Terrible also the German assassination of the land itself. All men
love their native land, but the Frenchman's love has a unique quality.
He speaks of La Belle France as Dante spoke of Beatrice, as Petrarch
spoke of Laura, and the name of France lingers upon his lips as music
trembles in the air after the song is sung.
It is love of native land that has made France beautiful just as
through affection the lark, after completing its nest, makes it soft
and warm by pulling the down out of her own bosom. The French people
love France as Millais loved his Gleaners, as Bellini loved the missal
he had illuminated, and as that young architect loved the little Roslyn
chapel, upon whose delicate capitals he had lavished his very soul.
For centuries the enemies of farms, houses, towns and cities have been
fire, flood and earthquake. Witness the city of St. Pierre. An interior
explosion blew off the cap of the mountain and a flood of gas poured
down upon the lovely city, asphyxiated the citizens and left not one
house standing. Witness that mighty convulsion in San Francisco that
brought thousands of brick buildings crashing down in ruins. Witness
the fire in Chicago that turned the great city into piles of twisted
iron and ashes. In New Zealand there is a lake called Avernus, the
birdless lake. Poisonous gases rise from the black flood of water, and
soon the lark with its song, and the eagle with its flight fall into
the poisonous flood.
But all these images are quite inadequate to explain the devastation
of France upon the retreat of the Germans. About forty miles north of
Paris, one strikes the ruined region. Then hour after hour passes,
while with slow movement and breaking heart the investigator journeys
one hundred miles to the north and zigzags one hundred and twenty-five
miles south again, through that ruined region. Centuries ago Julius
Cæsar described it as a wild land, rough, with forests filled with
wolves. Then the Frenchman entered the scene. He subdued all the wild
grasses, drained the valleys and widened the streams into canals. He
enriched the fields, surrounded the meadows with odorous hedges and
filled swamps with perfumed shrubs. Slowly the Frenchman threw arches
of stone across the streams and carved the bridges until they were rich
in art, while everything made for use was carried up to beauty. He gave
to the roof of the barn its lovely lines; the approach to the house
was upon a curved road, the highways were shaded by two rows of noble
trees. The stony hillside was terraced, and there the vines grew purple
in the sun. How simple was his life! What a sanctuary his little home!
With what rich embroidery of wheat he covered all the hills! He was
prudent without being stingy, thrifty without being mean. The French
peasant saves against old age with one hand and distributes to his
children with the other.