English. It is this homely humour that has puzzled Europe. It has puzzled
the French as much as the Germans, for the French genius is declamatory and
needs the inspiration of ideas and great passions greatly stated. It was
assumed that, because the British soldier sang "Tipperary," moved in an
atmosphere of homely fun, indulged in no heroics, never talked of "glory,"
rarely of patriotism or the Fatherland, and only joked about "the flag,"
there was no great passion in him. Some of our frenzied people at home have
the same idea. They still believe we are a nation of "slackers" because we
don't shriek with them.

The truth, of course, is that the English spirit is distrustful of emotion
and display. It is ashamed of making "a fuss" and hates heroics. The
typical Englishman hides his feelings even from his family, clothes his
affections under a mask of indifference, and cracks a joke to avoid "making
a fool of himself." It is not that he is without great passions, but that
he does not like talking about them. He is too self-conscious to trust his
tongue on such big themes. He might "make an exhibition of himself," and he
dreads that above all things. This habit of reticence has its unlovely
side; but it has great virtues too. It keeps the mind cool and practical
and the atmosphere commonplace and good-humoured. It gives reserves of
strength that people who live on their "top notes" have not got. It goes on
singing "Tipperary" as though it had no care in life and no interest in
ideas or causes. And then the big moment comes and the great passion that
has been kept in such shamefaced secrecy blazes out in deeds as glorious as
any that were done on the plains of windy Troy. Turn to those stories of
the winning of the V.C., and then ask yourself whether the nation whose
sons are capable of this noble heroism deserves to have the whip of Zabern
laid across its shoulders by any jack-in-office who chooses to insult us.

Those two stokers, putting their heads out for a breath of fresh air in the