out to die. In their eyes and with the continual throbbing of
their wounds, this war is an occasion for neither good-humour nor
sportsmanship, but for the wrath of a Hebrew Jehovah, which only blows
can appease or make articulate. If every weapon were taken from their
hands and all their young men were dead, with naked fists those who
were left would smite--smite and smite. It is fitting that they should
feel this way, seeing themselves as they do perpetually frescoed
against the sky-line of sacrifice; but I am glad that our English boys
can laugh while they die.

In trying to explain the change I found in England after war had
commenced, I mentioned Henley and the boat-race crowds. I don't think
it was a change; it was only a bringing to the surface of something
that had been there always. Some years ago I was at Henley when the
Belgians carried off the Leander Cup from the most crack crew that
England could bring together. Evening after evening through the
Regatta week the fear had been growing that we should lose, yet none
of that fear was reflected in our attitude towards our Belgian guests.
Each evening as they came up the last stretch of river, leading by
lengths and knocking another contestant out, the spectators cheered
them madly. Their method of rowing smashed all our traditions; it
wasn't correct form; it wasn't anything. It ought to have made one
angry. But these chaps were game; they were winning. "Let's play
fair," said the river; so they cheered them. On the last night when
they beat Leander, looking fresh as paint, leading by a length and
taking the championship out of England, you would never have guessed
by the flicker of an eyelash that it wasn't the most happy conclusion
of a good week's sport for every oarsman present.

It's the same spirit essentially that England is showing to-day. She