who disowned him later when crippled in her service.

He is told that he is fighting for his country, but he finds that
his real privilege is to die at the foot of a Trespass-board on some
rich man's estate, singing bravely to the last that "Britons never,
never shall be slaves!" He is told that he is defending his hearth
and his home, and to prove that that is so, he is sent out on a
far campaign to further some dubious scheme -- in Mesopotamia! I think
we cannot refuse to say that the good temper and they single-heartedness
and the single mindedness of the British soldier are beyond all
praise.


But, in another way, how admirable and how great has the French
soldier proved himself to be!

The passion of Patriotism, the sheer love of their own country
(in the case of the French, more truly "their own" than in the
case of the British) has swept through France in a wave of devotion
which consumed in its flame, one may almost say, the energies and
the treasures of every household. To protect their beautiful land,
their divine mistress, from violation by the German hordes was a
thing for which all men -- artists, literary men and all -- were glad
to die.

When at Meaux the French army (reorganized and reinforced) broke
through the German centre and fell upon Von Kluck's left flank
(his right being already threatened by the French Sixth Army),
they were surely not men who fought, but spirits rather -- many of
them almost ghosts, white with the fatigues and privations of a