Of the active work at sea which is comprised in the present

volume, perhaps the most remarkable portion is the cruise with the

squadron which accompanied the _Bacchante_ when King George and his

brother made their memorable voyage—not round the world. If any tour was

likely to be carried out according to prearranged plans, one would have

said it was this one, and the story of the vicissitudes in its progress

and programme is curious and highly instructive.

On shore, Admiral Fitzgerald was at one time in charge of the Royal

Naval College, and for two years Superintendent of the Pembroke

Dockyard, entertaining in the latter capacity a number of distinguished

visitors, among them the ill-fated Admiral Rosjesvenski. He was more

than once stationed in the Mediterranean in circumstances which enabled

him to take ample advantage of the wonderful sporting opportunities then

available. Among his most attractive chapters are those which describe

the shooting—woodcock, duck, wild-boar, etc.—in Albania, Syria, and

Turkey; and he has a rare knack of conveying much of his own

whole-hearted enjoyment to the reader.

He is almost apologetic with regard to his passion for sport, and,

indeed, admits that in the eighties the navy suffered somewhat from a

tendency to rest on its laurels and take things easily. Much more did

this tendency affect those in charge of affairs at home, the

politicians—a class whom the Admiral, quite irrespective of party, holds

in very low esteem. The remaining principal section of the book

describes the stages in the struggle against this tendency, initiated by

Admiral Fitzgerald and a few other far-seeing men, fortunately not too

late.

THE REMINISCENCES OF THE

RT. HON. LORD O’BRIEN,

LORD CHIEF JUSTICE OF IRELAND.

Edited by his Daughter, Hon. GEORGINA O’BRIEN.

_One Volume. With Portrait. Demy 8vo._ =10s. 6d. net.=

Not many bodies of men have a more distinguished tradition than the

Irish Bench and Bar, and among the legal luminaries of Ireland in recent

years there was no more representative and characteristic figure than

Lord Chief Justice O’Brien. After his retirement he occupied his leisure

in putting together his reminiscences. They were unfortunately left

unfinished at his death, but have been edited and completed with the

fullest knowledge and sympathy by his daughter, the Hon. Georgina

O’Brien.

He has much to say of sport, of youthful frolics, and of prominent

figures in the social life of Dublin, but the main interest of the book

lies, as was to be expected, in his professional recollections. These

include the trials arising out of the Phœnix Park murders, and those

which followed another no less sombre tragedy—the Maamstrasna massacre;

but for the most part they are of a more cheerful character. The impress

of a vigorous and intensely independent personality is stamped on every

page, and few people could attain to the detached serenity with which he

records the bestowal of the once well-known sobriquet of “Peter the

Packer.”

A NEW NOVEL BY FORREST REID.

THE SPRING SONG,

By FORREST REID.

AUTHOR OF “AT THE DOOR OF THE GATE,” “THE GENTLE LOVER,” ETC.

_One Volume. Crown 8vo._ =6s.=

Griffith Weston is a child with a temperament. With his rather ordinary

but quite nice relations he lives in the ordinary world on the usual

footing. On his own account he lives another life in a world of his own.

Hence minor escapades which alarm and exasperate his governess and his

kind but conventional aunt, and which are told with an insight and

sympathy that invest their details with indefinable charm. Into this

happy young life enters the sinister figure of the Parish Organist. In

him, too, ordinary folk see nothing but a queer-tempered old musician,

but he, like Grif, lives in a world of his own, though a very different

one, it would seem, from that of the gentle, dreamy boy. The tragedy

which ensues may be baldly summarized as follows: The Organist, a

homicidal maniac, supposed to be cured, gives form and substance to

Grif’s other world, and instils into his mind, enfeebled by illness, the

suggestion that in it there is another boy, summoning him with a call

which is not to be resisted. The maniac’s lurid death fails to break the

spell which grips the child, and the relief of telling his story to an

understanding listener comes too late. To the real nature of the tragedy

Grif’s own people remain blind to the end. The doctor knows more, but he

only sees when he has been enlightened by the third of the outstanding

figures in the story, a friend of Grif’s elder brother, and a delightful

study of the school-boy turned Sherlock Holmes. These two are helplessly

aware that the sensitive child has been scared into his grave. Does this

exhaust the matter, or is there still more behind? Throughout the story

the reader is haunted by a feeling that there is another, more

elemental, world, peopled by powers both kindly and malign, with which

both the dreamy boy and the mad musician have kinship, and by virtue of

which the currents of their lives are intermingled. It is this sense of

mystery and doom which gives the book its glamour and distinction, and

provides scope for Mr. Forrest Reid’s elusive and delicate art.

ARBOREAL MAN.

By F. WOOD JONES, M.B., D.Sc.,

PROFESSOR OF ANATOMY IN THE UNIVERSITY OF LONDON (LONDON SCHOOL OF

MEDICINE FOR WOMEN).

_With 81 Illustrations and Diagrams. One Volume. Demy 8vo._

=8s. 6d. net.=

Put as concisely as possible, the theme of Dr. Wood Jones’s book is a

demonstration of the fact that Man, the supreme product of Evolution,

could only have been developed from animals which had their homes and

spent much of their lives in trees; the main point in the argument being

that the descendants of primitive animals living on the ground were

inevitably doomed to become quadrupeds, and so missed the chance of

acquiring the upright posture which is one of Man’s distinctive

attributes, at the same time paying for more immediate advantages by

losing for ever that invaluable organ, the hand.

Stated in these crude terms, the matter might at first sight seem to be

only a chapter, though an important one, in the story of Human

Evolution; but before the reader has progressed very far, he will begin

to realize that the arboreal habitat is not merely one of the

conditions, but the central and dominating factor in the whole process.

Not that living in trees was in itself sufficient to determine the line

of progress in an upward direction. Many classes of animals lived, as

many still live, mainly in trees. Mr. Wood Jones, reasoning on lines

which would delight the heart of M. Henri Bergson, shows how and why

only one of these classes continuously achieved “the successful minimum

of specialization,” and moved slowly but surely in a direction which

ended in Man, and not in a Lemur or a Sloth.

There is much more in the matter than this, but the whole argument of

the book does not admit of being summarized briefly. Much of it is based

on data supplied by Comparative Anatomy, of a character which only

experts can appreciate, but the author has skilfully and considerately

marshalled his material in such a way that the successive steps in the

development which he proves to have taken place can be followed and

understood by any intelligent layman.

LOVE, WORSHIP, AND DEATH.

SOME RENDERINGS FROM THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY.

By SIR RENNELL RODD, G.C.M.G.,

BRITISH AMBASSADOR AT ROME.

AUTHOR OF “BALLADS OF THE FLEET,” “THE VIOLET CROWN,” ETC.

_Small Crown 8vo._ =2s. 6d. net.=

The poems of which some renderings are here offered to those who cannot

read the originals cover a period of about a thousand years. The poets

of the _elegy_ and the _melos_ appear in due succession after those of

the _epic_. A little gem from Mimnermus (seventh century B.C.) is the

first in the collection, and some lines from Macedonius (sixth century

A.D.) mark the close. The interpretation of these lyrics has been the

author’s sole and grateful distraction during a period of ceaseless work

and intense anxiety in the tragic years of 1914 and 1915—“yet another

proof,” says a review in the _Morning Post_, “of the worth of true

poetry as manna for the soul in these dread and inexorable days.... The

little book is like a vase of rose-leaves, faded yet fragrant, which, as

you pour them out, whisper sympathy from the dead to the living.”

BY THE SAME AUTHOR.

BALLADS OF THE FLEET.

By SIR RENNELL RODD.

_A New Popular Edition. Crown 8vo._ =2s. 6d. net.=

In this edition a new poem, entitled “Inter Arma Silent,” is printed as

an introduction, and all matter has been eliminated which has not

strictly to do with the sea. The volume appears during a struggle even

more stern and momentous than that recorded in the Ballads. But the

chivalries of the sea and the test of high endurance are the same as in

the days of our fathers, and while the Island race endures the spirit of

Drake, who sleeps “’neath some great wave,” will never call to them in

vain.

THE SOUL AND ITS STORY.

By NORMAN PEARSON,

AUTHOR OF “SOME PROBLEMS OF EXISTENCE,” ETC.

_One Volume. Demy 8vo. Cloth._ =10s. 6d. net.=

The underlying principle of this book is that the Soul, no less than the

body, is a product of evolution, though, unlike the body which perishes,

it has a destiny which will endure. The Soul, which has its origin in

the dim sentience which accompanies even the lowest forms of life, is

identified with the human Self-consciousness. It is carefully

distinguished, however, from the Self, which is only one of its partial

manifestations. The theory of Materialism is examined and found wanting,

and the nature of Matter itself investigated. Following upon this, the

book deals with the conditions necessary for the appearance of life and

the mode of its appearance. A chapter is devoted to the controversy of

the Spontaneous Generation of Life, and the curious process of

Heterogenesis. The relations of physical to mental structure are dwelt

upon, and the intimate connections of the two orders of development. The

difficulties which beset the transition from a subhuman to a human

consciousness, and the activities of consciousnesses in a subhuman

condition, are discussed at some length. Speech is the distinctive mark

of man, but it is shown to be connected with anatomical development and

motor activity. Considerable attention is given to Weismann’s theory of

the non-transmission by heredity of acquired characters, and the theory

in its extreme form is rejected as improbable and unproved. This

disposes of one of the chief obstacles raised by the Weismann school to

the permanent value of education and the independent evolution of the

Soul. There are chapters dealing with Personal Identity, the Relation of

the Soul to the Self, the Unity of the Soul—in spite of the marvellous

phenomena of multiple personality, and a very interesting discussion on

the possible permanency of sex, even in the more spiritual stages of the

Soul’s future development. The book concludes with some philosophical

disquisitions on the nature and method of creation, and the place of the

Soul in, and in relation to, the Universe of which it forms part. The

author, regarding evolution as a process whose operation extends both to

body and mind, repeatedly turns to the facts of physical evolution for

hints towards elucidating the obscure course of mental evolution.

THE DAYS OF ALKIBIADES.

By C. E. ROBINSON, M.A.

With a foreword by Professor C. W. OMAN, Oxford University.

_With 16 full-page Illustrations from the Author’s Sketches._

_One Volume. Crown 8vo._ =5s. net.=

This book gives a series of sketches, in narrative form, illustrating

the life of an Athenian citizen during the Peloponnesian War. Nearly all

the incidents of both public and private life are covered. Besides

witnessing a wedding, a funeral, a dinner-party, and the usual scenes of

domestic life in town and country, the reader is introduced to a

“Parliament” on the Pnyx, a dramatic festival in the Theatre, a trial in

the Law Courts; he may visit a Gymnasium with Sokrates, journey with a

pilgrim to Delphi, make the Mystery March to Eleusis, witness a

sea-fight with Phormio, and take a hand in the Battle of Delion. A

sojourn at Sparta, a celebration of the Olympic Games, and a scene at

the Port of Athens, complete the picture.

The thread of the story is woven upon a more or less historical

foundation; but the main purpose of the book is rather to give an

insight into Athenian manners and customs, and to introduce among the

characters types of every sort—the conservative farmer, the smart young

aristocrat, the rich merchant, the Spartan, the slave and the

philosopher. Local colour is imparted not merely by detail gathered from

the Classics and archæological research, but also by descriptions taken

from Greek scenery as it is to-day.

In short, the book is intended to give to general readers and to all who

are interested in Greece and its history a clear and vivid picture of

Hellenic life and culture in the Great Age of Pericles.

LIGHT AND SHADE IN WAR.

By CAPT. MALCOLM ROSS,

WAR CORRESPONDENT WITH THE NEW ZEALAND FORCES.

AUTHOR OF “A CLIMBER IN NEW ZEALAND,” ETC.

AND

NOEL ROSS

OF “THE TIMES” LITERARY STAFF

(LATELY LANCE-CORPORAL WITH THE ANZACS, AND LIEUT. TERRITORIAL

ARTILLERY).

_Crown 8vo. Cloth._ =5s. net.=

The Authors of this book have seen, during the past two years, a great

deal of the light and shade of war, the one as a War Correspondent, the

other as a soldier, and, latterly, a Correspondent of _The Times_. Some

of the war pictures which they give are classics in their way, and such

articles as “The Men from the Glen” and “The Last Load” are real

literature, and as such worthy of being preserved in the records of the

Great War.

Captain Malcolm Ross is well known, not only in his own country, but

also in the United Kingdom, as a writer of note, as a keen student of

Nature, and as a daring explorer and climber in the Alps of his native

land. As a War Correspondent on Gallipoli, in Egypt, and in France, he

has earned further distinction by his graphic accounts of events from

the battle-fields. His articles have attained a wide popularity in the

English and Colonial Press and have in some instances been translated

and republished in the French journals.

Mr. Noel Ross was wounded in the historic landing on Gallipoli after

having taken part in the fight against the Turks on the Suez Canal.

Discharged as unfit for further service, he again enlisted in England,

passed a course at Shoeburyness, and received a commission in the

Artillery. As a result of continued trouble from shell shock he had to

relinquish his commission. After a few weeks he was taken on the staff

of _The Times_, for which journal he has done, and is still doing,

brilliant work. He is also a contributor to _Punch_.

A FRENCH MOTHER IN

WAR TIME.

By MADAME E. DRUMONT.

Translated by MISS G. BEVIR.

_Crown 8vo._ _Cloth._ =3s. 6d. net.=

The writer of this frank and simple narrative is the wife of the famous

anti-Semite, but the young airman son, to whom she is devotedly

attached, is the child of a first marriage. The volume consists of her

diary from July, 1914, to August, 1915. This anxious French mother makes

no attempt to represent herself as more heroic than she was or is, and

her honesty gives a special value to her picture of the central and

really fine figure in the book—that of her son Paul, many of whose

letters to her during the war are here given. Among other interesting

passages in the book is a description of the scene at the Paris Cabinet

Council, when General Gallieni was asked by the Ministry if he would

defend Paris.

A YEAR AGO.

BEING “EYE-WITNESS’S” NARRATIVE OF THE WAR

FROM MARCH 30TH TO JULY 18TH, 1915.

By LIEUT.-COL. E. D. SWINTON, D.S.O., R.E.,

and CAPT. THE EARL PERCY.

_Paper Covers_, =2s. net.= _Cloth_, =2s. 6d. net.=

This volume contains the conclusion of the famous “Eye-Witness’s”

Narrative from the front, which has now been discontinued. It is

reprinted in full from the reports issued by the Press Bureau, and has

not hitherto been accessible in a consecutive and complete form. Taken

in conjunction with the previous volume published last year by Mr.

Edward Arnold, this instalment of “Eye-Witness’s” Narrative provides the

most valuable current commentary on the events of the war in Flanders

which has yet appeared. As time goes on, its accurate and graphic story

of the fighting will inevitably be appealed to as the most reliable

evidence of what actually occurred whenever diverse theories are at

issue.

THE MOTOR-CAR.

WHAT IT IS AND HOW TO DRIVE IT.

By T. O. A. LAWTON and PROF. R. J. HARVEY GIBSON.

_Limp cloth_, =1s. net.=

This book is written by an expert and a novice, and designed for readers

who approach the subject in a condition of complete ignorance;

accordingly, nothing is taken for granted. Only rudimentary instruction

is imparted, but this is given with absolute simplicity and clearness.

THE MIGRATIONS OF FISH.

By ALEXANDER MEEK, M.Sc.,

PROFESSOR OF BIOLOGY, ARMSTRONG COLLEGE, IN THE UNIVERSITY OF DURHAM,

AND DIRECTOR OF THE DOVE MARINE LABORATORY, CULLERCOATS.

_With 12 Plates and 128 Diagrams and Maps. xvi + 416 pages._

_Demy 8vo._ =16s. net.=

This work deals with a very interesting and important subject, which

appeals no less to the layman than to the scientific student. The habits

of sea-fish have only recently begun to be investigated seriously, but

their importance in connection with our great fishing industries can

hardly be overestimated. A great deal of information relating to the

migrations of fish has already been accumulated, but it is scattered in

books and periodicals frequently difficult to obtain. The author has

aimed at giving a systematic account of the knowledge acquired,

developing at the same time a theory of migrations based upon the

various stages in the growth of fish in connection with currents. The

book contains descriptions of the spawning habits, the eggs and the

young, the passive drift to the feeding grounds, and the distribution of

the species due to migrations. Practically all families of fish have

been considered, but the important food fishes of the Northern

Hemisphere have received specially detailed treatment.

THE PRINCIPLES OF ELECTRICAL

ENGINEERING AND THEIR

APPLICATION.

By DR. GISBERT KAPP.

PROFESSOR OF ELECTRICAL ENGINEERING IN THE UNIVERSITY OF BIRMINGHAM;

PAST PRESIDENT OF THE INSTITUTION OF ELECTRICAL ENGINEERS.

_In Two Volumes, fully illustrated._

_Volume I.: Principles. Demy 8vo._ =15s. net.= [_Ready._

⁂ _Volume II. is almost completed, and will be ready shortly._

=Recent Books on the War.=

_Second Impression now ready._

VERDUN TO THE VOSGES.

IMPRESSIONS OF THE WAR ON THE FORTRESS

FRONTIER OF FRANCE.

By GERALD CAMPBELL.

SPECIAL CORRESPONDENT OF “THE TIMES” IN THE EAST OF FRANCE.

_With Illustrations and Maps. Demy 8vo._ =10s. 6d. net.=

“If Mr. Gerald Campbell had only written about such experiences as other

visitors to the front have had, his remarkably readable book would have

deserved high praise on its merits. But he has done much more than that;

he has written of experiences which no other English Correspondent has

had, and his book must be placed among the few which are really

informing, even to those who are familiar with the facts of the

war.”—_Spectator._

“A deeply impressive, well-informed book. Mr. Campbell’s book will well

repay careful and patient study. It penetrates beneath the surface of

the fighting.”—_Daily Telegraph._

“This book contains, so far as we know, the only careful and trustworthy

account of those months of intense fighting which has yet been

published. Historians will have to turn to these pages for information

in regard to many details of the confused events of the early days in

this theatre.”—_The Times._

A SURGEON IN KHAKI.

By A. A. MARTIN, M.D., F.R.C.S. ENG.

_Sixth Impression. With Illustrations._ =10s. 6d. net.=

“A superlatively interesting book.”—_Graphic._

“A book full of life and human feeling. ‘A Surgeon in Khaki’ will

certainly live as a first-class description of a portion of the great

war.”—_Field._

“A book of extraordinary interest. There are many stories, grave and

gay, in this book, which should be widely read. It is quite a remarkable

book and gives a wonderful vision of what war is.”—_Birmingham Daily

Post._

WITH OUR ARMY IN FLANDERS.

By G. VALENTINE WILLIAMS.

_Second Impression. Illustrated._ =12s. 6d. net.=

“Mr. Williams has written an excellent book, one of the most vivid and

informing accounts that have yet been produced of our men in the field.

Like all good correspondents, he has an eye for significant detail. His

knowledge of Germany helps him to many instructive comparisons. He is

the master of an easy, vigorous style, which occasionally reaches real

eloquence. Above all, he has a great gift of enthusiasm. The book is

written in a fine spirit, not captious, or egotistical, or flamboyant,

but honest and understanding.”—_Spectator._

“This book is no mere compilation of the day-to-day dispatches from Mr.

Williams, but a complete study of the army at work and at play, touched

by many a scene of pathos, enlivened by many a page of vivacious

anecdote, and marked throughout by keen study of all the phases and

problems of the war.”—_Daily Mail._

A SURGEON IN BELGIUM.

By H. S. SOUTTAR, F.R.C.S.,

LATE SURGEON-IN-CHIEF OF THE BELGIAN FIELD HOSPITAL.

_Popular Edition, Paper Cover_, =2s. net=. _Cloth_, =2s. 6d. net=.

“In place of the average piece of journalistic hack-work, we have here a

live book, a book with a character and a soul, a book whose literary

skill and deep human feeling justify the prediction that it will be

found among the few elect records which survive their hour, and are

still remembered and consulted in years to come.”—_Daily Telegraph._

“Admirably written and readable from beginning to end.”—_Morning Post._

“Mr. Souttar is a surgeon with a gift for vivid writing. His book is a

quite fascinating record of his experience.”—_Daily News._

EYE-WITNESS’S NARRATIVE OF

THE WAR.

FROM THE MARNE TO NEUVE CHAPELLE,

SEPTEMBER, 1914, TO MARCH, 1915.

By LIEUT.-COL. E. D. SWINTON, D.S.O., R.E.,

and CAPT. THE EARL PERCY.

_312 pages. Crown 8vo. Paper_, =1s. net=. _Cloth_, =2s. net=.

(_Particulars of the later volume will be found on page 9._)

“Pending the time when a full history of the European conflict will

be possible, there can be nothing better in the way of a brief

general survey of the British operations than ‘Eye-Witness’s

Narrative.’”—_Illustrated London News._

A RUSSIAN CLASSIC OF ENTRANCING INTEREST

AND GREAT HISTORICAL VALUE.

YEARS OF CHILDHOOD.

By SERGE AKSAKOFF.

Translated, for the first time, from the Russian by J. D. DUFF,

Fellow of Trinity College, Cambridge.

_Demy 8vo._ =10s. 6d. net.=

“‘Years of Childhood’ becomes the more fascinating the more one reads

and thinks about it. Aksakoff read a new and ecstatic meaning into

things which are banal and tame to most men and women, and the eager eye

of his mind scanned deep into the lives and loves of the people round

about him.”—_Morning Post._

“A charming Russian book. At this time when so many translations from

the Russian are appearing, well advised and ill advised, it is good to

be able to put the hand on one superlatively good book. Here is a

refreshment for tired eyes and tired souls. It is put into beautiful

English.”—_Country Life._

“English readers may well be grateful to Mr. J. D. Duff for his

translation of a very unusual book. He promises us a translation of ‘A

Family History,’ which carries on the narrative of Aksakoff’s life and

gives some account of his family. In the original the two make one book,

and all who read this first instalment will welcome the completion of

it.”—_Spectator._

------------------------------------------------------------------------

LONDON: EDWARD ARNOLD, 41 & 43 MADDOX STREET, W.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Transcriber’s Note

Hyphens occuring at a line break are either retained or removed based on

other occurences in the text. Midline inconsistencies Errors deemed most

likely to be the printer’s have been corrected, and are noted here. The

references are to the page and line in the original.

21.10 on our way to the frontier[./,] Replaced.

66.30 instead of in the _r[ó/ô]le_ which French Replaced.

84.8 not a soldier was left in the town[.] Added.

132.24 vont contribuer à l’héro[i/ï]que défen[c/s]e Replaced.

de la trouée

181.13 the Sous-Préf[é/e]t, M. Mequillet Replaced.

188.15 comme al[l]ongé> sur la table. Inserted.

188.28 ‘Etude de M. X. Notaire[’]. Added.

189.16 un coup de fe[n/u] Replaced.

238.11 to build a pontoon-bridge[.] Added.

284.5 the main objective of the attack[,/.] Replaced.

304.28 I have taken it from the _Au[-]dessus de la Inserted.

Mélée_