That was in August, 1914, and we are now well on in the Spring of 1916. We reminded the speaker that on a previous occasion, when Peace still hung in the balance, he had declared with equal conviction that there would be no War because “the Socialists are now too strong in Germany not to exercise a preponderating restraining influence.” He has proved wrong in both opinions. And one can well imagine that the Junker class admires Chancellor von Bethmann-Hollweg for the astute manner in which he has succeeded in shepherding the German Socialist sheep for the slaughter, and in muzzling their representatives in the Reichstag. CLIVE HOLLAND [Illustration: THE JUNKER “What I have most admired in you, Bethmann, is that you have made Socialists our best supporters.”] “Au milieu de fantômes tristes et sans nombre” There is something daunting, even to the mind of one not guilty of war or of massacres, in the thought of multitudes: the multitude of the dead, of the living, of one generation, of men since there have been men on earth. And war brings this horror to us daily, or rather nightly, because such great companies of men have suddenly died together, passing in comradeship and community from the known to the unknown. Yet dare we say “together”? The unparalleled solitariness and singleness of death is not altered by the general and simultaneous doom of battle. And it is with the multitude, and all the _ones_ in it, that the maker of war is in unconscious relation. He does not know their names, he does not know them by any kind of distinction, he knows them only by thousands. Yet everyone with a separate life and separate death is in conscious relation with _him_, knows him for the tyrant who has taken his youth, his hope, his love, his fatherhood. What a multitude to meet, whether in thought, in conscience, or in another world! We all, no doubt, try to make the thought of massacre less intolerable to our minds by telling ourselves that the sufferers suffer one by one, to each his own share, and not another’s; that though the numbers may appal, they do not make each man’s part more terrible. But this is not much comfort. There is not, it is true, a sum of multiplication; but there is the sum of addition. And that addition--the multitude man by man--the War Lord has to reckon with: Frederick the Great with his men, Napoleon with his, the German Emperor with his--each one of the innumerable unknown knowing his destroyer. ALICE MEYNELL [Illustration: “Mais quand la voix de Dieu l’appela il se voyait seul sur la terre au milieu de fantômes tristes et sans nombre.”] Bluebeard’s Chamber