Mr. Archer's article praising the Italian decision and
purpose appeared originally in The London Daily News.
One of the most beautiful and memorable of human experiences is to
start, one fine morning, from some point in German Switzerland or
Tyrol and, in two or three days--or it may be in one swinging
stretch--to tramp over an Alpine pass and down into the Promised Land
below. It is of no use to rush it in a motor; you might as well hop
over by aeroplane. In order to savor the experience to the full, you
must take staff and scrip, like the Ritter Tannhaeuser, and go the
pilgrim's way. It is a joy even to pass from the guttural and
explosive place names of Teutonia to the liquid music of the southern
vocables--from Brieg to Domo d'Ossola, from Goeschenen to Bellinzona,
from St. Moritz to Chiavenna, from Botzen and Brixen to Ala and
Verona. It is a still greater joy to exchange the harsh, staring
colors of the north for the soft luminosity of the south, as you
zigzag down from the bare snows to the pines, from the pines to the
chestnuts, from the chestnuts to the trellised vineyards. And just
about where the vineyards begin, you come upon two wayside posts, one
of them inscribed "Schweiz" or "Oesterreich," the other bearing the
magic word "Italia." If your heart does not leap at the sight of it
you may as well about-turn and get you home again; for you have no
sense of history, no love of art, no hunger for divine, inexhaustible
beauty. For all these things are implicit in the one word, "Italy."
Alas! the charm of this excursion has from of old made irresistible
appeal to the northern barbarian. That has been Italy's historic
misfortune. For certain centuries, under the dominance of Rome, she
kept the Goths and Huns and Vandals aloof by what is called in India a
"forward policy"--by throwing the outworks of civilization far beyond
the Alpine barrier. But Rome fell to decay, and, wave upon wave, the
barbarian--generally the Teuton, under one alias or another--surged
over her glorious highlands, her bounteous lowlands, and her marvelous
cities. It is barely half a century since the hated Tedeschi were
expelled from the greater part of their Cisalpine possessions; and
now, in the fullness of time, Italy has resolved to redeem the last of
her ravished provinces and to make her boundaries practically
conterminous with Italian speech and race.
The political and military aspects of the situation have been fully
dealt with elsewhere; but a lifelong lover of Italy may perhaps be
permitted to state his personal view of her action. While the
negotiations lasted, her position was scarcely a dignified one. It
seemed that she was willing, not, indeed, to sell her birthright for a
mess of pottage, but to buy her birthright at the cost of complicity
in monstrous crime. Neither Italy nor Europe would have profited in
the long run by the substitution of "Belgia Irredenta" for "Italia
Irredenta." But now that she has repudiated the sops offered to her
honor and conscience, her position is clear and fine. She has rejected
larger concessions, probably, than any great power has ever before
been prepared to make without stroke of sword; and she has thrown in
her lot with the Allies in no time-serving spirit, but at a point when
their fortunes were by no means at their highest. This is a gesture
entirely worthy of a great and high-spirited people.
It is true that she had no guarantee for the promised concessions
except the "Teutonica fides," which has become a byword and a
reproach. But I am much mistaken if that was the sole or main motive
that determined her resort to arms. She took a larger view. She felt
that even if Germany, by miracle, kept her faith, the world, after a
German victory, would be no place for free men to live in. She was not
moved by the care for a few square miles of territory, more or less,
but by a strong sense of democratic solidarity and of human dignity.
After the events of the past ten months, she felt that, to a
self-respecting man or nation, German hate was infinitely preferable
to German love. It was, in fact, a patent of nobility.
And now that Italy is ranked with us against the powers of evil, it
becomes more than ever our duty to strain every nerve for their
defeat. We are now taking our share in the guardianship of the world's
great treasure house of historic memories and of the creations of
genius. We have become, as it were, co-trustees of an incomparable,
irreplaceable heritage of beauty. Italy has been the scene of many and
terrible wars; but since she emerged from the Dark Ages I do not know
that war has greatly damaged the glory of her cities. She has not, of
recent centuries, had to mourn a Louvain or a Rheims. But if the
Teuton, in his present temper, should gain any considerable footing
within her bounds, the Dark Ages would be upon her once more. What
effort can be too great to avert such a calamity!
I am not by way of being versed in the secrets of Courts; but I recall
today, with encouragement, a conversation I had some years ago with an
ex-Ambassador to Italy (not a British Ambassador) who had been on
intimate terms with the King, and spoke with enthusiasm of his
Majesty's character. He told me of his bravery, his devotion to duty,
his simple manners, his high intelligence. One little anecdote I may
repeat without indiscretion. A Minister of Education said to my friend
that when he had an interview with the King he felt like a schoolboy
bringing up to an exacting though kindly master a half-prepared
lesson; and when this was repeated to his Majesty, he smiled and said:
"Ministers come and go, but I, you see, am always here." He merited
far better than his grandfather (said my informant) the title of "il
Re Galantuomo." Under such a Chief of State Italy may, with high hope
and courage, set about her task of tearing away her unredeemed fringes
from that patchwork of tyrannies known as the Austrian Empire.
Who Died Content!
[From the Westminster Gazette]
Rex and Wilfred Winslow were the first men who died on the
field of German South West Africa. The epitaph on the cross
on the grave ran thus:
"Tell England ye that pass this monument,
That we who rest here died content."
--DAILY NEWSPAPER.
Far the horizon of our best desires
Stretches into the sunset of our lives:
The wavering taper of the achieved expires,
And only the irrevocable will survives.
Content to die for England! How the words
Thrill those who live for England, knowing not
The stern, heroic passion that upgirds
The loins of such as, ardent, for her fought.
Content! It is a word that brooks no bounds,
If from the heights and depths it takes its name:
Upon the proud lips of great men it sounds
As if the clear note from the Heavens came;
A word that, sea-like, shrinks and grows again;
A little word on lips of little men!