You may even see a submarine dive down into green water, see the torpedo
slid into the tube, breech-block closed, and--"Now--for Kaiser and
fatherland!"--by means of an image thrown on a screen from the
periscope, see the English cruiser go up in a tower of water and
founder.

In all this comment there is a very different feeling for each of the
three allies. The Russians "don't count," so to speak. They are
dangerous because of their numbers and must be flung back, but the
feeling toward them is not unlike that toward a herd of stampeded range
cattle.

Toward the French there is no bitterness either, rather a sort of pity
and the wish to be thought well of. One is reminded now and then of the
German captain quartered at Sedan, in Zola's "Debacle," who, while
conscious of the strength behind him, yet wanted his involuntary hosts
to know that he, too, had been to Paris and knew how to be a galant
homme. Men tell you "they've put up a mighty good fight, say!" or
speaking of the young French sculptor allowed to go on with his work in
the prison camp at Zossen, or the flower-beds in front of the French
barracks there--"but, of course, the French are an artistic people. You
can allow them liberties like that." Every now and then in the papers
one runs across some anecdote from France in which the Frenchman is
permitted to make the retort at the expense of the English.

Toward John Bull there is no mercy. He is shown naked, trying to hide
himself with neutral flags; he is sprawled in his mill with a river of
French blood flowing by from the battle-fields of France, while the
cartoonist asks France if she cannot see that she is doing his grinding