abnegation. And in the more mechanical branches of the war, such, for instance, as artillery and aviation, it was often a townsman who was the hero, and who gained, by some glowing deed, the precious symbol of the war cross and even, perhaps, the Legion of Honour. A pure Parisian was Guynemer, the sergeant pilot, who, on a monoplane where he was pilot and combatant, bore down six German machines in as many months, and won thus his stripes as sergeant, the military medal—the highest military award in France—the Legion of Honour and the War Cross with seven palms; and all this at the age of twenty-one. Indeed, in every enterprise that demanded skill and daring the townsman was to the fore. But it is not possible to differentiate in the heroism displayed by the French. The historian will never point to the bravery of one class and the timidity of another, for there has been bravery everywhere—bravery and heroism of the most sublime sort poured out with lavish hand to the eternal glory of France. In these pages I have sought to give a glimpse of the "poilu" at work in the trenches, that one may peep a little through the shutters of his soul. For the mind of the "poilu" is strangely barred and curtained, more strictly than the windows in any English east-coast town. The outsider is not permitted to see the light within. Question him and he will proudly boast his vices; concerning his virtues he is silent, and quaintly ashamed; and to understand the mentality of the "poilu," to discover what manner of man he is, one must rub shoulders with him in everyday life. Upon some of these familiar visits I hope my readers will accompany me, at least in imagination, and will gather some insight into the character of the Soldier of France. I shall, indeed, have ill performed my task if I have failed to show how valiant he is in facing mortal danger, how uncomplaining in the midst of monotonous peril, and in the worst discomforts—waiting the order to attack without the least murmuring, with soldier-like acquiescence in the bitter cold of a winter’s night or in the chill of early spring. He has forged in a surprisingly short time the _âme militaire_; he has exhibited an amazing adaptability. Some had supposed him ill-disciplined, incapable of the highest military virtues. "Is this a school treat?" exclaimed an outraged Britisher as a detachment of French soldiers slouched, singing and whistling down the road. Yes, a sloppy and disorderly lot they looked, their clothes dirty and ill-fitting, and hung around with their kit like travelling caravans. Surely such men were no soldiers! There was a large section of English opinion convinced that the Frenchmen would not fight; that, probably, was the German idea also. What, then, has effected the transformation? How has the "poilu" become inspired by the highest military courage, and for weeks and weeks, as at Verdun, sustained the most devastating bombardment? Ah! that is the secret of