Chapter III (6)

Had Shakespeare been alive to-day we can easily imagine his attitude in regard to the war. Very English of English, he would have tolerated no half measures. He, like Sir Francis Drake, would have had short shrift for any foe that sought to “raid” the shores of his beloved Britain! Not for him would have been the message of the Vice-Admiral at Dover: “We were _fortunate_ in being able to save the lives of ten German officers and ninety-five men from the vessels which were sunk!” He would have exclaimed: “Out upon such ‘fortune’!” And he might have judged it as somewhat of a _mis_fortune that a British Vice-Admiral lived who could write it down as “fortunate” to rescue any members of the same savage Hun tribe that sank the _Lusitania_ and scruples not to sink hospital ships! Another word might have been found for the occasion; and Shakespeare would have been the man to find it. To Shakespeare’s mind, a friend was a friend--a foe was a foe. Treachery was his chief abhorrence. When he lived in Stratford-on-Avon for the last remaining years of his career we know by various records that he was subjected to many petty annoyances at the hands of his own townsfolk, so that almost up to his death he was involved in litigation, defending himself from libel and his daughter from scandal. The Corporation were ready enough to borrow money of him--yes! that goes without saying. But for sympathy, comprehension, and friendship he had to seek outside his native town altogether. It would seem he has to do that still; and not only has he to go outside his native town, but outside his native land. In America his works are much better known, loved, and honoured than in Great Britain; in France, where it is difficult to understand him owing to the insuperable obstacles of his language for Frenchmen, there is a “société” founded by an erudite Israelite, with a British committee who are entirely unknown as _real_ students of Shakespeare, but who have “names” distinguished in other walks of life. In Russia the bard is viewed as a sort of demi-god, for his verse translates into Russian superbly; and in the Germany of the past Lessing’s translation of the plays made him the father of German literature, as represented by Goethe, Schiller, and others who distinguished themselves before the black night of Hohenzollern decadence. But if we take our own islands--in Scotland he is hardly understood; in Ireland, seldom read or acted; in Wales, almost a sealed book; while in England itself--well, as Martin Harvey has recently said, a quarter of one day’s war expenses would establish a National Theatre, where the great plays could be produced in a fitting manner as part of the national education.

* * * * *

In Stratford-on-Avon this year’s anniversary of the poet’s birth and death has passed almost unmarked. No actor has urged his willing service to his Master in the theatre by the Avon, though this, for many reasons, is not to be wondered at. True, the bells of the church rang--true, the flags of nations were unfurled, and there was a dolefully shabby “flower” procession; but in the Memorial Theatre there was only a lecture, _not_ on Shakespeare, but on a movement inaugurated by the lecturer himself. Then there were all the usual “pats on the back” of every person to the other concerned, a trifle of music, and there an end. Shakespeare himself was nowhere, though--yes!--perhaps out in the moist woods, where the primroses are beginning to push through the mould and the call of the cuckoo is faintly heard, one might have met his tranquil Spirit moving apart from all “alarums and excursions,” and have heard his voice in words which he could well address just now to England.

“Nay, if you read this line, remember not
The hand that writ it, for I love you so,
That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot,
If thinking on me then should make you woe.”

“DON’T TRAVEL”

A HARD HIT

(_Published in the “Pall-Mall Gazette”_)

We are all called upon to make sacrifices, both public and personal. No one can assert that we do not make them willingly, and for the most part uncomplainingly. But our Dictators appear blind to the fact that in many cases their orders and “restrictions” are ruining British trades, while affording the greatest possible relief and satisfaction to the Boches. The well-fed Huns heard with malicious glee the admission of Mr. Bonar Law that we were at one time short of fighting men by a hundred thousand--an undiplomatic avowal which for sheer bad tact ranks alongside of Lord Devonport’s “grave” warnings of “food shortage,” and Captain Bathurst’s advertised appetite for “pickled herrings.” If “shortage” of any kind exists, why “give it away” to the enemy? It is of a nature to be dealt with “in secret Session,” not in the open House, where prominent members themselves admit that whatever is said is at once taken to Germany. Is it surprising, then, that with the crazy exaggerations and falsehoods of the German Press, our foes assert that “England is starving!” and that “there are not enough men left to us to fight with!” How much wiser and more dignified it would be to let them clearly understand that, honestly, we are not suffering at all from any real food hardships, and that we shall have more than a hundred thousand extra men ready to fight them should occasion arise. Mr. Bonar Law may be a Scottish “man of iron,” but he is also very guileless if he does not realise the derision and delight of the Boche over the statements he made in the House--statements repeated throughout Germany, just as Mr. Lloyd George’s unfortunate phrase, “the horrible danger of the submarine,” was caught up by Bethmann-Hollweg, and repeated with devilish laughter at every street corner in Berlin. When we are at grips with a foe it is not advisable to show him the loose joints in our armour. To us British there should be never a thought or a word of “horrible danger,” especially as we know we can grow our own necessary food if we make up our minds to do it; nor should we ever publicly admit any “shortage” of any kind, whether in men or supplies. To admit weakness is to court attack.

Now we are told “not to travel”; not to take the much longed-for Easter rest, with Easter hope of the slowly coming spring, and there is no doubt that those of us who have comfortable homes are willing enough to stay in them. But for the brave, patient men and women who have given up their homes to toil day and night at munition work, and who naturally crave for a breath of country or sea air, whose bodies and souls are weary, and who need, if only a few hours, change of scene and movement for their very health’s sake, the restrictions of train and motor service are surely rather an exercise of tyranny? Not only does the ban affect the travelling public (we presume the Cabinet Ministers will not deny themselves their Easter recess?), but it spells ruin to thousands of hard-working folk who depend for their living at this season on letting lodgings in the country or at the seaside; to say nothing of the disaster undeservedly inflicted on all our lovely watering-places and rural resorts, which exist, in a great measure, on the influx of visitors, whose patronage keeps them going. Surely it may be asked, Why destroy the prosperity of our own people? Why lay a paralysing hand on our own trades and industries? Is it to give the Boche a better chance when the war is over? Before the outbreak of the Hohenzollern madness, hotels and lodging-houses in all our pleasure resorts were numerous and prosperous, and the greater part of them were carried on by--Germans! One could not go anywhere without meeting German managers and German waiters. Now, when there might be the faint ghost of a chance for the British hotel-keeper, the British caterer, the British tradesman, the public are warned off with “Don’t travel!” What joy for the Germans! Our Dictators simply “fall” into their hands like drugged moths into a net, and the way they go to work suggests an attempt to “Prussianise” England, and make ample preparation for a German “boom” after the war, when our own people, half ruined by “restrictions,” have not even the time to recoup their losses or start afresh on any new line of possible prosperity. If the enormous expenditure of the war is to be met by the people, every chance must be given them to earn the money wherewith to meet it. None of the workers would trouble the railway service if motor-cars and conveyances were allowed to carry them out for an Easter breath of Easter air, but though military “swaggerers” at home are allowed to dash about everywhere in cars with apparent freedom, the “restriction” on petrol holds up all the rest of the public. Yet, as a matter of common hearsay, it is asserted that “there is no real scarcity of petrol!”

What are we to believe? One thing is pretty certain, and that is that the British public, though so patient “a hass,” may kick at last and refuse to take “rations” of thistles, while the German Hog is fed on carrots and corn. To quote from a well-reasoned article in a morning contemporary: “The blind and fatal shears of promiscuous prohibition cut off the just and the unjust together. They are, moreover, a most disturbing element in trade, and are reducing our merchants to despair.” True! And if the “disturbing element” is not promptly checked, we may look out for storms!

“TE DEUM LAUDAMUS”

THE GREAT THANKSGIVING

(_Published in the “Pall-Mall Gazette”_)

It is time we gave thanks--indeed, it is more than time! Perhaps, had we seen more clearly into the future we might have given thanks long before this--thanks for our kinship with America--for the ties of blood, of language, of tradition, memory, and association which have made us, as some say, “cousins,” but as we prefer to believe, brothers--brothers in heart and soul, as we are to-day brothers-in-arms. Let it be admitted that we have not always quite understood each other. Small rancours, petty jealousies, trifling differences have arisen casually from time to time between the people of a great Empire and the people of a great Republic, which seem now but the merest gossamer cobwebs spun by the ever-working spiders of rumour and mischief, easily brushed away at a touch. The trumpet blast of a noble Cause has brought to our side our youngest comrade, alive with energy, passion, and enthusiasm, expressing in every attitude Tennyson’s eloquent lines:--

“I wake to the higher aims
Of a land that has lost for a little her lust of gold
And love of a peace that was full of wrongs and shames
Horrible, hateful, monstrous, not to be told,
And I hail once more the banner of battle, unroll’d!”

* * * * *

And we have taken our comrade by both hands, and have knelt with him under the great dome of St. Paul’s, giving our thanks to God for bringing us this, our brother; and we claim to say with Lincoln that we do not presume to ask the Almighty to be on our side, but we do pray that we may be on the side of the Almighty! If President Wilson’s “Declaration of War” against Germany means anything, it means that right and justice, freedom and truth, are all of God; and therefore to fight for the maintenance of these things is to fight for God’s own Law and Order. The one piece of eloquence which stands out in distinctive greatness amid all that has yet been spoken concerning our world-contest, is this “Declaration,” which will go down to posterity as matchless for high principle, reasonableness, and clearness of diction--an oration which no statesman of old time, whether Greek or Roman, has ever surpassed, in what we know of history. It should have been read aloud in every church, every school, every theatre, every public assembly, with as much impressiveness as a Pope’s “Encyclical,” and more!

Nothing do we need so much in this country as to “catch on” to some of the enthusiasm and eagerness which fires our American Ally, as he springs to our side in the battle under the bright stars of the “Old Glory.” He is young, ardent, and ready for anything--quick eyed, alert of brain, he means to “hustle”! Some of us need to be infected by this splendid youth. A curious lethargy clings to us at times--a kind of dumb spell. Is it excess of feeling? Or--is it sheer egotism? Our French friends marvel at the indifference we show at the victories just won by Sir Douglas Haig. They thought to see all London beflagged in the great soldier’s honour. Very certainly they had hoped the “Stars and Stripes” might be flown from every public building on the day of the President’s Declaration--but no!--not even in Stratford-on-Avon, that shrine of America’s devoted Shakespeare-Worship, was any sign given of the momentous event. Rather discreditable to Stratford, remembering that in peace times Shakespeare’s Town depends very much for its livelihood on its crowds of American visitors. But what does Shakespeare himself say?

“Blow, blow thou winter wind,
Thou art not so unkind
As man’s ingratitude!”

Let us hope that it is not so much ingratitude as inability to appreciate the situation.

* * * * *

No wonder Americans find it sometimes difficult to know or to understand us. For months they have heard their President persistently abused, they have seen him cruelly caricatured and jeered at in the lower sections of the British Press, and they have had to possess their souls in patience till their day of triumph came. It has come--the bitter tongues are now all honey--and their generosity in forgiving and forgetting wrongs and coming to us in perfect amity, glittering in the panoply of battle, and placing almost inexhaustible supplies at our service, is a truly great and wonderful thing. We have done ourselves honour by the thanksgiving in St. Paul’s; and some of us who knelt in the dim shadows of that vast shrine and heard the thunderous chords of the American National Hymn surging in our ears, prayed that the two great English-speaking peoples, now joined in a vaster Crusade than was ever before undertaken, might find their union cemented, not only by the blood shed for country, but by all the ties of mutual comprehension and sympathy. To-day, we are as one in the resolve, that

“God’s just wrath shall be wreaked on a giant liar,
And noble thought be freer under the sun!”

And so shall the “Old Glory” help to make for us all the New!

THE WOMEN’S VOTE

NATURE VERSUS POLITICS

Those far-sighted and indulgent men who supported “Votes for Women” should surely be enjoying to the full the result of their pliability and humour! In the “Coupon Election” they expected six million feminine votes--for Coalition, of course. If we conjugate Ministerial messages as one verb, they could all have been rendered thus: “_I_ expect, _you_ expect, _he_ expects” women to do their duty. But one point seems rather overlooked, and that is, the precise idea women have of duty. When I say “women” I mean women in the grand majority--not a few hundreds or even a few thousand agitators. And I dare to suggest that these “women in the grand majority,” do not care about their “votes” in the least--and that all the roaring of a megaphone press will never make them care. Nature is, and always will be, too strong for them, and Nature has not endowed them, except in a few rare cases, with a taste for politics. But Nature has given them far greater qualities, and has organised them in a special way--a way most beautiful, wonderful, and nobly privileged; and the greatest social reformer that ever risked the oft-tried sorry business of “re-constructing” civilisation, can never alter the work for which Nature is alone responsible. I do not believe that Women, speaking in the plural of nationalities, ever wanted the vote at all--but that seeing (and hearing) the wild clamour of some of their sisters, who shrieked and smashed themselves into notoriety, they were attracted by the fun of it, the noise of it, the curious, rowdy, non-feminine spirit of it, and followed the whooping and the yells with the fascinated amusement of children running after the “One Man Band” who beats a drum with his elbows and clashes cymbals with his feet. Mr. Lloyd George is a wise thinker in his generation, but his sagacity will be at fault if it should be proved (Heaven forbid!) that after all--yes, after all the screaming and smashing of windows, and all the efforts made on their behalf--the women as a whole prove apathetic and indifferent to this wonderful privilege they have fought for and won!

There is a French story of a certain spoilt little lady whose husband adored her, from the glimmer of her topmost blonde curl to the point of her broidered shoe, and who expressed to him her ardent wish for a diamond chain she had seen in an expensive jeweller’s window. Her husband, though rich and generous, apparently paid no attention to her oft-repeated request, till one day he suddenly presented her with the coveted ornament as a “surprise packet” and token of his affection. But she pushed the gift aside and gave way to bitter tears. “Why, oh, why did you bring me such a thing?” she sobbed. “I shall never wear it! Oh, _why_ didn’t you buy me that dear weeny-teeny dog I saw yesterday! The _weeny_ pet! I would have loved it so! I would have talked to it about _you_!--it would have been _such_ a companion! Oh, I _did_ want that _weeny_ darling!”

There is a moral in this story (despite the contempt it must evoke among future female M.P.s), and “the pint,” as Captain Cuttle or his friend Jack Bunsby remarked, “lies in the application on it.” Whether Mr. Lloyd George and the supporters of the Women’s Franchise will perceive it is problematical--but whether they do or do not, there is a curious nature-fact about Woman which is frequently missed or overlooked by Man. It is this: _That when she is given what she wants, she doesn’t want it!_ That is to say--the gaining of her objective concludes her active interest in it; the thing is possessed, and promptly loses its value. With the swiftness and ease of a butterfly she deserts the blossom from which she has stripped the pollen!

“Equality of the sexes” is one of the advanced feminine war-cries, when every one with a grain of common sense knows there is and can be no such equality. Nature’s law forbids. Nature insists on contrasts; the small and the great, the weak and the strong, the light and the dark. And women know well enough that their “calling and election” are superior to those of men--they are the makers of the race and the ordainers of the future, but their strength is not on the hustings or in the polling-booth--it is in the silence and sweetness of “Home.” The home is the acorn from which springs the oak of a nation. Women’s own instincts teach them that their power is too sacred a thing for common discussion; and when, in their despite, such discussion is let loose in the press by vulgarly interested sexualists and sensualists, their contempt is not concealed. They feel, strongly enough too, when questioned in the right spirit, that it is not needful for them to mix with the undignified scrambling of political methods; and any “apathy” as to the use of the vote, is simply that they have, or think they have, something better to do. Yes, indeed! They really and truly think that their home affairs, their children, their daily duties, even their clothes, are more in their line than “Coalition”! They are for unity of purpose most assuredly--all of one mind as to the punishment of surely the most miserable man on earth, the ex-Kaiser--equally of one mind concerning the barring out of the Huns from further interference of their own folks’ businesses--but they think, and rightly too, that so far as putting the nation’s house in order goes, the men should be trusted to do it. There was something very funny in Mr. Lloyd George’s opening words to a women’s meeting at Queen’s Hall--“I feel very shy and solitary!” Did he? Surely this was a bit of “camouflage”? But putting all blandishment aside, it is just a toss-up as to whether women’s votes will be quite as influential as prophesied. One of the surprises of the Coupon Election was Mr. Lloyd George’s “sweep-aside” of a chivalrous male candidate in favour of Miss Pankhurst, who, so it is understood, threatened the direst things against him in past “militant” days! Generosity and magnanimity on the part of a Prime Minister to a Suffragette, a male to a female, could no farther go!--but one wonders if the modern “Glendower” realised the effect his action had on many thousands of non-Pankhurst women? For sheer humiliation it came second only to the surrender of the German Fleet! Whether it served as good a purpose was answered by the result. “Drive Nature out of the door, she comes flying back through the window,” and one of the most curious, purely natural traits in woman’s complex character, is that she loves to have her own way up to a certain point, but when that point is gained she has had enough, and turns to man with a “Here! _You_ take it!” And no woman has yet been returned to Parliament, for which we may all, if we have any common sense, thank God, and hope for the best that she never will be!

A “HAPPY THOUGHTS” DAY

(_Written specially for the Grantham Red Cross Outings Fund_)

Here is an idea for every one--young and old, rich and poor! Let us institute a “Happy Thoughts” Day!--one day out of the seven on which we resolve to think only “Happy” thoughts! Thoughts of kindness, tenderness, hope, and unselfishness--thoughts which, even while we think them, take fairy wings and fly from ourselves to our neighbours and propagate other happy thoughts, creating cheerfulness and hope wherever they go. It is not easy, perhaps, to think “happy” thoughts in dark days, but no good task can be accomplished without difficulty. A much more simple and convenient thing it is to grumble!--to lay our own faults on the shoulders of others,--to believe that our own troubles are the worst in the world,--to sneer at other folks’ manners, looks, clothes, and opinions, and to throw out mocking jests and cruel laughter at those whom we affect to despise yet secretly envy;--but on our “Happy Thoughts” day we can have none of these ugly and ordinary vulgarities,--we must make a bid for something higher and more exquisite in grace and refinement. We must think “happily” of others while we hope they will also think “happily” of us. We will make up our minds to find our friends beautiful, charming, and lovable; we will cheerfully admire them and their appearance and conversation,--we will agree that it is a special blessing conferred on us that we have any friends at all,--and we will confess that our lot in life is much better than we have any right to expect. And we will send our “happy thoughts” across the seas to suffering nations, conjoined with our hopeful prayers--prayers that they may be sustained and comforted, and by God’s mercy be victorious. And above all, we will let our “Happy Thoughts Day” reflect its cheeriness in ourselves,--in our looks and bearing, our talk and expression, so that we may be the carriers of mental sunshine everywhere, even during the passing of the darkest thundercloud. One day out of the seven, dear friends!--take it and consecrate it to “Happy Thoughts,” happy thoughts of earth, of heaven, of God and man,--and you will find it a day on which you unconsciously grow stronger, braver, pleasanter to look at, more valuable to know,--for happiness is a powerful magnet, and never fails to draw others to its vital line. May a “Happy Thoughts Day” be the true holiday of every loving and faithful soul!

WHY DID I----?

I should not presume to write this answer to numerous correspondents, had it not been for the precedent given by Mr. Garvin, the erudite editor of the _Observer_, who recently allotted several columns of his own paper to the praise of his own book. Wherefore, gladly accepting this “lead” from one who knows so much more about literary “management” than I do, I take the opportunity of replying to several letters demanding “Why” I wrote my last published novel, _The Young Diana_. Why? Well, because (like Mr. Garvin on himself) I think it a good idea! Moreover, I wanted to be one of the first in the field to suggest a discovery which is approaching us in the near future; which is, so to speak, “glimmering” ahead of our scientists like a brilliant streak of sunrise in a summer sky. Following the example of Mr. Garvin, who urgently recommends the public to read _his_ book, I, with equal urgency recommend the public to read _mine_. I should not have dared to do so unless Mr. Garvin had shown me the way, and he is such a noted authority in journalism that I feel I cannot do wrong in copying him as much as possible. Therefore, dear public!--good readers all!--I assure you that _The Young Diana_ is a remarkable book. It is, really! Mr. Garvin says his is a remarkable book, and I feel that mine is equally remarkable. It is full of new ideas, happily expressed. Garvinly speaking, it is a compendium of hope for mankind, or rather womankind, because it shows how possibly the youth and beauty of the fairer sex may be retained indefinitely, to say nothing of the prolongation of life. Nobody wants to grow old, not even Garvin; as a matter of fact nobody _does_ grow old nowadays: witness our beautiful Queen Alexandra and the ever lithe and lissom “Tiger” Clemenceau. To read _The Young Diana_, you need a little intelligence, of course. So you do when you read _The Economic Foundations of Peace_ by Garvin. His book costs 12s. net--mine is only 6s. 9d. His treats of “the policy upon which the safety, the prosperity, the very physical survival of humanity depend.” Mine treats likewise of all these things, vested in fair Woman, upon whom the physical existence as well as “survival” of man depends. His, according to his friends on the press, is “a great idea brilliantly presented.” So is mine. It is, to quote another friend’s criticism, “a practical and passionate effort to save the world alive.” Oh, friends! this is exactly what _my_ book is!--only it is a practical and passionate effort to save _Woman_ alive!--beautiful and exquisite Woman!--the Mother of all Man! It is “filled with cogent argument and luminous illustration”--I copy Garvin critiques because I shouldn’t know how to lay on the butter so felicitously as the friends of “this remarkable book by a great journalist”--but I have occasionally been called “a great novelist,” by semi-crazed folk, of course, and I feel justified (after Garvin) in calling attention to my “remarkable book.” Garvinly speaking, “it is a timely, wise and nobly-inspired book”--you see I haven’t a newspaper of my own in which to blow my own small trumpet, so I catch the silvery echo of Garvin’s glorious and mellow horn and trust to my readers to catch the sound and the meaning thereof! So read _The Young Diana_!--if she had only been at the Peace Conference all would have been well! _Diana_ is a book “which will leave the reader with a better hope of the future”--(vide _Observer_)--yes, indeed, it will! Women will radiate under its influence; beauty will have no fear of perishing; life will be “a joy for ever,” and all this for six shillings and ninepence! Think of it! Had I a journal of my own I would have out-Garvined Garvin in self-adulation, but this is only a reply to my numerous correspondents who ask, “Why did you write _The Young Diana_?” and my answer is because, like Garvin, I seek to re-invigorate, reform, and re-establish the world! Amen!

IN THE HUSH OF THE DAWN

A THOUGHT

Silence now where so lately the guns thundered their terrific message,--silence, beautiful and wonderful, where just a while ago the bursting bombs and shrieking shells tore the air on their errands of doom. Silence!--peace!--the hush of the dawn before the rising of the sun! Nothing in nature is perhaps more impressive than this dumb spell which precedes approaching morning,--when every blade of grass, every leaf on every tree seems to wait attentively for the day. And nothing in the condition of human affairs is more awe-inspiring to the thinker and idealist than the dramatic pause of a break between battles,--an armistice, which may or may not lead to lasting peace. We feel, as it were, the slow passing of mist and cloud across the sky--we watch pale glimmerings of gold and rose in the lightening east--we think we see the morning glory on the distant hills! For those who view the pageant of history with living interest, and notably for us who are permitted to witness the most marvellous scene ever enacted in it, this is not a time for wild whirling to and fro in a round of social excitement and foolish chattering,--it is far more a time for prayer. Even as the Eastern worshipper prostrates himself on the earth and waits for the rising of the sun, so should we both spiritually and intellectually prostrate ourselves in humility before the shining hope of the wonderful Light which promises to illumine the world’s darkness,--the light of peace and unity which shall make war impossible. For, though we may dance and sing and shout “Victory!” at the top of our voices, that Light does not as yet shine,--that sun has not yet risen! Men are not yet of one straight mind. A great majority “love darkness rather than light because their deeds are evil.” Could we call our nation one of absolute unity in purpose, resolved to put aside personal prejudices and interests for the good of the whole State, we should be certain of a real “sunrise”--we should almost touch the millennium! But though we deem the cruellest war of all time ended, and though the Supreme Power has given to our arms a victory so sudden and miraculous that we are left, as it were, breathless and staring, half in doubt as to whether our fortune be truly real, we are not able, apparently, to stand still in our mercifully _un_-invaded country and look each other in the face without quarrelling. Much talk there is of reform and betterment, but if each man who advocates these things begins the work by arguing foolish details with his political rival, there is little hope of any useful action ensuing. Should we not call a “hush” on these agitating folk?--a request for pause before they cast up dust into the clear spaces of the dawn? Let us have a pure and open sky! Let us watch the colours of hope and gladness deepen softly and surely on the long-darkened horizon--and let no murky miasma of discontent and disloyalty mar the happiness of the rising sun! A nobler People,--a better, grander, stronger Empire!--this is what our king and all our wisest men appeal for in this “hush of the dawn.” Surely it is the highest privilege in the world to know that we can all help in this work of Peace as we have helped in War,--we were all at one in making munitions for death;--let us all be similarly at one in making munitions for life. We are given our freedom by the sacrifice of thousands of brave men,--we shall not honour their memories now by ceaseless disputations as to our own material advantages. We desire surely that their dauntless and noble spirits shall know that our gratitude for their heroism inspires us to build up a nobler civilisation than we have ever had before,--and to this end we pray God who hath given us the victory,--so far!--in the hush of the dawn!

Transcriber’s Notes

Punctuation and hyphenation were made consistent when a predominant preference was found in the original book; otherwise they were not changed.

Simple typographical errors in English were corrected; unbalanced quotation marks were remedied when the change was obvious, and otherwise left unbalanced.

Misspelled non-English words were not corrected.

Page 15: Duplicate book title deleted by Transcriber.

Page 128: “Dux Fœmina facti” should be “Dux Fæmina facti”.

The French text on pages 141–144 contains several uncorrected spelling and accent errors.

Page 179: “names of scared things” probably should be “sacred”.

Page 213: “grudges you success” perhaps should be “your”.

Page 261: “in the thoat and palate” probably should be “throat”.

Page 262: “abnominations” was printed that way.