A GLIMPSE OF THE FRENCH LINE


I

The French soldiers are grand. They are grand. There is no other word
to express it. It is not merely their bravery. All races have shown
bravery in this war. But it is their solidity, their patience, their
nobility. I could not conceive anything finer than the bearing of their
officers. It is proud without being arrogant, stern without being
fierce, serious without being depressed. Such, too, are the men whom
they lead with such skill and devotion. Under the frightful
hammer-blows of circumstance, the national characters seem to have been
reversed. It is our British soldier who has become debonair,
light-hearted and reckless, while the Frenchman has developed a solemn
stolidity and dour patience which was once all our own. During a long
day in the French trenches, I have never once heard the sound of music
or laughter, nor have I once seen a face that was not full of the most
grim determination.

Germany set out to bleed France white. Well, she has done so. France is
full of widows and orphans from end to end. Perhaps in proportion to
her population she has suffered the most of all. But in carrying out
her hellish mission Germany has bled herself white also. Her heavy
sword has done its work, but the keen French rapier has not lost its
skill. France will stand at last, weak and tottering, with her huge
enemy dead at her feet. But it is a fearsome business to see--such a
business as the world never looked upon before. It is fearful for the