The poor soldiers, obliged to obey orders under penalty of death, defending (as they believe) their homes from wanton attack, are surely, in the mass, but little to blame. The blame rests elsewhere. A body of Russian prisoners was brought into a village in East Prussia. The sufferings of the inhabitants during the invasion had made them bitter, and from the crowd of onlookers there was a scornful outcry. “At that one of the prisoners bent forward, shook his head and said slowly, with great, sad eyes, ‘It is not your fault, and it is not mine.’” (Dr. Elisabeth Rotten in _Die Staatsbürgerin_.) Looking at it all with fresh knowledge, after more than three years of war, I feel that this Russian spoke for all the peoples, “It is not your fault, and it is not mine.” Meanwhile there still goes on what my wounded friend, writing from Rouen described as “this orgy of slaughter, this incredible and criminal lunacy.” AN ORDER AGAINST KINDNESS. A girl who, with others, was attending to the enemy wounded, writes: “Doubtless we should have more consolation among our little soldiers, since here _we are forbidden to give little kindnesses and attention;_ but I believe that before the end we shall disobey the order, because we put our hearts into our devotion and our pity.” (_La Guerre vue d’une Ambulance_, p. 116.) It is a little startling to learn of orders against kindness to enemy wounded. In a country one of whose chief newspapers advocated slaughter of the enemy like swine, such orders seem unwise. They can surely scarcely be made except when we wilfully blind ourselves and imagine that our enemies do not share our humanity. OUR COMMON HUMANITY. Here is a letter found on one of the German dead, a man with “a good face, strong and kindly,” so wrote the _Daily Mail_ correspondent. “My dearest Heart,” runs the letter, “when the little ones have said their prayers and prayed for their dear father, and have gone to bed, I sit and think of thee, my love. I think of all the old days when we were betrothed, and I think of all our happy married life. Oh! Ludwig, beloved of my soul, why should people fight each other? I cannot think that God would wish it....” Here in this leafy place Quiet he lies; Cold, with his sightless face Turned to the skies; ’Tis but another dead: All you can say is said. Carry the body hence; Kings must have slaves; Kings rise to eminence Over men’s graves; So this man’s eyes are dim. Cast the earth over him. What was that white you touched, There by his side? Paper his hand had clutched Tight ere he died? Message or wish, maybe? Smooth out its folds and see. * * * Ah! That beside the dead Slumbered the pain! Ah! That the hearts that bled Slept with the slain! That the grief died. But no! Death will not have it so.