Not the brave English soldier; there are no laurels for them here. The dying lad with hands fresh from the plough; the old man tottering to the grave, who seizes up the gun to die with it; the simple farmer who as he falls hears yet his wife’s last whisper, “For freedom and our land!” and dies hearing it--these men can bind no laurels on a soldier’s brow! They may be shot, not conquered--fame rests with them. Go, gallant soldiers and defend the shores of that small island that we love; there are no laurels for you here! WHO GAINS BY WAR? Not we the Africans, whose hearts are knit to England. We love all. Each hired soldier’s bullet that strikes down a South African, does more; it finds a billet here in our hearts. It takes one African’s life--in another it kills that which will never live again. WHO GAINS BY WAR? There are some who _think_ they gain! In the background we catch sight of misty figures; we know the old tread; we hear the rustle of paper, passing from hand to hand, and we know the fall of gold; it is an old familiar sound in Africa; we know it now! There are some who _think_ they gain! Will they gain? * * * * * But it may be said, “What matter who goads England on, or in whose cause she undertakes war against Africans; this at least is certain, she can win. We have the ships, we have the men, we have the money.” We answer, “Yes, might generally conquers--for a time at least.” The greatest empire upon earth, on which the sun never sets, with its five hundred million subjects, may rise up in its full majesty of power and glory, and crush thirty thousand farmers. It may not be a victory, but at least it will be a slaughter. We ought to win. We have the ships, we have the men, and we have the money. May there not be something else we need? The Swiss had it when they fought with Austria; the three hundred had it at Thermopylae, although not a man was saved; it goes to make a victory. Is it worth fighting if we have not got it? I suppose there is no man who to-day loves his country who has not perceived that in the life of the nation, as in the life of the individual, the hour of external success may be the hour of irrevocable failure, and that the hour of death, whether to nations or individuals, is often the hour of immortality. When William the Silent, with his little band of Dutchmen, rose up to face the whole Empire of Spain, I think there is no man who does not recognize that the hour of their greatest victory was not when they had conquered Spain, and hurled backward the greatest Empire of the world to meet its slow imperial death; it was the hour when that little band stood alone with the waters over their homes, FACING DEATH AND DESPAIR, and stood, facing it. It is that hour that has made Holland immortal, and her history the property of all human hearts.