this war, that is the secret of the French temperament, that secluded soul, which is not always what it seems to be. It ever carries in it the seeds and possibilities of greatness: seeds that lay dormant until this war germinated them and they developed into the glorious flower of achievement. In an instant this quick and imaginative people awoke to the necessities of the war; they had every reason to realise its meaning; it was only too plain. There it was, written in blood and carnage in the invaded departments. England, of course, lacked that object-lesson. Merely the Zeppelins reminded her of the "reality" of the war, with their pitiable toll of innocent lives; and moreover, the attitude of the authorities, far from insisting upon the realisation of the war and its horror, tended to starve the imaginative side of the campaign. There were, of course, the scenes at the recruiting meetings, the posters and the rest: but that, after all, was undignified, a little pathetic, and sometimes even rang false; the great diapason of the Country’s Call was but rarely sounded. "Your country needs you," said a theatrical-looking poster; but did it really need one? One had to be sure of that. And yet, in spite of these disadvantages, in spite of a despairing and exasperating silence about the achievements and daily heroisms of the army in the field—until one began to think that the only records other than the meagre _communiqué_, were the casualties—in spite, I say, of these drawbacks, in spite of the paucity of the appeal, the response of the young men to this voluntary call was stupefying in its splendour and spontaneity, so that the French were able to say—though they did not always say it with satisfying eloquence—again the fault of those who did not trouble to let them know precisely what the splendid English army and English organisation were doing—that never had the world given such a picture of sacrifice, of absolute, undiluted courage. The men of England were splendid, and only the Government, so ill-adapted to the exceptional, limped painfully, slowly and awkwardly, behind public opinion, instead of springing in front to direct it. I have said that people at home were not always sure that the French would be equal to the enormous strain put upon them by the tragic events of the invasion, by the systematised savagery of a relentless foe. Perhaps they had dipped into history and become inspired by that wonderful picture that Alfred de Musset draws in _La Confession d’un Enfant du Siècle_. A generation pale, nervous and feverish was born during the wars of the Empire. "Conceived between two battles, raised in the colleges to the roll of drums, thousands of children looked about them with sombre eyes and shrinking, quivering muscles. From time to time their fathers, stained with blood, appeared, raised them on their chests shining with decorations, and then, placing them on the ground, remounted their horses.