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  MY “LITTLE BIT”

  MARIE CORELLI




  MY “LITTLE BIT”


  BY
  MARIE CORELLI

  AUTHOR OF “THE YOUNG DIANA,” “THE LIFE EVERLASTING,”
  “INNOCENT,” “ROMANCE OF TWO WORLDS,”
  “BARABBAS,” ETC.


  [Illustration]

  NEW YORK
  GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY




  _Copyright, 1919,
  By George H. Doran Company_


  _Printed in the United States of America_




  DEDICATED
  TO
  MY FRIEND

  A. R. M. L.

  AND HIS FELLOW-MEMBERS
  OF THE CARLTON CLUB




PREFACE


The articles in this book, with the exception of the first two, were
all written during the war at the request of the various editors by
whose courtesy they are now reproduced in volume form. Most of them,
notably those which appeared in the _Pall Mall Gazette_, were, by my
own desire, gratuitous, though payment for them was offered. But, being
unable to handle sword or gun, I was glad to offer the free service of
my pen whenever such service was desired, or considered useful, just
as I would have been glad, had I been a man, to fight voluntarily for
Great Britain, without any thought of other recompense than that of
the personal pride and joy such action would have given me. The first
two articles: “Savage Glory” and “The Great Unrest,” were published
some considerable time before the outbreak of war, and while the editor
of _Nash’s Magazine_ was generous to a fault in his praise of “Savage
Glory” he was so doubtful as to the accuracy of the indictment conveyed
in “The Great Unrest” that he felt himself compelled to preface it by
a note, stating that he, or rather “we,” could not be held responsible
for any agreement with or endorsement of the author’s ideas. Readers
can now judge for themselves whether those ideas were fairly prophetic
or otherwise. Naturally, no heed was paid to them, except by a huge
silent public, the press apparently making it a rule not to notice in
any one paper what their rivals print in others, unless it happens
to be by one of their own special clique, or the utterance of a
Cabinet Minister, which they generally misquote. But, such as they
are, these various contributions to English and American sections of
journalism indicate the straight and loyal road my pen has travelled
during the wickedest and stupidest war that ever devastated the world.
The stupidity of it was even more glaring than the wickedness of
it--especially in the case of Germany. Germany was an advancing and
prosperous nation, chiefly through the industrial progress of her
hard-working people, and her “peaceful penetration” was conquering
every quarter of commerce. She has, for the time being, ruined
everything by a blind faith in and following of her scoundrels of
finance, for whom the Krupp and other dividends were not sufficiently
high or secure; the work of years has now been destroyed and every gain
has to be discounted as loss, though there is not the slightest doubt
that her cleverness and cunning will enable her to mend the hole in
her wall far more rapidly than our dilly-dally statesmen imagine. For
the immediate time, her degradation and ruin involve more than her own
position; other nations, even our own, are deeply affected, and, like
ships in unsafe anchorage, sway from their moorings--all are tormented
by a spirit of turbulence which will not let them rest, and men with
weak brains and vacillating purpose are playing with the destinies of
peoples in a wholly unforseeing and nerveless way, heedless of the
fact that there are other more powerful players behind them who are
about to make an end of their game and push them far away from the
goal. In what I have written, however slight and inadequate, I have
had but one aim in view: to hold up to the public as far as I can or
may, the greatness of this beloved land of ours--its splendid ancient
history and tradition, and to resent, as much as a mere pen can do,
the disloyal and agitating influences which seek to disrupt unity and
belittle the achievements of the noble British people. Of the wicked
waste of that people’s money by the most obtuse Government methods, and
the iniquitous premium on idleness foolishly given in the “Unemployment
dole,” I could say much, notwithstanding that I am told it is “a sop
to check Bolshevism.” One does not offer a sop to a mad bull--one
kills it. And it is not credible that the sane, sound men of Great
Britain, with an Empire of glorious renown at their backs, will ally
themselves with Red Riot which means ruin to themselves as well as to
its instigators. True it is that Stupidity is the present order of the
day among our blind leaders of the blind--that very Stupidity which
Voltaire affirmed to be the only crime--and there is little else for us
to do in our extremity but “wait and see” whether Stupidity will prove
more than a blundering guide to “where the rainbow ends.”




CONTENTS


              PAGE

  ENGLAND, 1918      15

  SAVAGE GLORY      16

  FOR BELGIUM!      30

  THE GREAT UNREST      31

  THE WHIRLWIND      46

  THE KAISER’S HARVEST OF DEATH      53

  THIS AMAZING WAR      61

  “ALL WE LIKE SHEEP”      67

  WANTED--MORE WOMEN!      73

  THE QUALITY OF MERCY      79

  STARVING BELGIUM      83

  “THE TIME OF OUR LIVES”      92

  THE WORLD’S GREATEST NEED      99

  HAS CHRISTIANITY FAILED?      114

  SNOOKS’S OPINION      116

  SEA POWER, 1805–1918        122

  THE SPLENDID SERVICE OF THE SEA      124

  THE LILIES OF FRANCE      131

  “WHOSO SHALL RECEIVE ONE SUCH LITTLE CHILD!”      133

  APPEAL FOR THE FRENCH RED CROSS      139

  GLORY OF THE WORCESTERS      145

  EYES OF THE SEA      156

  IS ALL WELL WITH ENGLAND?      171

  THE WORLD IN TEARS       189

  GOD AND THE WAR       200

  TRIUMPH OF WOMANHOOD       205

  IN PRAISE OF ENEMIES       209

  RECRUITING SPEECH       215

  SPLENDID CANADA       219

  SHELLS; AND OTHER SHELLS       222

  DARKNESS AND LIGHT       227

  SWEEPING THE COUNTRY       230

  TO SAVE LIFE OR DESTROY IT?       236

  THE WAR LOAN       240

  FOOD PRODUCTION       244

  OUR FORTUNATE “RESTRICTIONS”       248

  “HIS PAINFUL DUTY”       252

  THE POTATO “SCREAM”        256

  “HISTORY REPEATS ITSELF”       260

  “SHODDY CHIVALRY”       264

  “HINDENBURG’S EYE!”       268

  “HOARDING”       271

  THREE HUNDRED YEARS OF FAME       288

  SHAKESPEARE’S WAR BIRTHDAY IN 1917       294

  “DON’T TRAVEL”       298

  “TE DEUM LAUDAMUS”       302

  THE WOMEN’S VOTE       306

  A “HAPPY THOUGHTS” DAY       311

  WHY DID I----?       313

  IN THE HUSH OF THE DAWN       316




MY “LITTLE BIT”




ENGLAND

1918


    Lift up thine eyes, Queen Warrior of the world!
    Stand, fearless-footed, on Time’s shifting verge
    And watch thine everlasting Dawn emerge
    From clouds that break and boom in thunderous War!
    Lo, how thy broad East reddens to thy West,
    The while thy thousand-victoried flag, unfurl’d,
    Waves to thy North and South, in one royal fold
    Of tent-like shelter for an Empire’s rest;
    O Queen, sword-girded, helmeted in gold,
    Strong Conqueror of all thy many foes,
    Look from thy rocky heights, and see afar
    The coming Future menacing the Past
    With clamour and wild change of present things,
    Kingdoms down-shaken with the fall of kings;
    But fear not Thou! Thou’rt still the first and last
    Imperial wearer of the deathless Rose--
    Crown’d with the sunlight, girdled with the sea,
    Mother of mightiest nations yet to be!




SAVAGE GLORY

AN APPEAL AGAINST WAR

  (_This article was written for “Nash’s Magazine” in February, 1913,
  without any other than instinctive premonition of the coming Great
  War._)

  EDITORIAL NOTE.--_Marie Corelli’s remarkable article should be
  read by every man and woman at all mindful of the welfare of their
  fellow-sojourners on this little swinging ball of ours, which we
  call the earth. This contribution is far and away one of the most
  brilliant pieces of writing Miss Corelli has ever achieved; it is
  thought-compelling and in the larger sense inspirational; it is
  wellnigh epoch-making in its new view, its virile logic, its sane
  and forceful plea for the peace of the world--peace on a basis of
  common sense, broad humanity, and the honour of nations._


Civilisation is a great Word. It reads well--it is used everywhere--it
bears itself proudly in the language. It is a big mouthful of
arrogance and self-sufficiency. The very sound of it flatters our
vanity and testifies to the good opinion we have of ourselves. We
boast of “Civilisation” as if we were really civilised--just as we
talk of “Christianity” as if we were really Christians. Yet it is
all the veriest game of make-believe, for we are mere Savages still.
Savages in “the lust of the eye and pride of life”--savages in our
national prejudices and animosities, our jealousies, our greed and
malice, and savages in our relentless efforts to over-reach or pull
down each other in social and business relations. If any confirmation
of such a statement be needed it is found in the fact that War is
still permitted to exist. War is unquestionably the thrust and blow
of untamed Savagery in the face of Civilisation. No special pleading
can make it anything else. We may if we like call it “Patriotism” in
our perpetual life-comedy or tragedy of feigning, but in sane moments
we must surely realise that we are wilfully deceiving ourselves.
Patriotism is understood to be that virtue which consists in serving
one’s country; but in what way is this “Patria” or country served
by slaying its able-bodied men in thousands?--the very men whose
peaceful and progressive toil makes the country worth living in? Can
any adequate answer be given to this question? Is “Honour” justly due
to the heads of Government who, themselves safely out of the fray,
send such men like sheep to the shambles--men innocent of all personal
or national offence, but who in their fine obedience to duty and the
preconceived idea of conquest which has its root in old barbaric
periods, consent to be shot down under the murderous fire of unseen
guns miles away, simply because their rulers have so ordained it? Is it
“civilised” to spread ruin and devastation through the land?--to leave
homes desolate?--and to create a wretched surplus population of widows
and orphans for no other reason than that one nation refuses to comply
with what is demanded of it by the other? Is it not possible to deal
with even a difficult and refractory subject of quarrel in the way of
reason and argument, brought to bear upon it by the soberly judging
powers of all nations? And if reason and argument should fail, then,
instead of consigning troops of blameless men to the scientific but
cruelly treacherous methods of modern warfare, would it not be more
normal and humane simply to--Stop Supplies?

Here we touch a vital centre of the question. No nation can go to war
without Money. In most cases a very great deal of this same money is
required. Who provides it? The nation itself? One may doubt whether
any nation could raise sufficient funds to carry on a serious war for
any length of time without borrowing. Supposing this to be the case,
what financial force behind the scenes so obligingly lends the cash for
the purpose of carrying out schemes of wholesale murder? Wherever such
cash is obtained we know it must be weighted with an exorbitant rate
of interest, so that the price of human blood fills the pockets of the
lenders with a certain guaranteed overflow. To stop War, therefore, it
should be made impossible to borrow the sums required for warfare; and
any loan started with the object of War in view, whether suggested or
avowed, should be considered by a National Agreement of United Powers
illegal and even criminal, as conspiring against the peace and progress
of the world. If, by what is called diplomacy or political subterfuge,
this law were cheated, and vast sums were loaned ostensibly for other
purposes than War, and it could afterwards be proved that War _had_
nevertheless been, secretly and all along, the actual purpose of such
loans, then the lenders should be compelled to forfeit all claims to
repayment. For talk fine sentiment and pious platitudes as we will,
the brutal truth is that no war can be carried on without money--money
fully guaranteed--and if we would strike at the root of the evil, then
these guaranteed supplies must be cut off.

A well-known journalist who, through his birth and family connections,
may be presumed to have more than common knowledge of the various
financial games of chess played by the “Chancelleries” of Europe, is
responsible for the statement that “War is popular.” This is one of
those brisk surface sayings that shine with apparent candour, like
the sparkle of light in the ice on a puddle, but which have no more
depth than the puddle itself. War is temporarily “popular”--so long
as it is confined to its own pomp and panoply--its martial music, its
flying banners, its glittering array of armed men--its marching and
countermarching--its sensation and “show,” in fact--sensation and show
which appeal to the multitude who are not brought face to face with
the disease and death of its darker side. The elemental passions of
a mob can be roused as easily by the “savage” beating of a tom-tom
as by the “civilised” roll of the drum, or by the fussy cackling of
an excitable Hen-Press. That Hen nowadays is always laying eggs of a
curiously abnormal nature, in fact so surprising is its daily product
that the maternal bird is for ever getting off the nest to look at
results, with an evident expectation that mere chicks may turn out to
be swans, though, as a rule, they are generally geese. To judge from
the incessant cackle and scream, one would imagine them responsible
for European opinion, and occupied in raising “nation against nation,”
with “men’s hearts failing them for fear,” in startling confirmation
of the New Testament prophecy, and some of us are disposed to ask:
Why are sinister and disturbing suggestions constantly thrown out by
the Press as baits to catch the always restless, dissatisfied and
uneasy minds of the populace? Is Finance the fisherman behind the
tree, angling with a long line and a devil’s hook at the end of it?
No one with a grain of common sense would call it Patriotism! Our men
of science, our pathologists and physicians have of late years been
studying to some purpose the mysterious power of “Suggestion”--and if
we have sufficient intelligence to understand the discovered facts
which have rewarded their researches we shall acknowledge that ideas,
started and persistently fostered in the minds of the million by
constant reiteration, frequently develop into actions. With how much
care and earnestness therefore should we see to it that the suggestions
impressed on the brains of Nations are sane, pure and noble, moving
all progress forward, with that firm gentleness which is the truest
strength, into the ways of wisdom and of peace!

As “civilised” peoples we continue to exhibit the strangest barbaric
inconsistency in our manners and methods of justice. If one man or
woman is murdered in our midst our laws are set into instant operation
to find the murderer, and if the crime is brought home to him he is
sentenced to death. But in War thousands are murdered at the mere
signal of “brave” commanders, and instead of the wrath and horror
aroused by the slaying of a single life, an uproar of jubilation and
triumph breaks out over the poor festering corpses that strew the field
of so-called “glorious victory.” The “civilised” State protests against
the murder of one individual, but looks upon the ghastly holocaust of
slaughtered lives in battle as something almost noble and inspiring! Is
this reasonable? Is it reconcilable with sane judgment? Is it any proof
that our “Education” is of real worth?--or does it not rather testify
to the amazing fact that in our greed of possession, our thirst of
conquest, and our curious conceptions of religion and humanity, we have
progressed scarcely a step ahead of our “barbarian” ancestors and their
“savage” customs!

   “Alas, for men that they should be so blind!
    That they should laud the scourges of their kind--
    Call each man glorious who has led a host
    And him most glorious who has murdered most!”

It is said by certain special pleaders that War is a Necessity. We
are referred for verification of this to the world of nature, where
it would certainly seem that various tribes of animals and insects
do make war upon each other. These wars, however, occur much more
frequently among the low grades of nature-life than the high. One may
doubt whether eagles as a tribe make war upon eagles, lions upon lions,
and so forth. That every animal should fight or work individually for
food is the natural law--the spirit of prey is one from which Man
himself is never exempt. But has any one ever heard of several thousand
lions or bears taking up a stand against each other and slaying each
other wholesale for a disputed portion of territory? Ants and emmets
make continual war among themselves, but “Civilisation” is supposed
to have set Man a trifle higher than the ant or emmet; he is even
believed to be superior in mental capacity to the eagle or the lion.
He is accredited with fine faculties of reason, and is more or less
conscious of high spiritual impulses--and in Christian countries he
professes a humane creed, and assumes to teach the ethics of a divine
moral code. During the far-off periods of his evolution from embryonic
animalism towards the higher potentialities of his being, he was
doubtless forced to fight his way against such opposing obstacles as
threatened to stay or overwhelm him in his progress, but now--now when
he stands, or thinks he stands, on a height of intellectual power and
attainment which enables him to discard old barbarisms, surely it would
be possible for him to control the lurking remains of his original
savagery! War may be, as the before-quoted journalist declares,
“popular,” but it might be as well, considering the ruin and misery
which follow in its train, to inquire into the inward working of its
asserted “popularity,” apart from its deceptive outward display.

First then, as already hinted, there are floaters of a War Loan.
With them it is undoubtedly “popular,” for it opens several channels
for the rapid making of money. Roughly speaking, most of the money
advanced at interest for all important purposes comes from the Jews.
All nations are more or less under the thumb of Israel, disguise it
as we will, or may. No great scheme, either in peace or war, can be
started without Jewish gold and Jewish support. The Jews are the
cleverest commercial people on the globe; they are also charitable and
benevolent to a degree that often shames Christianity. They could,
as a race, do much to stop War in its very beginnings if they once
unanimously and resolutely decided on such a course of action. But it
is not likely that they will ever pronounce their “veto”; the idea
would be too Utopian and unbusinesslike. Therefore, as things exist,
it is scarcely unkind to say, that with their race all over the world
War is “popular.” Its commencement, progress, and continuance are in
their hands. And they will, from a purely commercial point of view,
continue to lend cash for the furtherance and encouragement of National
Savagery, so long as National Savagery exists, and is willing to borrow
money at a high rate of interest. For with them the God of Israel is
still a God of Battles.

Secondly, War is “popular” with the Press. Unctuous newspaper articles
lamenting the “horror” of War, and disclaiming all responsibility
for fermenting and agitating the motives of quarrel, are only so
much meaningless “copy.” Useful “copy,” too, because it conveys to
the ingenuous and child-like mind of the man in the street that the
intelligent editors and journalists who “manage” his news for him are
really peace-loving, unselfish folk, and pious withal. Whereas the
very suggestion of War is a paying “sensation” for press-men; it gives
plenty of opening for big “headlines” and attractive “posters,” which
help to sell their penny or halfpenny sheets to the best advantage.
Whatever rumour is abroad, whatever whisper of a “conference of the
Powers” flies on the wind, the Press makes more than the most of both
rumour and whisper--and if it can only work up a national “Scare”
it is as happy as a monkey with a banana. Such a Press as that of
America and Great Britain could not exist without “sensation.” Even in
“piping times of peace” it resorts to the most ludicrous methods of
producing mild excitements, such as “Sweet Pea” or “Giant Carnation”
or “Photographic” competitions, or a “Symposium” as to whether milk
or fish diet is best for the brain. A murder is life to it!--while the
useful, brilliant, beautiful or noble work done in Art or Literature
gets scarcely a helpful mention. How often we see great space given
to the description of a public dancer!--her jewels, her dresses, her
opinions!--while a fine poem or picture is dismissed in a flippant
paragraph. The reason of this is obvious: it is that many of the
persons who assist in the work of daily journalism are only educated
up to the public dancer standard--the poem or the picture is lost on
the limited area of their abilities. And it may really be said again
without either prejudice or unkindness that so far as the press is
concerned War is “popular,” because it provides just that particular
“sensation” which in its turn commands sales. Therefore if press-men,
directly or indirectly, do foster national bitterness or help to
stir up strife, we must remember that they are only serving their
own interests, and that blame is chiefly due to ourselves if we give
credence to their often exaggerated statements. Bismarck is reported to
have said on one occasion, “The windows which our Press breaks we shall
have to pay for!” This is true enough. Indeed, it is just possible that
if there were no Press at all for a few years many dissensions would
die out, and many unfortunate happenings would never happen!

But setting aside the two chief forces behind the scenes, Usury and the
Press, with all other commercially concerned parties in the quarrels of
nations, who _can_ or who _dare_ say that War is “popular”? Let wives
and children answer! Let us try to understand what we ourselves mean
by our conflicting theories and arguments--we who make such ado about
a “declining birth-rate,” and fall into hysterical raptures over a
family of “soldier sons”! Let us realise clearly that the slaughter of
able-bodied men materially assists towards the “declining birth-rate,”
and that where there are “soldier sons” they have been brought into the
world apparently for no other reason than to be mangled out of it! This
is War! Glorious War! Is it sane? Is it truly “glorious” to shoot down
thousands of human beings who have committed no fault of their own, but
are simply commanded by their Governments to serve as marks for the
bullets of an enemy who might never have been an enemy at all but for
mischief arising out of idle and often erroneous report, based on what
is perhaps only a temporary and trivial misunderstanding? The best of
friends are sometimes parted by the stupid gossip of stupid persons
who, envious of happiness and grudging it to those who possess it,
never rest till something has been done to undermine and destroy it. In
the same way nations are set against each other by some persistently
irritating and ill-founded rumour--some difference of opinion, which,
if taken in hand reasonably and at once, could be satisfactorily
settled, provided there be not too much talk, “red tape,” and
officialism employed for the purpose of creating general vacillation
and muddle. The conventional “ifs” and “buts” exchanged among the
Powers may be looked upon with considerable doubt and foreboding under
certain circumstances--an overflow of fine words not unfrequently means
an outbreak of treacherous deeds.

Unhappily, and in flat contradiction to that “humane” spirit, which we
so frequently profess, treachery strikes the dominant note in modern
warfare, and this is one of the chief reasons why War should no longer
be permitted. The new long-range quick-firing gun is as dastardly as
it is powerful, for surely to shoot down men miles away who cannot see
their enemies is as reprehensible and cowardly as to stab a man in the
back unawares. Another instrument of treachery is the submarine--a
truly devilish invention devised for the avowed object of destroying
war-vessels by murderous action from the hidden depths of the sea. No
one ever seems to pause and consider what an amount of fiendish cunning
in the mind of man has evolved the construction of this deadly engine
of warfare--still less does the question ever appear to suggest itself
as to whether such a perfidious way of compassing slaughter is humane
(we will not shame the word “Christian”) or truly “civilised.” If we
refer back to what we are pleased to call the “dark ages” or ages of
barbarism, we read much concerning “instruments of torture,” such as
the rack, the thumb-screw, and other inventions brutally designed by
man to injure his fellow-man, but these things for the most part avowed
their murderous intention in open daylight--the doomed creatures knew
what they had to expect and prepared to die accordingly. But modern
science has sharpened our wits to a more merciless edge--we are cunning
enough to hide ourselves and our instruments of death from our intended
victims after the fashion of assassins lurking in ambush--therefore
by the very law of compensation it is scarcely to be wondered at
that we are sometimes “hoist with our own petard,” of which the many
appalling submarine fatalities are proof and warning. And now, not
satisfied with attack from the secret depths of the ocean, Zeppelins
and aeroplanes shower bombs upon open towns and innocent civilians, so
that even the hitherto neutral skies will be made spaces of vantage for
pitiless assault. All these “civilised” inventions for the practice of
barbarity ought to give so-called “Christian” empires food for serious
thought--yet, strange to say, it would seem that every new and more
murderous weapon for warfare is hailed with columns of praise in the
press, and such general acclamation as may truly be called “savage”--as
no “civilised” community educated according to all that we boast of
in our advanced state of progress, could or _would_ rejoice over the
construction of mere killing-machines for the slaughter of their
fellow-creatures! Therefore, it may be asked: Are we truly “civilised”
or is it all a Sham? Are we really humane?--or as bloodthirsty as when,
in our aboriginal savagery, we cracked the skulls of our enemies open
with flint axes?

The continued existence of War is, in the face of all faith and
feeling, a shame to the world! So long as nations are slaves to the
barbarous idea that Blood and Carnage alone can keep them in their
places as authoritative forces for the higher progress and welfare
of Humanity, so long will Civilisation be more or less a farce. No
one denies the self-sacrifice, the endurance, the patience, and the
courage which makes men military heroes--the pity of it all is that
such splendid qualities of character should be wasted on the mere
consummation of slaughter and conquest. What good to the world has
ever come out of Napoleon’s many massacres? Looking down upon the
sarcophagus containing that Imperial Murderer’s ashes in the gorgeous
tomb consecrated to his memory in Paris, one wonders sadly why he was
ever permitted to live. We may with the great poet Byron say:--

   “To think that God’s fair earth hath been
    The footstool of a thing so mean!”

If War is still to confirm us and other nations as Savages, we must
behave accordingly. We must train our men and youths to kill, and to
use the newest and surest weapons for killing. When we are offered
Dreadnoughts, we accept them with salvos of rejoicing and thanksgiving.
Yet without War these Dreadnoughts will, in ten years’ time from the
date of their completion, be useless, and the millions they cost will
be sunk into waste material. Must we have continuous War, then?--just
for the sake of employing Dreadnoughts--and proving to our own
satisfaction that we can slaughter as many innocent thousands as other
Savages if we like? Why should any cause arise for the visitation
of such a scourge upon us or any nation! If we have foes who show a
threatening front we are naturally bound to be on the defensive--and
we should be prepared to guard our kingdom and coast from Savages
more savage than ourselves. But when we can get rid of our Savagery
we shall lay down our arms. We shall realise that Civilisation means
Unity; Unity in all high purpose and progress towards the betterment of
mankind.

   “Sheathed be the sword for ever--let the drum
    Be schoolboy’s pastime--let your battles cease!
    And be the cannon’s voice for ever dumb
    Except to celebrate the joys of Peace!
    Are ye not brothers?--God, whom we revere,
    Is he not Father of all climes and lands?
      Form an Alliance holy and sincere
        And join your hands!”

Surely it is not too much to hope for this--to pray for this!--if our
Faith means anything more than mere lip-service and false show!




FOR BELGIUM!

THE PRAYER OF THE ALLIES

(_Written for “King Albert’s Book”_)

   “What shall we do for our Sister in the day when she shall be
          spoken of?
    If she be a wall, we will build upon her a palace of silver.”
                                                      _Song of Solomon._


         Maker of Heaven and Earth,
         Thou, who hast given birth
    To moving millions of pre-destined spheres,
         Thou, whose resistless might
         Resolves the Wrong to Right
    Missing no moment of the measured years--
         Behold, we come to Thee!
    We lift our swords, unsheath’d, towards Thy throne--
         Look down on us, and see
    Our Sister-Nation, ruined and undone!
    Martyred for nobleness, for truth and trust;
    Help us, O God, to raise her from the dust!

         Be Thou our witness, Lord!
         We swear with one accord
    Swift retribution on her treacherous foe!
         Her bitter wrong is ours
         And heaven’s full-armèd powers
    Shall hurl her murderer to his overthrow!
         Upon her broken wall
    A silver palace of sweet peace shall rise
         At that high Festival
    When Victory’s signal flashes through the skies--
    But--until then!--welcome the fiercest fray!
    We fight for Freedom! God, give us “The Day”!




THE GREAT UNREST

  _(This article was written for “Nash’s Magazine” two years before
  the War, and was on its appearance prefaced by the following
  Editor’s Note.)_

  EDITOR’S NOTE.--_While “Nash’s Magazine” cheerfully presents the
  following very radical and profoundly interesting article from the
  brilliant pen of Miss Marie Corelli, this Magazine should not in
  any sense be held accountable for either the Author’s views or her
  expression of them._


“Ye hypocrites! Ye can discern the face of the sky and of the earth,
but how is it that ye do not discern this time?”

Such was the question put to the people by the Founder of the
Christian Faith two thousand years ago--a question not yet answered.
Lack of discernment is still as much as ever one of humanity’s chief
attributes, or is it perhaps less a lack of discernment than an
unwillingness to discern? “Ye hypocrites!” said the Christ. Is it not,
after all, sheer hypocrisy which, in the form of social convention,
does so obsess Man that, though conscious of approaching storm, he
prefers to bury his head, ostrich-like, in a sand-heap of his own
delusions in order that he may be as blind and as deaf as possible to
the lurid glare and wild uproar of coming disaster? He instinctively
knows disaster is imminent--even at his very doors--and that it will
presently swoop relentlessly down upon him, perhaps tossing him with
other fragments of creation into a chaos from which he shall scarcely
emerge with a sound skin; yet knowing, he pretends _not_ to know, and
plays the fool with himself and destiny!

To-day, now, at this very moment, all over the civilised world, this
terrible game of “playing the fool” is going on with reckless speed
and continuity. I use the word “terrible” advisedly, for nothing more
pregnant with all the elements of positive terror was ever seen than
the present-time spectacle of Human Humbug set face to face with that
Eternal Equity which has existed always, and which ever will exist
without any change in its Divine Source, Cause and Intention. Man,
endowed with splendid gifts of reason, imagination and psychic power,
is everywhere gambling away his highest birthright for gold; Man, whom
the celestial forces have led step by step through carefully measured
gradations of intellectual evolution till he has arrived at the open
gateways of Science, there to behold the infinitely marvellous benefits
he may possess and enjoy, still insults the Giver of all his good by
his fumbling forms of faith and worship suited only to barbaric minds
in a state of embryo--Man, semi-apathetic and in many cases wholly
indifferent to the higher roads of progress and to the steady unfolding
of that endless perspective of order and beauty intended for the
individual happiness of every individual soul, still makes wilful havoc
of his own carefully organised civilisations, like a child who builds
a house of cards and blows it down with a breath--and this because his
civilisations are mostly of a flimsy structure, having no foundation on
any fundamental Law which Nature can or will tolerate for more than
a very brief time. All history teaches this with stern and pitiless
repetition; and the signs and portents which gave warning of the
downfall of the Roman Empire were of precisely the same character as
the signs and portents which warn us of similar downfalls impending for
great nations to-day. The scheme of Creation is plainly meant to be a
perpetual movement towards perpetual advancement--this truth is clearly
demonstrated in all natural evolution, and Man is perforce compelled,
despite himself, to move with the onward and upward process--but he
invariably “hangs back” and tries to put a stop on the wheel, with the
result that he is himself crushed and ground to powder in the wheel’s
relentless revolving. He makes religions, laws and morals for himself
which have no prototype in the order of Nature, and he thereby stands
rebelliously opposed to the Supreme Intelligence, whose design of life
being exact mathematics, swerves not by so much as the shadow of a hair.

Hence arises, and always will arise, trouble. Trouble and unrest! The
sum of things never comes right, add it up, subtract, or multiply as we
will. We persist in our childish efforts to fit in figures which have
no place or part in the Divine quantities. Now and then in some sudden
flash of higher consciousness, we see the folly of our actions--but
seeing, we pretend to be blind. Some of us devote ourselves to a study
of the sciences, and we peep through a hundred loop-holes into a vista
of shining truths, any one of which would help us to draw closer to
God--yet presently we turn away and talk of predestination and original
sin, and feign to believe in a Deity whose rage against His own
Creation is so insensate and barbaric as only to be pacified by Blood!
Blood--blood! The cry of the vengeful, the murderous, the cruel, the
tyrannous in all ages of the world!--yet we do not hesitate to insult
the Creator of the whole Cosmos by endowing Him with this animal and
un-God-like craving! He, who holds the starry heavens in the hollow
of His Hand--from whose expressed Thought solar systems are born like
blossoms in the fields of ether--He, whose vast love broods tenderly
over all that He hath made, even to the nesting bird hidden under a
bunch of green leaves--“not one shall fall to the ground without your
Father”--even He it is whom daily we wrong and blaspheme by our social
methods of life and forms of worship, by our deliberate opposition to
His Laws, and by the amazingly insolent indifference we exhibit to His
inviolate Will as shown through the reflection of His Mind in visible
Nature.

And so it happens that, after a certain space of time in which we
are offered fresh chances of amendment or betterment which we seldom
take, things begin to go wrong. We know not how or where the mischief
first started, because it has stolen upon us by gradual and insidious
degrees, and we never dream of looking for the root of the evil in
ourselves or in our ancestry. But we do become slowly and reluctantly
aware that we are not on the right track--that “something” is about
to happen which will upset all our most cherished plans and push us
off our present road of what we are pleased to call “progress” in a
sufficiently disastrous manner. We have no time to retrace our steps
and look for the way we have missed, for we find that we are running
down hill with a singular self-imposed velocity which would make any
sort of a stop almost impossible--while to go back would mean to climb
a very steep and difficult ascent, an exercise for which we are neither
prepared nor willing. We have no idea how we managed the muddle in
which we find ourselves, but muddle it is and muddle it remains.

And then we enter upon the doubtful period--the kind of period in
which the whole world is living to-day--a period of vague uneasiness,
restlessness, and feverish suspense, looking for we know not what,
dissatisfied with things as they are, yet unable to decide how they
ought to be. Then is the hour of the brazen-mouthed religious ranter
and the political demagogue. The nations of the earth are disquieted
mentally and spiritually--the pulpit braggart assumes to teach them,
and the upstart in politics offers to reform them. And like the waves
of the sea before a storm breaks, the people surge to and fro in
billowy masses, with here and there a gleam of hope among them like
light on spraying foam, but for the most part moving in darkness and
deep unrest. For the time is past when the balm of old tradition can be
applied as a soothing salve to the spiritual wounds of humanity. Men do
not want to be soothed, but roused--fired to noblest energy, greatest
aims and splendid achievement--and they need to feel that their efforts
to reach the Highest are worth the making, and that the fight which
they enter upon means victory in the end.

This, most unfortunately, is not made plain to them by either the
faiths or followings of modern society. The Churches have in a great
measure lost their hold upon the people, and the consolidation of
family life is a thing of the past. When England was truly great, the
love of home and country was the chief foundation of her greatness, as
it should be with all nations seeking to hold high place and power--but
in our present modes of living, both in England and America, “home”
is voted hum-drum and a bore--sons and daughters openly profess the
gad-about principle of what they term “pleasure,” and are more or less
indifferent to the interests or convenience of their parents, showing
no more reverence or consideration for them than is necessary to obtain
financial “supplies.” They snap the chain that should bind them to
filial tenderness and duty, and follow their own particular forms of
enjoyment with a cool selfishness which can but astonish any thoughtful
beholder--yet even this reprehensible attitude of the rising generation
is but a phase of the general “Unrest” pervading all classes and all
ages--the vague sense that nothing is going to last very long--that
some dire mischief threatens the world--and that one must try to enjoy
oneself while one can, because there is no time left to do anything
else. And well-meaning fathers and mothers, especially those of the
upper classes, adapt themselves more or less compassionately and with
regret to the new and often exceedingly bad manners of their children,
who, in nine cases out of ten, resemble the Biblical “daughters of
the horse-leech,” crying “Give! Give!” and regard their progenitors
merely as human banks on which they expect to draw _ad libitum_ till
the coin gives out. All this is wrong, hopelessly wrong. Fathers should
be supported by their sons, if support is needed--not sons supported
by their fathers. And in such strange times as these, when women are
so ready to throw off their womanliness and become mere roughs in the
general fray, they too must be expected to put themselves in harness
and earn the right to live. They have wilfully destroyed the ideal of
woman, so long and lovingly cherished by man in the days of sentiment
and chivalry--and now they can hardly wonder if husbands prove
difficult to secure. Men will think a hundred times before entering
into marriage with possible window-smashers.

Yet it is all part and parcel of the one thing--the Great Unrest
which, like a storm atmosphere, envelops all our modern civilisation.
There is no country that does not feel it--no nation that is not
uneasily conscious of being on the verge of change. The disruption
of family life--the revolt of Woman against her own nature, and the
frenzied ultra-stupidity she exhibits in the efforts she makes to
reverse her own God-ordained position in the scheme of creation--the
pathetic bewilderment and weariness of Man himself, left without any
of his old ideals of faith or love, and clinging to gold as the only
seemingly tangible good which may procure him some bodily comfort
and ease, though feeling in his own soul that even this is little
worth--all these things are forerunners of coming trouble to which we
are as yet unable to give a name. Most notable and most tremendous
of all portents, however, is the earthquake tremor that is shaking
the Churches to their foundations, and the growth and extension of
what is called the “New Thought.” The New Thought is really the Old
Thought--the Thought which was the underlying germ of the mystic
religions of the East, and the foundation of the Platonic philosophy.
The “Thought” has become overlaid by a multiplicity of differing human
opinions, forming, as is their habit, into useless and mischievous
systems--but in its pure beginning it is the Christ in embryo--the
God-in-Man. In simplest truth it is an eternal Thought which by Divine
inspiration teaches us that the Soul or spirit of every human being
is an individual portion of the Spirit of God--and that as such it
is an immortal creature, whose destiny is glorious, whose splendid
faculties are for the purpose of evolving itself through phases of
wide advancement to wider attainment, and for whom there is and can
be no such thing as death. This Earth is its present school and
playground--Nature is its teacher, as well as its subject and servant.
It is to learn what it can and will by patient study and grateful
experience--it is to use what it finds in all things pleasant, helpful,
joyous, noble, and gracious--it is to breathe in an atmosphere of love;
and with the Supreme Intelligence of which it is a part, it may feed as
it will among the lilies of life, and may say, “My Beloved is mine and
I am His.”

This spiritual tie between man and his Maker has never been
sufficiently emphasised by the Churches. Their religious forms of
worship impress upon us that we are miserable sinners whatever we do,
that we must try to save our souls, and that we must put as much as
we can into the collection-plate. In great sorrow or difficulty these
instructions are not very helpful. Sometimes indeed we doubt whether
God meant us to consider ourselves such “miserable sinners” after all.
Our perpetual whinings and lamentations cannot make sweet music on the
Divine records. God gave us our bodies, not to chastise and mortify,
but to care for and make healthy and beautiful; and the laws He has
framed for our guidance and maintenance are such that if one be broken,
punishment is bound to follow. There is no forgiveness, because there
simply _cannot_ be any deviation in the mathematical precision of the
universal plan. And the punishment is measured exactly to the fault.
If we refuse to go forward, we must go back--we are not allowed to
stand still. If a man elects to throw himself headlong from a steeple,
not all the prayers of the saints could alter the law of gravitation
which causes him to fall and break his neck. What is true of physical
law is equally true of spiritual law, since Matter is simply Spirit
substantiated and made temporarily visible in endless temporary forms.
And all God-ordained laws, whether physical or spiritual, are framed
for the guidance, benefit, and advancement of creation--whereas we, by
devising other laws which pull contrary to Divine ways and means, find
ourselves “in darkness and the shadow of death” instead of in light and
the splendour of life. In our day Science has come to our rescue, and
like a great Angel stands at the open door of the Kingdom of Heaven;
she shows us the “many mansions” of worlds upon worlds in the Father’s
House--she points out the loving care with which even the tiniest
organism of life is protected--she instructs us how we may press the
lightning into our service and use the waves of the air to convey our
messages from one land to the other--and she impresses upon us, even as
a loving mother impresses a beautiful truth upon her child, the fact
that we--even we--are permitted to be the rulers of this wonderful
planet, so full of exquisite beauty and joy--and that we are expected
to use the endless gifts bestowed upon us with love, wisdom and
courage, developing ourselves into a noble race of creatures worthy of
ever nobler and higher issues.

Thus it has come to pass that with Science leading us ever onward
and upward, we cannot any longer in reason look upon “Our Father”
as a capricious tyrant, needing a sacrifice of blood to pacify His
wrath against us. Instead of this barbarous conception, we realise
that Perfect Justice cannot possibly be angry with what it has Itself
ordained--and we are overpowered and brought to our knees in devout
adoration before the Great Spirit of Love which is the Generator of
the universe, and which out of smallest beginnings works to greatest
ends--work in which we are permitted, nay, expected and commanded, to
take an active part, our disobedience always resulting in disaster to
ourselves.

It is the contemplation of these truths which Science hourly and daily
demonstrates to the glory of the Creator that the “New” or “Old”
Thought has arisen in all its strength, like Christ from the grave,
“walking in the garden in the cool of the day.” Hence the earthquake
tottering of the Churches, and the ever-spreading great wave of
religious unrest. There is, among many deeply thinking people, an
uneasy sense that we have insulted the real and ever present God by
our narrow and more or less selfish systems of faith, and that we must
hasten to make amends. Therefore, putting the question of the mentally
unfit aside in the general sorting of the sheep from the goats, it
seems evident that the time is ripening towards a New Revelation of
the Divine in Man--a “sign from heaven” for the better guidance of the
human soul towards ultimate perfection, and a surer means of obtaining
peace and happiness in this life as well as in the life to come. But
before the sign be given there must and will be heavy tribulation;
“nation rising against nation, kingdom against kingdom, earthquakes and
divers troubles”--and the very beginning of these “divers troubles” is
upon us now.

Hence the Great Unrest. People scurry to and fro all over the earth,
like ants disturbed on their hill by a burning match thrown in among
them. They do not know what is the matter, but they feel that they must
keep moving. The sensation of inexplicable haste is upon them. There
is no time for anything. Pleasure easily palls, and the most agreeable
society develops into boredom. The days of reposeful leisure, in which
the greatest works of art were created, are ended. Everything must be
got through quickly nowadays--“scamped” as a matter of fact. Sweetness
and harmony in music are no longer admired--it must be discordant and
odd to suit the spirit of the age. Fine painting is a drug in the
market unless it be the work of an “old master”--a picture must be
“sensational” in colour and in execution to suit the perverted taste
of the day. Literature and the drama must present “problems” of a
questionable nature before their productions can be pronounced “great”
by the very few critics who are more than ordinary paragraphists--while
Poetry, the highest of all the arts, is practically dead. The abnormal
condition of the human mind displays itself in costume, manners, and
social observances and over all things hangs the deepening mist of a
universal dissatisfaction for which there seems to be no cause, and
for which we can find no name.

Do we mean to go on blindly, pretending we do not see? “Ye hypocrites!
Ye can discern the face of the sky and of the earth, but how is it that
ye do not discern this time?”

How is it indeed! For “this time” is one of the most fated and historic
times in the history of the world--a time when we may perhaps be called
upon to witness the commencement of the downfall of the greatest of
Empires--the British;--when we may have to watch its magnificent
fabric, once the envy of all other nations, crumbling before our very
eyes--its pillars of state pulled down by riotous demagogues--its
splendid traditions put to shame by both parties in its Parliament--by
the one in sheer outlawry, by the other in no less disgraceful
inaction. We can look on at this and wonder what new power will arise
from its ruins, but we may not dare to prophesy till after the event!
For this is but “the beginning of sorrows.” It little matters that
the fools and jesters of the hour make mockery of all those who seek
to warn off the misguided people from the quicksands whither they are
rushing--fools and jesters there have always been and always will be,
ready to toss ribaldry in the face of Deity itself without compunction.
But the evil which darkly threatens modern civilisation is too near
and too evident to be lightly “laughed down.” Every student of history
knows that when the foundations of religious faith are shaken--when
it becomes “a house divided against itself,” then national disaster
is close at hand. Man, deprived of any high spiritual ideal of life,
quickly reverts to mere selfish savagery. The Dean of St. Paul’s,
called “the gloomy Dean” by a halfpenny daily, because he dares to
speak truths which are not altogether pleasant hearing, must have
thought long and deeply, and fully made up his mind as to what he meant
when he said: “It is the duty of the clergy to maintain that it is
‘other worldliness’ which alone had transformed and could transform
this world”--which means that it is only spiritual progress which can
make material progress valuable and lasting. The inward enlightenment
and uplifting of the soul or spirit of each individual man and woman
towards the highest and bravest ideals of life and love, and conformity
to the laws of creation as made plainly visible in Nature, is the only
true civilisation. This lesson is taught by every scientific truth we
are permitted to investigate. It is not preaching or platitudinism--it
is an incontestable eternal Fact. Our lives on this planet were
intended to be lives of joy, health, beauty, love, and mutual
helpfulness--and where we depart from this intention we insult and
disobey the Creator, whose design is one of gradual development towards
ultimate perfection. We wrong Him when we call this beautiful world “a
vale of tears”--for our misfortunes and diseases are chiefly our own
fault, and certainly are not His doing. It is time we stood up with a
glad courage, giving thanks for all the benefits He has showered upon
us without asking for more. Any creed that is selfish and whining is no
creed for the soul that aspires to the highest progress. If we invite
evils upon ourselves we must expect them to come--nothing will hold
them back if we are trespassers against natural and spiritual laws.
The Reverend H. Mayne Young, preaching in Westminster Abbey itself,
pronounced the following words with a noble daring:--

“The day is not far distant when, unless the Church of England freely
re-states and re-models her creeds so as to meet the requirements of
the age, she will be left stranded on the shores of time, while the
tide of this modern life will leave her for ever farther and farther
behind--a sad warning of the inevitable results of an iron-bound system
of worn-out dogmas and lifeless traditions.”

“Worn-out dogmas and lifeless traditions!” A bold utterance, but true!
And what is true of the Church of England is equally true of all the
Churches in the world to-day, notably that of Rome. Man, walking in
a darkness of destroyed illusions, is at that point when he may well
exclaim with the Apostle--“Who will deliver me from the body of this
death?”

It needs no gift of prophecy and no special intuition to see that
we are on the brink of some tremendous change in the destinies of
the human race. Everything points to it--our tottering creeds, our
fluctuating standard of manners and morals. What it is, what it may be
no one tries to imagine. People instinctively feel they would rather
not think too much about anything, or analyse the condition in which
they find themselves. There is “no time” for it, they say. Why is there
no time? Is the clock of the universe running down and are the works
giving out? Materially speaking, we know that the slightest tilt of
the earth on its axis would cause a complete redistribution of its
continents and seas, sweeping away every vestige of civilisation as we
now know it. We never consider this, imagining that such a catastrophe
is not possible. Yet God has willed it so before, and may will it so
again. Every physical movement is preconceived by a mental or spiritual
one. The Great Unrest is at present one of Spirit which will gradually
dominate Matter and move it to equal but louder disturbance. We spin
on our earth in a gathering storm-cloud between two fathomless gulfs,
the Past and the Future--our Present is the result of the past, and
our future will equally be the work of the Present. We know that there
is a God of Love to serve, and his Nature-laws to obey, and knowing
this, Ourselves alone must decide whether we _will_ do as we should, or
whether we shall be _forced_ to do as we would not!




THE WHIRLWIND


It has come at last--that great Storm foretold by national weather
prophets--it has come with all the devastating force of a fury long
suppressed; and the black cloud has gathered over our heads while yet
we drowsed in a dream of sunshine. With a sudden thunderous rush, as
though a god or a demon should tread the spaces of the air, heaven
has let loose the whirlwind--the whirlwind of War, and far more than
War--the whirlwind of Destiny. It has come because it was bound to
come, by the Unwritten Law and Code Invisible. Men of the world
who form governments, make civilisations, and build up empires are
always forgetting this Unwritten Law--the Hand behind the scenes--the
inexorable and eternal forward movement of the Cosmos, which in its
pre-determined progress overrides their best laid plans and makes
chaotic havoc of their most sagacious intentions. Yet it is a perfectly
straight and simple Law after all--one that has existed from the
beginning of things, and that will ever exist--the law of Nature,
visibly expressing the Mind of God, and immutably set against the
predominance of evil. It is an output of the Divine Will, resolving
itself easily into common, even domestic forms, adapted to the needs
of individuals and nations alike. Nature often conducts herself like a
practical housewife bent on spring cleaning.

“Where there is dirt,” she says, “it shall be removed; where there is
confusion there shall be order.”

And her “cleaning-up” day is invariably a frightful thing. The noise
of her sweeping and scouring resounds like thunder through the world.
It occurs periodically, marking epochs of history, and we read of
its results in the past with placid incredulity, setting down much
to exaggeration and more to deliberate lying, idly amused meanwhile
at the ridiculous notion, suggested by certain fools, that any such
uproar and disaster should ever be experienced by Ourselves who have,
so we consider, “advanced” in civilisation and wisdom, and thereby
in self-control--Ourselves whose “culture” seems to our own judgment
a finer and more perfect attainment than divine justice. The tornado
of the French Revolution, the pitiless ravages of the Napoleonic wars
have appeared to us like a tale that is told, “full of sound and
fury, signifying nothing”--and we have lazed the time away, getting
and spending, in the peaceful high noon of national prosperity and
contentment, feeling confident that we should never in our day be
shaken from our centre-poise of complacent self-satisfaction by
anything of larger disturbance than occasional family quarrels gotten
up more for the sake of varying the monotony of peace than with any
serious intent. And now, lo!--the bolt falls--the vials of wrath and
judgment are opened and poured forth over land and sea--the whirlwind
is upon us, and we who slept are awakened by its sweeping rage, its
rattling rain, its lightning flashing against our windows of security,
and we leap to our feet, startled but not alarmed--unprepared, maybe,
but not unready. We realise what the storm means, and we know how to
weather it; we are not afraid--we only wish we had not slept quite so
long!

Nevertheless, though our sleep may have been heavy, it has refreshed
our forces and has not diminished our energies. Our waking is to good
purpose. The very shame we feel at the length of our slumber is an
excellent tonic and invigorates us. Sleep shall no more weigh down our
eyelids--we are alert, strong, and resolute, even in the midst of the
whirlwind. For it is a storm in which we alone are not involved. It has
swept over a smaller nation than our own, all undeservedly--a little
sister nation with the heart of a thousand heroes beating in her small
bosom--and her unmerited sorrow has served as the keynote to strike all
that is in us of Character and Conduct. We see her defaced with blows,
insulted and outraged by ravening cruelties; and the chivalry born from
centuries of martial glory rises strong and full-armed in every man
that claims justice for her wrongs. We of Britain have not warred for
ourselves--our fight is for the better, broader freedom of the whole
world. The whirlwind has caught us up in the swoop of its revolving
wings solely that we may take our part in the purifying of the House of
Man. And our victory will be made manifest in the open response to our
inward intention.

       *       *       *       *       *

The militarism of Prussia is a crime, springing from old roots of human
savagery and barbarism which should have died long ago. The brutal
War, made treacherous and bloody by new devices of destruction, the
inventions of fine science misapplied, was an outbreak of stupidity on
the part of an obtuse and stupid set of men, sodden with selfishness
and delirious with a drunken dream of World-Power. The teachings of
Treitschke and Nietzsche are the teachings of egotists with unsound and
ill-balanced brains. Nietzsche went mad, and howled his philosophies to
the walls of the padded room. Treitschke was covertly insane; like the
“secret drinker” who in public pretends he cannot touch strong liquor,
he assumed to be proud and sagacious when he was no more than crazily
self-obsessed. He preached the doctrine of Hate, and no sane man
ever did that. The German nation, accepting this sort of “Kultur” as
gospel, accepted the ravings of the mentally deficient, and, plunging
breast-high into a sea of brothers’ blood, proved itself infected
by the same madness as that which poisoned the veins of its mad
instructors. To any thoughtful student, looking on at such a frightful,
wicked, and overwhelmingly stupid slaughter of men by machinery there
can be nothing more terrible, more lonely or more accursed in all the
realm of fact or fiction than the figure of the Kaiser--the miserable
epileptic who is responsible for shrouding his “Fatherland” in the
black veil of mourning, and for drowning its peace and progress in a
flood of widows’ and orphans’ tears. Mentally unbalanced, physically
inefficient, and morally lacking--living as one pursued by the Furies
in an armoured cage, and surrounded by guards on earth and in air,
lest by chance his “Gott” should kill him, he moves one to amazement
and pity--for the whirlwind has him in its centre, twirling him round
and round like a veritable mannikin of sport for the dread gods of
destiny--a mannikin who hardly knows how he came to be where he is, or
where he will find himself when the storm is past. Meanwhile his voice
is heard above the storm shouting “To England! England! The one foe! My
Mother’s land, which I hate! Would that every drop of British blood in
my veins might be drained out of me!”

Well, why not? A calf has been bled before now, and not a drop of
its mother’s blood has been left in its carcase--there is nothing to
prevent this desirable consummation for the Kaiser since he so devoutly
wishes it. The whirlwind may strip him yet, and perform this required
kindness! But in the interval the arrogant and half-crazed “War Lord”
has sacrificed the best flower and strength of Germany’s manhood to
his criminal and insatiable lust of power. The German people have not
yet realised the mercilessness of this military despot--but when they
do--when they count the desolate homes, the ruined trades, the lost
commerce, the ravaged lives and broken hearts which mark the “triumph”
of the stagey and spectacular “hero” they have worshipped, there will
be an end of the blind credulity with which they have followed a vain
ideal.

       *       *       *       *       *

For us British, the Whirlwind is a grand thing. It is blowing
us fiercely clean of Self--it is tearing away from us the silly
sophistries of fashion and frivolity and showing us things in their
true light. Our ape-like jesters of the press, of the Bernard Shaw
type, who have mocked at all things holy, serious, and earnest, are
finding their proper level, and shrinking into corners where they
are scarcely seen--where it is to be hoped they may be peaceably
forgotten. Our “sex-problems,” our “advanced” women, our screaming Doll
Tear-sheets of militant suffrage--these trouble the air no more with
the hysterics which are engendered by having nothing useful to do. We
have no time for trifling. We are face to face with the long-despised
Obvious--“Life is real, life is earnest”--and we are casting off the
slough of political humbug and social sham, and are as one in the
splendid bond of patriotism and love of country. We may trust the
Storm; we may welcome the Whirlwind. It has come to clear the sky
of miasma and vapour--it is making light to show us where we truly
stand. If we are honest with ourselves we shall admit that in latter
years we have given ourselves over-much to the pursuit of material
gain and personal pleasure, we have neglected our faith in divine and
high ideals, and Self has been more or less our god; it was time that
we received a wholesome check and a warning before we lost all that
has made us great. We have responded swiftly to the goading spur--our
crust of selfishness was but thin after all, and has broken and melted
away in a flood of magnificent generosity and practical sympathy--for
never had nation a nobler Cause than ours, when, as brothers in arms
with our brave allies, we fought to right the unspeakable wrongs of
unoffending Belgium, and to aid in defending France from the invader
and usurper. Should the enemy conquer in this mighty struggle the whole
world will be the impoverished loser; should we and our allies win,
the whole world will gain by our victory and share with us a wider,
nobler freedom than before. It is for this cause that the Whirlwind
has come upon us--to cleanse a cancer from our midst, and to put away
from ourselves and our neighbours the dread contamination of a disease
involving the whole trend of civilisation. We may thank God for it,
despite all its terrors, its rain of blood, its thunders of the air
and sea, its swift death dealt to thousands of innocent souls--it is a
storm that was needed to clear the air. And when it is past, and the
sun shines once more, we shall realise that its causes were to be found
not in one nation only, but in many--in ourselves as well as in our
foes--and that some great and forceful movement of destiny was urgently
called for to sweep away from humanity the accumulating mass of its own
self-wrought evil. And if victory should be ours, it will behove us to
take it with all humility, giving thanks to God--“_lest we forget_!”




THE KAISER’S HARVEST OF DEATH

A CRIME OF STUPIDITY

(_First published in the “Sunday Times”_)


In every great national crisis, when war or revolution brings havoc
on existing civilisation and works sudden and violent change in all
social, political, and diplomatic relations, we are invariably able to
discover One Man--or at the most, perhaps, two or three men--primarily
responsible for the general upheaval.

History is impressively explicit concerning these personages. She
never fails to show us how, by some strange lack of the most ordinary
foresight and common sense, they stumble when apparently on the
height of success, and commit irreparable blunders which hasten their
careers to a disastrous close. Such was the case with Napoleon and
many other would-be Alexanders of ambition; but of all the tragic
blunderers of time surely none can equal or surpass the “War Lord” of
Germany. Here is a man who had the splendid chance of securing for
his country and people the largest share of the commerce of Europe;
it lay easily within his grasp. Yet he has let it go, like a handful
of sand and shells dropped by a child at play on the seashore. To
satisfy the personal cravings of a vaunting, blustering Egoism for
blood-and-thunder “effects” he has lost the peaceful conquest of a
world!

Amazing, deplorable, and incredible folly!--when such conquest could
have been gained without a blow, without the boom of a single gun,
without the explosion of a single shell! It could have been attained
in the only way by which any truly “civilised” nation should ever seek
supremacy--through the development of industry and commerce, and the
quiet assumption of the power that industry and commerce give. All
that we call “progress” should fortify the stand of human resolution
on this basis. It is not necessary, it is not even sane or decent that
any peoples should tolerate what Carlyle describes as “the spectacle of
men with clenched teeth and hell-fire eyes hacking one another’s flesh,
converting precious living bodies and priceless living souls into
nameless masses of putrescence, useful only for turnip manure”--which
is a rough but accurate picture of war deprived of all its devilish
excitement and glamour.


WASTED OPPORTUNITY

To Kaiser William more than to any other monarch of his time was given
the glorious chance of becoming the greatest benefactor of Germany
which that realm had ever known. He could have created for his people
such conditions of peace, happiness, and prosperity as were almost
incalculable. He stood in the broad sunshine of ripening trade--the
markets of the world were open to him--fields of wealth were spreading
around him on all sides, and his cheerfully working millions had but
to reap the grain their industries had sown and gather in a rich and
plenteous harvest. Why, then, in the name of all that is great, noble,
and pitiful, did he choose to make a harvest of death instead of life?


A TRAGIC WITNESS

During the grim and ghastly struggle at Verdun we are told the Kaiser,
standing “at safe distance,” watched through his field-glasses the
fiery mowing down of his countrymen to the number of forty-five
thousand! Does any one, reading this, take the trouble to pause and
consider what it means? Forty-five thousand strong, brave men in the
flower of manhood (for let us hope we are none of us so unjust as to
deny our enemies their strength or their courage); forty-five thousand
capable human beings fit for every sort of industrial labour--the
blood and bone of future generations--slaughtered like vermin; and
their Emperor, their sworn Defender and Protector, within sight-range,
looking on!

What a “Harvest Home”! Are we able to conceive the nature and
temperament of a monarch who _could_ so look on at this massacre of his
subjects and not rush among them to stop the advance of their serried
ranks and “massed formations,” resulting in such a wanton and wicked
waste of life? The crazy antics of Nero were mere child’s play compared
with this callous attitude of William of Hohenzollern; an attitude
which even his French foes cannot maintain. For, fired with vengeance
for old wrongs as they are, and bent on victorious justice, they have
declared themselves “sick with slaughter.”

“Such hecatombs,” writes Colonel Rousset, “cannot last. Our adversary,
while carrying his disregard of human life to the point of madness,
cannot go on throwing his soldiers into the charnel-house without
thinking of to-morrow.”

The losses of the Germans at Verdun have been estimated at 10,000 per
day! “I dream at night,” writes one French artillery officer, “of those
ghastly crumpled heaps of shattered gray-green bodies! Germany’s wives
and mothers must curse the Kaiser in their prayers!”


THE CRIME OF STUPIDITY

Voltaire is accredited with the saying that “the only crime is
stupidity.” According to this dictum one must come to consider the
“All-Highest War Lord” the greatest criminal of an epoch, his stupidity
being almost without parallel in history. What man, not entirely mad,
seeing a world of prosperity within reach of his hand would clench his
fist and knock the whole splendid sphere away from him at one blow! The
proposition seems absurd and untenable, yet it has been and continues
to be the Kaiser’s policy, or the policy of his ministers and advisers;
clear to all save those who remain perversely and wilfully blind.

For it is not too much to say that before the war Germany was pushing
quietly but surely through every branch of commerce. From triumph to
triumph she moved easily onward; everywhere her ramifications were
spreading like the vigorous roots of a fast-growing tree. In Great
Britain she had possessed herself of many of our trades; her goods
were everywhere; her cutlery, her glass, her woollens, her linens, her
dyes, her silver and copper ware, her chemicals--why, even our very
window-frames were “Made in Germany”! She was at work in our mines and
coal-fields; she was ahead of us in science, in invention, in industry
and general “thoroughness.”

And let us not forget that we were, or appeared to be, supinely
indifferent to her inroads on all that we used to claim as our “special
line” and particular property. We were, like Hamlet, “growing fat and
scant of breath.” We were disposed to indolence and self-indulgence,
and, when we saw Germans working _for_ us, and _by_ us, and _through_
us, taking the very tools out of our listless hands, we were agreeably
convinced that they saved us a deal of trouble. They worked so cheaply,
too!--and cheapness in necessary goods appealed to us, because it gave
us more to spend on racing and football. The “Space for Special News”
in our Press was not reserved (as intelligent foreigners conceive it
ought to be) for serious information on world’s business; but for
“Football Results” or cricket, in the respective seasons of these
gamesome athletics--and the very word “patriotism” was laughed out
of court as “Jingoism.” We gave the honours of heroes to our tennis
champions, and played about while the Germans worked. They worked--as
many of the British refuse to work; they saved--as many of the British
decline to save; they gained their ends, because by our very inertia we
gave them every opportunity to do so.


BRITISH APATHY

Mr. Hughes, Prime Minister of Australia, said in a recent speech
that Germany “had abused our foolishly generous hospitality.”
This is not quite accurate, since we were neither so generous nor
hospitable as careless and lazy. We allowed our trades to slip through
our fingers--the State did nothing for native work, science, or
invention--and ambitious men of hope and endeavour left the country
in shoals to make fortunes in other lands, _many firms establishing
themselves in Germany in order to win the rewards denied them in their
native home_!

Germany held a more tenacious grip on every corner of the earth than we
in our latter “go-as-you-please” way ever realised. All over the United
States, Canada, and Australia her people have spread; you find them
in India, in Persia, in Egypt, in Africa; as a matter of fact, there
is no country where German influence has not been actively at work
while other nations looked on. Antwerp itself was wellnigh possessed
by German commerce before its military bombardment; it was already a
centre of German trade and German shipping, and in many of its business
houses more German was spoken than either French or Flemish. Great
Britain was lagging behind in the race; and had peace been maintained
for another twenty-five years Germany might easily have mastered the
world; and we might have lost all leading hold on commerce.

For let us not delude ourselves on the subject of our own inertia!
It is owing to the magnificent stand made for justice and right by
the hero-King of Belgium that we have been awakened from long apathy;
had it not been for his resolute example, both France and England
would have suffered far more than they are suffering now! Friend and
Defender of both nations, he stands out as the noblest figure in the
struggle--the one who, when victory sits upon our helm, must be the
first to receive that which is due to him: the restoration of his
country and his throne.


LOSS AND GAIN

And now the rivers of gold that were flowing into Germany through her
trade are stopped, “damned up” as the sensational special correspondent
would say--by British, French, and German dead! The latest estimate
of German losses at Verdun is two hundred thousand! Does the Kaiser,
at safe distance, still “look on”? What blessing has this monarch
of a great and productive realm brought upon his people? Mourning,
desolation, and irremediable misery! No triumph, no victory can atone
for such a deluge of blood and tears! That capricious Personage
“somewhere in Heaven,” whom Wilhelm calls “Unser Gott,” may possibly
resent the deliberate casting away of golden opportunities on the
part of his crowned earthly “familiar,” to whom a peaceful world was
offered, only to be kicked aside for a battered helmet and broken sword!

“Thrust in thy sickle and reap!” O Emperor of a brief and bitter
day! The harvest of death, not life!--the harvest of curses, not
blessings! The thousands of dead men--dead in the very strength
of manhood--sacrificed in a holocaust on the flaming altar of the
wickedest war the world has ever seen, may have their own story to
tell to “Unser Gott”; so may the bereaved and wretched women whose
husbands and sons have been torn from their arms for ever. May the true
God help them all!--for in the unspeakable hell of iniquity around us
man is wellnigh powerless; though, like every evil thing, war has its
good side. It shows us with each day heroism of the finest, courage
of the strongest, self-sacrifice of the noblest, existing among us
all; and it has reawakened the higher spirit of England. For this we
have cause to be devoutly thankful! In a certain sense it has saved us
from ourselves; and from the enervating love of pleasure and personal
avarice which was slowly undermining our better qualities.

And even the Kaiser, “looking on” at the legions of his own subjects
falling like withered leaves in a whirlwind of fire, may one day shake
off his frenzied nightmare of battle, and repent--exclaiming with
Judas:--

“I have sinned, in that I have betrayed the innocent blood!”




THIS AMAZING WAR

A WOMAN’S POINT OF VIEW

(_Reprinted by special request from the “Sunday Pictorial” of March 28,
1915_)


What can be said or thought of it? This wonderful massing of
nations--this appalling slaughter of men--this relentless rolling on
of a Divine Elemental Force, too vast and powerful and resolute for
humanity to resist! It is a War so terrible, yet withal so grand,
and so pregnant with infinite issues that we, who are swept by the
dust and carnage of its fighting millions--we, who are stunned by the
clash and clamour of the frightful weapons of modern science which
it uses on land, under sea, and in air, are more or less incredulous
and stupefied, and we have been only with difficulty aroused to try
and understand its fateful import. It is Destiny in labour; and the
pangs and throes of her child-birth will give us a New World! For the
Old World is fast crumbling and crushing down upon us like an ancient
ruin struck by lightning-flash and thunderbolt; the old vices, lusts,
and littlenesses are being torn away from us as a storm-wind tears
away the parasite ivies from mouldering walls--and we shall presently
see a break in the clouds and light through the darkness. This thing
of terror and confusion Was To Be; it Had To Be! It has been coming
upon us slowly, but steadily, for years--and if we are honest with
ourselves we shall admit that we have felt its approach instinctively
in a general sense of insecurity--in a feverish impulse of haste to
live lest we should suddenly die!

Something--we know not what--a cloud or a blight--has visibly lowered
over the face of European civilisation, and in order to set aside
certain strange and perplexing inconsistencies of such conduct among us
as might induce us seriously to Think--we have flung ourselves eagerly
into a vortex of “sensations” new and old, bad and good, virtuous and
vicious, with a kind of furious recklessness, bordering on insanity.
Any lapse of morals, any bizarre or weird “craze” in art, any indecency
in literature, has been acclaimed and encouraged as “new” and “strong”
instead of being condemned for being old and weak as such things truly
are--and in many vital matters the nation has been moved by a petulant
spirit of selfish, restless irritability, like that of a querulous old
man who has neither the grace nor the courage to accept his age with
wisdom, sweetness, and dignity. And among various mad things we have
done, one stands out pre-eminently as the maddest--and that is the
tacit encouragement given by a section of society and the press to a
brood of Atheists, who have trailed their poisonous slime along the
pathways of peace where the youth of this

   “Happy breed of men, this little world.
    This precious stone set in the silver sea,”

have wandered unsuspectingly, gathering the ugly stain on the innocent
white of their souls’ garments. Never did a sin of this nature occur
in the history of nations without Divine punishment inflicted, not so
much to destroy as to purify. The chronicles of every civilisation ever
known or heard of bear unswerving testimony to the truth that whenever
a nation or a people assumes to itself Divine right, dismissing from
its mind and conscience the idea of any higher Supreme Power before
Whom it should humiliate itself daily with thanksgiving and prayer,
that nation or people has been allowed to follow the lure of its own
intellectual pride and self-sufficiency to inevitable disaster.


IDEAL WORTH FIGHTING FOR

This is, and this will be, the case with Germany. For years her people
have willingly listened to the teachings of egoists and madmen such as
Treitschke and Nietzsche--for years they have scoffed at Christianity,
its Founder and its ethics; and they have tempted the Divine Spirit in
Man with the devil’s whisper, “All these things will I give thee if
thou wilt fall down and worship me!” But that Divine Spirit is stronger
than all Germany and its rulers; and “Get thee behind me, Satan!”
is the keynote of this great War. The Satan of ambition, greed, and
cruelty embodied in the creed of Prussian militarism must be driven
“hence”; and it is for this holy Cause that we and our Allies are
fighting. We must have a free world!--free in the sense of highest,
purest freedom--a world of ideas, thoughts, and deeds built up on the
golden law of Christ, “Love thy neighbour as thyself.” As a statesman
has so nobly expressed it: “We wish the nations of Europe to be free to
live their independent lives, working out their own form of government
for themselves, and their own national development, whether they he
great nations or small States, in full liberty. This is our ideal.”

An ideal worth fighting for--worth dying for!--this “glorious liberty
of the free!” None of us would grudge life or fortune to attain the
splendid goal in sight--a radiant vision of the true “Holy City,” where
as we are told--“the nations of them which are saved shall walk in the
light of it, and the kings of the earth do bring their glory and honour
within it.”


POISONOUS TEACHING

Glory and honour never accompany the creed of selfish Materialism,
which is the “Kultur” of Germany. What a miserable man was he who wrote
down in cold blood these words: “I condemn Christianity. To me it is
the greatest of all possible corruptions. I call Christianity the one
great curse, the one great intrinsic depravity, the one immortal shame
and blemish in the human race!” This was Nietzsche--poor, sickly,
egoist, Nietzsche! He died mad--yet he was the “guide, philosopher,
and friend” of modern Germany! How has his teaching worked? Let the
slaughtered thousands of his countrymen on the battlefields reply. And
let us take heed that we in our turn be not infected by the poisonous
breathings of such insanity! Our nation--our Imperial Britain--has
been dangerously far along the road to similar madness--let us hope
devoutly that we have been pulled up in time! But--“we have done those
things which we ought not to have done”--as, for example, we have
thrown the sneer of “Jingoism!” contemptuously in the face of many an
honest patriot--and now we are loud in our expressions of wrath and
astonishment at the “want of patriotism” displayed by certain tribes
of working men who “strike” for more pay, indifferent to the country’s
needs! What have these working men been taught for the last twenty
years? Why, that Money is the only god, and Self the only master! When
we reproach them for unpatriotic conduct, we should reproach ourselves
still more for the encouragement and applause we have systematically
given to every new or revived doctrine of selfishness and materialism
that ever infected the world with its sickly symptoms of decay.
Patriotism is a mental and spiritual attitude--as heroism is--as love
and faith are. Such things cannot be taught; they are the result of
ennobling influences brought to bear on life and its environment.
Considering how little our educational system holds of such subtle and
delicate training, we have reason to be proud of the splendid response
of our men throughout the Empire to the call of “King and Country,” and
of the real national “grit” which in every Briton underlies his surface
show of levity and indifference.

But have I, as a woman, nothing to say of the war, save in its ethical
aspect? Oh, yes! I, as a woman, could say much, in a woman’s way. Of
the agony of parting from men dearer to us than life, and seeing them
disappear behind a veil of impenetrable silence for weeks or months,
their fate or fortune all unknown! I could weep all day and night for
the cruel loss of young and gallant lives crushed out and left bleeding
and festering on the awful fields of contest--and I long to speak
words of consolation and hope to the dear women who wait in strained
suspense for news of their husbands, fathers, lovers, and sons! I know
all they feel; and the aching throb of their unuttered misery strikes
on my own heart with keenest pain! But with all the sorrow and all the
suffering, I would not, if I could, hold back one man from taking his
share in the noble struggle for the betterment and future peace of
the world! One can die but once; and “Greater love hath no man than
this--that a man lay down his life for his friends!”




“ALL WE LIKE SHEEP”

A PEOPLE’S PATIENCE

(_First published in the “Sunday Times”_)


The words “people” and “popular,” viewed by academic dark-lanterns
of literature, are opprobious epithets. Any person designated as
“popular,” or favoured by “the People,” falls at once outside the pale
of mutual-admiration societies--_ergo_, is not an academic dark-lantern
for the blind to lead the blind, so that both fall into the ditch. Yet
it is well understood that those who affect to despise the People and
“popular” opinion are the very ones most influenced by both, inasmuch
as not one among them but knows that in the long run the People alone
are the arbiters of national destiny. Sometimes it hardly appears as if
it were so--yet so it is. Though at this present fateful moment of time
it would seem that the People of the British Empire are stricken dumb.
They are a voiceless multitude, rendered inert by the knowledge that if
they speak every effort will be made to silence them, and that though
they have much to ask they will not be truthfully answered. For they
are only “the People”!--the ruck of taxpayers--the grist that goes to
the mill!

But what a People! Consider them as they are to-day, straining every
nerve and sinew in the work necessary for the carrying on of a wicked
and barbarous world-war, wherein they truly, _as_ a People, sought
and desired no part, but into which they were plunged unsuspectingly,
without fair warning or honest preparation; and now, being involved in
the struggle for justice and right, do most nobly acquit themselves--a
People who are giving up their sons, their life-blood, their All
for which they have worked through years of anxious toil--a People
who, when their little harmless children are torn to shreds by enemy
bombs falling from hitherto beneficent skies, are told by a fatherly
Government that “no material damage was done by the raid”--a People
who are cozened with lies and flattered by false news--a People who in
the gallant thousands of their slaughtered men are dying that Britain
may live!--or, shall we venture to say, that Cabinet Ministers may
“take their salary and continue to take it!”--an historic utterance
which will ring through the vault of posterity like Nelson’s “England
expects”--only with something of a difference! How long will this
splendid People endure in sheep-like patience what the Press justly
calls “Waste and Muddle” in high places, without giving vent to their
forcible but natural outburst known as “popular” feeling?

We read in one of the columns of a sane and non-party daily journal
the following:--“No one can say that the nation is satisfied with the
way it is governed.” This expresses in one clear phrase the apparent
situation. The word “apparent” is used advisedly, for in many spectral
things of recent statesmanship some of us feel with Macbeth that
“Life’s but a walking shadow.” The present Government, being of a
sometimes severe, sometimes indulgent parental character, seems to
look upon the public, or “the People,” as a sort of promising Child,
that sits quietly waiting to be told things, no matter whether the
things are false or true. Wedged in a nursery chair with a bar across
its bulgy waist to prevent it tumbling out on the floor, this Child
is supposed to smile and suck its finger all day long in a state of
blissful belief in nonsense rhymes and fairy tales. It is a wonderfully
good Child, and Papa Government is pleased to find how easily it can
be played with. Its simplicity is delightful! Things printed in large
type catch its eye and tickle its fancy, because occasionally (though
more in the past than in the present) it fancies that large type means
something of national importance. But with all its guilelessness it
has a vast amount of natural intelligence, and it begins to understand
that it is not, and never will be, allowed to learn the drift of
Governmental tactics, or the true state of parties in politics. It
is hazily becoming aware that it is kept in its nursery chair to be
gulled, not to be enlightened. In happier moments it has shown that
it likes to be amused, thrilled, startled, horrified, or moved to
indignation, and, so far as the “Censor” permits, the gagged and
bound Press tries to do its best on these lines, and dances for its
entertainment as well as a poor bear in chains _can_ dance, though
growling _sotto voce_ all the while! But, considered as a Child, the
public is not thought fit to be told the truth. Its opinion on national
affairs is neither sought nor wanted; all that is required of it are
Silence and Obedience. These it gives, with what result? Why, as Mr.
Asquith said, “Wait and see!”

Yet surely the waiting is long? “All we like sheep are gone astray;”
but possibly we have been led astray more than we have gone of our
own accord. All peoples have a certain sheep-like tendency; they
follow a lead. Where the leader goes the flock goes likewise. This is
sometimes set down as evidence of weakness, but with the British people
it marks both duty and discipline, obedience to law and order, love
and maintenance of home and country. Yet--let us suppose NO leader!
That is--NO leader capable of leading anywhere save into quagmires and
pitfalls of “Waste and Muddle”!

   “The hungry sheep look up and are not fed,
      But swollen with wind and the rank mist they draw,
    Rot inwardly.”

Rumour has it that on our East Coast the inhabitants have been
“prepared” for a “German landing,” and have been told where to go
inland as “refugees.” Whether true or false, such a report should
never have gained currency; the word “refugees” should never be even
whispered as likely to be applicable to British subjects. Similarly on
the East Coast it is openly said that during the last enemy air-raid
two Zeppelins were “within easy gun-shot” and could have been brought
down, but that our anti-aircraft men were “_forbidden to fire_.” By
whom? Ah! There we touch upon secrets not to be disclosed by Papa
Government to any inquiring Child! Though when half a secret comes to
light the other half is not far behind! Let us not forget the warning
given by the greatest of all Teachers:--

“A man’s foes shall be they of his own household.”

It is idle to deny that there are traitors in our own camp; men of
position and influence who are more pro-German than British--who would
not scruple to pave the way to any dishonour provided they could serve
their own personal ends. Is any one so intellectually blind and bereft
of common sense as to suppose that even with certain of our statesmen
financial interests do not outweigh their patriotism? Time is a
merciless revealer of facts, and in its record of this war some strange
things will be written!

To those who have eyes to watch and brains to understand, the advent
of Mr. Hughes, Premier of Australia, is a wonderful, almost touching,
circumstance. Here is a Man at last!--a man who loves his country and
is not afraid to say so--a man who appeals to the right spirit of the
nation straightly and truly, with courage and conviction. “The People”
answer to his voice: that “People” whom snobs abhor! Snobbery is apt
to speak of the fine Younger Race of Imperial Britain as “Colonials,”
with a touch of contempt, as though they represented something small
and negligible, instead of embodying as they do the future power and
stability of the Empire. This “Colonial” Prime Minister shows strength,
boldness, and sincerity; he is a leader, and “All we like sheep” are
disposed to follow him, if he can show us a way out of the thickets
where we wander, torn and bleeding. Pray Heaven he be not wearied
by specious talk, or repelled by still more specious hypocrisy! or
hampered and discouraged by the working of the “wheels within wheels”
which move with such secret and perplexing intricacy, crushing honest
effort and smothering honest speech! Surely the British people can be
trusted to know what their foes know, what their Allies know, what
America knows? Are they alone to be deceived?--even into purchasing
goods “from America” which are German? Mr. Hughes needs to speak yet
more forcibly; he must rouse the slothful and the unthinking, and tell
them that if they would conquer their skilful and insidious Teuton foe,
they must equally conquer themselves; and that when the markets are
open for British labour, British labour must not fall back in energy
or stint its output. Business must go hand-in-hand with industry and
quickness, for “the race is to the swift and the battle to the strong!”

“All we like sheep” are waiting, not for compromise, but for conquest;
conquest full, splendid and lasting! The “People” are patient and
submissive enough, but they seek to put their confidence in a
Government that shows confidence in itself. If they feel that they
cannot do this, what then? Should not the following words of Carlyle be
remembered?:--

“Urge not this noble, silent People. Rouse not the Berseker rage that
lies in them! Do you know their Cromwells, Hampdens, their Pyms and
Bradshaws? Men very peaceable, but men that can be made very terrible!
Men, who like their old Fathers in Agrippa’s days, have a soul that
despises death; to whom death, compared with falsehoods and injustices,
is light! Yes, just so godlike as this People’s patience was, even so
godlike must its impatience be!”




WANTED--MORE WOMEN!

AN APPEAL

(_Written for the London “Daily Chronicle”_)


Women! You are wanted by the Nation! In the words of the recruiting
posters “Your Country calls!” It calls even YOU--you, who for centuries
have been the “weak vessels” of man’s passion and humour, are now
needed to strengthen man’s hands in the terrific business of a world’s
battle. You have helped them already; but you must help them still
more. Now is the day and hour to prove your “undaunted mettle,” and
not only your mettle but your generosity, your magnanimity, your
forgiveness! For in peace times man has denied you the very possession
of ordinary common sense; he has thrust you out of intellectual and
academic honours; he has grudged you any place in art, literature or
science, and he has made you the butt of every cynic, comedian, and
caricaturist ever since he arrogated to himself the “everything” of
life. You have been and are the grist to the mill of the comic press;
your fathers have often been glad to sell you in the marriage market to
the highest bidders; your lovers have played with you and deserted you
as bees the flowers whose honey they have stolen; your husbands have
often been faithless and perjured; and in certain of man’s legal forms,
you have been classed with “children, criminals, and lunatics,” but
now!--now, you are wanted!

You, so often despised, are prayed not to return scorn with scorn;
you, with your patience, doggedness, and strongly determined zeal
for attainment, are asked to come forward in your willing thousands,
and let the men go! For the cry is “havoc!--and let slip the dogs of
war!”--war, bitter, merciless, bloody and more savage than the crudest
wars of ancient days; war in the air, on the earth and under seas--war
that is as stupid, as blind, as criminal and as selfish as are all the
acts which men commit when they have so far brutalised woman as to
check and restrain her highest impulses, kill her idealism, obstruct
her intellectual aspirations, and treat her as the slave and tool of
a degrading animalism. Had they from the first dawn of civilisation
made her their mental and spiritual equal, by this time there would
have been no wars. Her love would have constrained and educated them,
her instincts guided them, her inborn maternity shielded them from
the wrongs their ambitions and jealousies persuade them to wreak upon
each other. Now, in the very midst of the combat which they have
brought upon themselves, they are caught within a black cloud of
almost superhuman disaster, where but one ray of the veiled sun shines
through--that Divine sense of Justice for which all true peoples are
bound to fight if indeed they be not wholly given over to the devil of
Materialism.

In this, women are, and must be, with them; they, who from the legended
days of Eve have laboured under the sense of utter injustice, will be
eager to help in any struggle for the Right against Might, because it
is their own cause--the very essence of their own existence.

Right against Might, women! Be with the men now in their manliest, most
pressing time of action! Forget their petty carping and cavilling at
“the female element” in workmanship and endeavour; laugh at the rough
and childish hands that beat and batter the woman’s breast with all
the petulance of spoilt children; fling every other thought aside but
the will and intent to help them on to victory! Make, and buckle on
their armour--let your hands prepare them for both attack and defence.
Nothing nobler will you ever find to do than this!

In old Arthurian legends, many were the fair women eager to buckle
on the armour of the peerless Knight Lancelot; but to-day there
are a million and more Lancelots in the field--young, brave,
dauntless--heroes all! Arm them, women!--and by arming them, defend
them! Thousands of you, strong and willing, are already at work--but
we want thousands more! Even you “toy-women” who dance half-nude o’
nights at restaurants and in basement saloons of “fashionable” hotels,
wreaking a sly vengeance on men by poisonous lure and seduction,
even you can be brave and helpful if you will! Give up your foolish
sensualities, and take to sturdy, sensible Work; wash the paint from
your cheeks, the dye from your hair, and clothe yourselves as fit women
who mean to help, and not to destroy men.

And you, too--you who turn your private homes into “Bridge Clubs”
where “officers on leave” may become members “without the payment of
a fee”--rookeries, where silly young subalterns are “rooked” indeed,
of every penny, losing not only cash but honour--can you not give up
this unprincipled and unwomanly “way of doing business” and come out
of your dens? You have hands deft enough for something better than
“Bridge”--and eyes that can see how to make shells for killing the
enemy, which is better than studying how to change a card that shall
cheat a friend! Put these ephemeral nothings of an ephemeral “society”
aside, and WORK! Work is the saviour of both body and soul!

I admit that as Women, we have long and old scores to settle with the
men who have denied us any place in their counsels, and who elect of
themselves to treat us merely as “toys” and fools. We shall have our
revenge upon them, but not now. Now is the time when we have the chance
to show our ability, our powers of organisation, our reasonableness,
our courage, our industry, and patience. Let us not fail! The curse of
the Jew who wrote Genesis and swore to Eve “I will greatly multiply
thy sorrow” has been upon woman ever since the days when courteous old
Abraham yoked her with his cattle and drove her with his sheep; but
there are evidences nowadays that the modern Abraham will not always
triumph, even though every true son of Israel who attends religious
service in his synagogue still says with Pecksniffian fervour:--

“Blessed art thou, O Lord our God, King of the universe, who hast not
made me a woman!” (See Authorised Jewish Daily Prayer Book.)

But, despite this most manly thanksgiving, it is paramount that now,
whether Jew or Gentile, men want the women!--not for pleasure, not for
fooling, not for seduction, not for betrayal, but for work! Man’s work
must be done in the absence of men. For men must be set free, like
uncaged wolves and lions, to fly at the throat of the foe and strangle
him for good and all! Therefore, man’s work must be accomplished by
women. O women, be glad and proud of this! Lady Frances Balfour, who
has a brain sufficing for three of our modern statesmen, has recently
written on “The Discovery of Women,” describing it wittily as similar
to “the discovery of America by Christopher Columbus.” She reminds us
of Lord Lansdowne’s “early Victorian” pronouncement that “the place
for women is the home.” But the worthy peer forgot to mention that it
is not given to every woman to have a home, or to run the cooking, the
child-bearing, and general washing-up business for any special one of
the male sex. On the other hand, there are thousands of women who not
only earn the money to make a home and keep it, but who also have the
affectionate unwisdom to keep a lazy loafer of a man also; some drone
who finds as many plausible excuses for idleness as he does for living
on the woman’s work. He, by the way, is generally the sort of fellow
who speaks of woman with sniggering contempt, and while taking her
earnings with the left hand stabs her in the back with the right. But
even such rogues as these have to go forth to the battle to-day; so let
us not grudge the buckling on of their armour if we can inspire courage
in cowards! Just now, when omens and portents are thick in the air, and
unnatural threatenings hover above us like shapeless spectres of evil,
our Ministers and statesmen are chattering for all the world like the
feeblest “patriarchs of the village” that ever waggled grey pates over
pipes of tobacco. They who complain of women’s “talk” are talking the
heads of the nation off into impatience and fury; let women not talk,
therefore, but act! Come to work, women of all classes!--the more the
better!--the more silently, the more swiftly! There is a great climax
at hand; the “push” is about to begin. EVERY ABLE-BODIED MAN IS NEEDED
TO ENSURE VICTORY. Let us make no mistake about that! Every woman is
likewise needed, to put her hand to the plough, and NOT look back.
Munitions must not fail us. Show your resolve, brave women of England,
Scotland, Ireland, and Wales, and nerve your slender hands to the task
of turning out the weapons of attack and defence that shall flame our
conquest of the foe on land and sea and in the air! And--when the war
is over--when “Peace with Honour” shines once more above us like a
glorious rainbow after storm--shall we--we Women who have worked, sink
to our old footing of debasement and exclusion from the counsels of
men? No! To paraphrase a famous Asquith utterance: “We have taken our
place, and we shall continue to take it, and to keep it!”




THE QUALITY OF MERCY

AN APPEAL TO AMERICA FOR SUFFERERS IN THE GREAT WAR

(_Written by special request for the American “Committee of Mercy”_)


There is no greater virtue in the human character than mercy; it is the
nearest attribute and approach to the Divine Perfection towards Whom
all creation instinctively moves. We, the offspring of that infinite
Thought and Will, are still far away from such sweet and strong
attainment of power as can find infinitude of joy in the infinitude
of Giving--but we can in some measure bless and purify our brief poor
lives with somewhat of that everlasting plenitude and beauty by an
effort, no matter how feeble, towards a God-like perpetuity of grace
and pity. The golden opportunity for that effort is Now and Here; we
may never have so great a chance again. For Now and Here, in the fair
days of spring and summer, when singing, blossoming Nature breaks out
in its Te Deum of thankfulness for yet another space of time wherein
to express the gladness and glory of life, we are confronted with the
hideous, ravaging spectacle of War; War, in its most cruel, pitiless,
and appalling shape--War, to the grimmest death! The groans and
shrieks of wounded, tortured, and dying men are forced upon our ears;
a monstrous Devil of Self, black with the crimes of treachery, lust,
and murder, stalks abroad seeking what it may devour of faith, freedom,
and civilisation--a demon possibly born of mankind’s own neglect of the
highest ideals, and indifference to countless blessings long bestowed.

And the most evil part of this evil visitation is that the terrific
whirlwind of disaster sweeps over the innocent as well as the guilty,
and men of valour and worth in all the nations now at war with one
another are driven by the force of a barbarous necessity into the agony
of wounds and death for no fault of their own, but for the mistakes and
aggressions of their governmental rulers. They are as falling leaves
blown before a storm--as smoke before fire--drifting into darkness! Yet
every one of them is moved by the inspiration and love of liberty--by
the sense of right and justice--and by the desire to help in doing what
is good and true for the larger benefit of the whole world. And in
this sense every one of them is noble; each life is worth our grateful
care. We, who appeal for them, take no part in the contest. To us they
are all our brothers in humanity; _their_ mothers, wives, sisters,
children, and lovers are ours also! We wish to lift them in our helping
arms out of the blood and mire of battle, and by our impartial love and
tenderness, to comfort them as much as we may, and relieve their bitter
need.

We want every American citizen to help us in this great, this divine,
work; for so best shall we prove the largeness of our thought, and the
wideness and scope of the civilisation of the Republic and it ideals;
so shall we best display the spirit of the young New World, uprising on
the waters of this deluge like another ark of the covenant, sending
forth the dove of hope and promise to those who are struggling for
life in the overwhelming waves. We would like to write the noble words
of Man’s universal Poet, Shakespeare, across the doors of all our
fellow-countrymen upon whom we now call for aid, convinced of their
generous response:--

   “The quality of mercy is not strained;
    It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
    Upon the place beneath: it is twice blessed;
    It blesseth him that gives and him that takes;
    ’Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes
    The thronèd monarch better than his crown--
              ... We do pray for mercy;
    And that same prayer doth teach us all to render
    The deeds of mercy.”

In this mind and mood we appeal for help: for ungrudging, tenderest,
quickest help!--the help that brave persons would instantly give if
they saw children drowning. For every man disabled, sick, or deprived
of his strength is as a struggling child in the flood of adversity,
and indeed more pitiful than a child, for the child’s day may be
yet to come, while his is past. Moreover, he has been snatched from
all that made life pleasant and useful to himself, to fight his
country’s battle, for which he, personally, is not responsible, but
which he enters upon for the sake of a duty which is purely heroic
self-sacrifice. Let us therefore accept this free gift of his manhood
in the cause of Right and Justice and Freedom, with no less cheerful
and willing gifts and self-sacrifices of our own; let us give and
still give, in the all-beneficent spirit of the daily sunlight which
pours itself out unasked over the fields and pastures to bless and
fructify them! And let us never weary of giving! From every man and
woman of the teeming population of the United States we ask a donation
for our Holy Cause--our new Crusade of the Lord’s Sepulchre--for
such it is, inasmuch as we seek to raise from the grave of silence
and despair those who have been giving the best of their lives in
suffering the horrors of this terrific War. Be the gift small or great
it will add to the sum of what we hope to make the most wonderful and
munificent gift and act of homage to martyred heroes that has ever
been known in the world! We are a Committee of Mercy, and we make this
Appeal to all the merciful, in God’s Name, and for the sweet uplifting
of a Star of Hope in the darkness!




STARVING BELGIUM

AN APPEAL

(_Written by request for Mr. Hoover’s “Belgium Relief Fund,” and
circulated through the United States Press_)


“_Six million of people are on the verge of starvation in Belgium!_”

Such news as this writes itself across the brain in letters of fire!
Great Goddess of Liberty, think of it! You, America!--you, who
represent that goddess, with the light of an ever-widening glory on her
brow, think of this shame to the very name of Freedom!--this blot on
civilisation--this degrading result, as it were, of our long-boasted
intellectual supremacy and scientific advancement! _Six million
people on the verge of starvation!_--through no fault of their own,
an industrious, peaceful, marvellously heroic little nation, deprived
of its honestly-earned right to live, and dragged from its altars of
prayer to weep in the dust of beggary and famine! You, America!--you,
Star-crowned States of Freedom that have already done so much and
_are_ doing so much for this broken and bleeding victim of bitter
circumstance--you cannot stay your hand now!--you cannot--you will not!
You will do _more_!--and still _more_! You cannot see a brave nation
die of sheer hunger!--it is not in your heart to look on at such a
frightful thing unmoved; therefore you will listen to all unprejudiced
appeal--even to mine, though I have little claim to your hearing save
that of the affection freely given to me by thousands of my readers
in your country--an affection gratefully accepted and as warmly
reciprocated! I have naught to do with the quarrels and murderous
onslaughts of men filled with blind fury and lust of world-power; all
that I can see or hear is the sorrow and suffering befalling those who
are innocent of any quarrel--the wives, the mothers, the young girls
and boys, the little children--the helpless and bewildered old people!
Cruel famine is already torturing these piteous and patiently enduring
souls, on whom such a black cloud of unmerited disaster has fallen that
it seems as if it would never lift! All who have power to visualise
their unparalleled distress _must_ and surely _will_ take every
possible means to soften and mitigate the horrors of their situation.
Generous America!--you have done and are doing much!--you have worked
and are working strenuously to relieve the burden of Belgium’s heavy
affliction, but work to you is the very pulse of your large life,
and bigness of conception in noble deeds is your breathing power!
Therefore, no hesitation need be felt in asking you to go on _Working_
and _Doing_ all you can for the tortured, half dying people of a
devastated country--a people whose magnificent heroism has blazoned
itself in a chronicle of glory for the wonder of the future years--a
nation that has faced her foes unflinchingly in the simple defence of
her freedom, and whose noble King, a hero to the manner born, has not
uttered one undignified word of complaint against the sudden and harsh
calamities meted out to him by the cruel caprices of a cruel destiny.
To America all grand things are possible--America, as yet aloof from
combat, can accomplish what other nations, involved in difficulties at
this juncture, can barely attempt: America can approach Germany with
the ease of one at peace in the midst of strife, and can with humane
forethought and certainty secure such distribution of food supplies
to the Belgian civil population as may save them from the sufferings
which now confront them every day. This is what America can do and with
all our hearts and souls we pray that it may be quickly done! _We_, in
Great Britain, are never weary of helping, to the best of our ability,
those exiles who have lost their homes and means of livelihood--we
strive to make their hard lot less bitter--and to one and all we
accord a welcome as to those of our own blood and kindred. But we are
at war, and though our Government is using all the means available to
prevent the threatening disaster of millions of non-combatants, women,
children, and the aged, being sacrificed to what is called “military
necessity,” such means are not enough, being perforce obstructed by
the difficulties of the situation. The grim idol of Militarism must
have its burnt offerings--that pitiless god of Battle so aptly and
magnificently described in Lord Byron’s _Childe Harold_:--

   “Lo! where the Giant on the mountain stands,
    His blood-red tresses deep’ning in the sun,
    With death-shot glowing in his fiery hands,
    And eye that scorcheth all it glares upon;
    Restless, it rolls, now fix’d, and now anon
    Plashing afar--and at his iron feet
    Destruction cowers, to mark what deeds are done;

           *       *       *       *       *

    All join the chase, but few the triumph share,
    The Grave shall bear the chiefest prize away,
    And Havoc scarce for joy can number their array!”

Time presses! The wolf of famine is at the very doors! Our hearts grow
cold with terror and with pity as we see once prosperous and happy
Belgium, a land of prosperous and happy people, shadowed by the fearful
spectres of Hunger and Disease. And while we do all we can and all we
may to keep back these menacing destroyers of the innocent, we clasp
hands across the sea with America, and look to her reasonableness,
her boundless compassion and benevolence, for wider, more continuous
help, feeling that she can, and will, most assuredly move the German
administration in Belgium to see to the free distribution of food, and
to guarantee that such distribution shall be made for the benefit of
the Belgian civil population. I believe the Germans would willingly
consent to this, if they have not already consented, for it cannot be
even to their own advantage that disease should be sown broadcast in
Belgium, and the entire industrial population decimated by famine.
Indeed, as a matter of fact, Mr. Whitlock, the American Minister at
Brussels, has made definite and official statement to the effect that
he is satisfied by close investigation on the spot that not an ounce
of food sent in by the Commission for Relief is being appropriated
by the Germans. It should, perhaps, be considered that Germany has a
heart somewhere! There are natural emotions in the mortal composition
of a German as well as in a Frenchman or a Briton--differently strung,
no doubt, and differently placed--but no man of any nationality
whatsoever is made solely of “blood and iron,” according to that
hackneyed catch-penny phrase which seems to have been coined by some
tall-talking journalist. I am not one of the many who “thrill” over
the various and sensational reports gotten up by the world’s press,
whether such reports emanate from Great Britain or the “Wolff Bureau.”
I am as doubtful of statements circulated by British journalism as
of those which are unblushingly “made in Germany.” Each newspaper
proprietor has his own axe to grind, and not always does honesty or
unsullied patriotism have much to do with the grinding. More mischief
than can be easily calculated is caused by irresponsible journalists
who are allowed to print their wholly useless and unnecessary personal
opinions on some great world-crisis in leading newspapers. When Edward
the Seventh ascended the British Throne he had something to say on one
occasion to “the gentlemen of the Press,” and he expressed the hope
that they would “do their best to foster amity and good-will between
the British Empire and other nations.” That the “gentlemen” have not so
acquitted themselves is a sad and sober fact; and in these very days of
the most terrific contest the world has ever seen, many of them show
an unworthy eagerness to “work up” suspicion and ill-feeling between
the combating parties, rather than to hold the balance equably and
with dignity. Insult, cheap sneers, and vulgar jesting are all out of
place in the present tremendous clash of conflicting powers; when the
gods grasp their thunderbolts it is no time to listen to the chattering
of apes. And when we are told by the Irresponsible Journalist of more
battle horrors and outrages than seem humanly possible of occurrence,
it does us good to learn through plain, unvarnished fact conveyed in
simply-written, straightforward letters from brave men at the front
and in the “firing line,” that, left to themselves, the Germans and
their Allied foes would be glad enough to play football together, if
allowed, like healthy schoolboys, and that even as it is they give each
other cigarettes across the trenches, proof positive that when not
acting “under orders,” they are human, normal, and friendly, and have
no thirst for each other’s blood. I quote the following from the letter
of a brave young Englishman serving in the Third Battalion of the Rifle
Brigade:--

  “On Christmas morning some of us went out in front of the German
  trenches and shook hands with them, and they gave us cigars,
  cigarettes, and money as souvenirs. We helped them to bury their
  dead, who had been lying in the fields for two months. It was
  a strange sight to see English and German soldiers as well as
  officers shaking hands and chatting together. We asked them to play
  us at football, but they had no time. I got into conversation with
  one who worked at Selfridge’s in London, and he said he was very
  sorry to have to fight against us.”

Reading this and various other letters of similar tone from men in the
very thick of battle, all bearing ample testimony to the same truth, I
cannot believe that the foe is so utterly a monster as to wish to see
six million innocent people slowly starved to death; for such a dire
business would serve his purpose little, while strongly intensifying
his immediate unpopularity. War is war; and if, after all, civilisation
is so poorly advanced that war must still play its barbarous part in
the world’s policy, then of course there must be exigencies of war
which can neither be ameliorated nor minimised. But the deliberate
starvation of six million innocent human beings, more or less useful
to their kind, does not and cannot come under the head of “military
necessity.” Therefore, it should be the proud privilege and duty of
“neutrals” to do all that is possible to soften and mitigate the
fearful conditions of life as at present lived in unhappy but undaunted
Belgium. The Commission for Relief, acting in London, and comprising
representatives of the Spanish, Dutch, and Italian Embassies as well
as the American, has undertaken a task which is almost herculean.
Work as they will--and there is no pause and no shirking--it is like
coping with the waves of an engulfing sea. The needs of the people
become more urgent every day that the fierce tug-of-war grows closer
and more insistent: Great Britain has found it imperative to stop the
importation of grain into Belgium, and all this is coupled with the
fact that under the Hague convention the German army has the right to
requisition food supplies, and is not bound (save morally) to feed the
enemy’s population. Nevertheless, common sense and diplomacy, as well
as mercy and justice, may here step in and show that starvation and
sickness may breed evil among the Germans themselves as well as among
the Belgians, by sheer force of contagion--evil of a kind which might
just as conveniently be avoided. Any starving nation claims instant
help and compassion--the sufferings it is compelled to undergo are too
awful to contemplate with any degree of calmness, and may make even
the sternest “Teuton” shudder. Therefore, if any of us can, or dare,
call ourselves Christians in the face of this un-Christian warfare,
which neither religion, science, nor “New Thought,” spiritual or
intellectual, has been deep or sincere enough to hinder, let us gather
up the fragile fragments of our faith and try to piece them together
in one heart-whole, soul-strong effort to save from impending misery
the brave little nation, rich in historical splendour of renown,
artistic beauty, and industrial progress, whose hard-working people
have desired nothing but peace and freedom to attend to their own
business unmolested. If Christianity is worth anything in the world we
would not let _one_ starving creature go unfed from our doors--shall we
leave six million to such an undeserved fate? If we do, then well may
the great Powers Invisible chastise us to our own doom, and vengeful
Furies whip us to a hell of shame and oblivion! Let us hold out rescue
at once with no uncertain hands, and let our practical aid be swift,
and “of good measure, pressed down and running over.” In all such deeds
of love and sympathy and charity Great Britain and America have led the
world by their splendid example. There has been no grudging, no paltry
personal discussion as to ways and means. For every good and worthy
cause gold pours out as from a magical horn of plenty; the more the
demand, the greater the supply. And now? Now--when a nation starves!
Shall not a veritable argosy of gold make its way across the miles
of ocean which divide the Fortunate from the Unhappy, and bridge the
gulf of tears and sorrow, striking light from darkness, and hope from
despair? This can be so if America wills it! Shall not a radiant Angel
of Consolation appear within the deepest gloom of battle, stretching
out hands of blessings and sustenance, lifting the fallen, cheering
the desolate, soothing the dying, and shedding heavenly sunshine on a
sorrow-clouded land? This can be so if America wills it! Shall not the
true brotherhood of humanity be re-affirmed and strengthened in the
rescue of one nation by another?--in the succour of the smaller by the
greater?--in the full acknowledgment of a brave fight for freedom by a
power that is more than free? This can be so if America wills it!

“O Liberty! what crimes are committed in thy name!” were the last
words of Madame Roland, heroic victim of the French Revolution--but
we would say: “O Liberty! what love is perfected in thy name!” when
starving Belgium is fed!--because America wills it! Hear my appeal, O
Star-crowned States of Freedom!--hear me!--hear all!--Let no pleading
voice pass you by _un_-heard! For the brave Nation that is dying must
live!--_shall_ live!--if America wills it!




“THE TIME OF OUR LIVES”

OUR WOMEN IN WAR

(_An answer to an American misjudgment_)


“You women over here seem to be having the time of your lives!” said
an American friend to me the other day. “You lunch and dine at all the
restaurants with whatever men ‘on leave’ you can pick up; you go with
them to music-halls and theatres and supper dances, and ‘peacock’ about
in extravagant clothes as if there were no such thing as a war on!”

My American friend, being a man, took, as is often the case with men,
rather a one-sided view of things; but what he said is true, and
I fully endorse his statement. I am proud and eager to assure our
American sisters “on the other side,” that most surely we _are_ having
“the time of our lives”! No doubt about it! But, do you understand, you
women of New York, Boston, Chicago, and every other great and growing
city in the United States, what that “time” exactly is? Are you able
to measure it and give it your true understanding? I think not! It is
easy to sit as spectators in your vast amphitheatre of across ocean
and watch from comfortably-cushioned points of view the struggle in
the world’s arena between Men and Beasts; the contest is terrific,
revolting, yet sensational--and provides “thrills” for those who are
not actively engaged in combat. But for women whose husbands, lovers,
and sons are being mauled and crushed and torn by the teeth and
claws of ravening and unreasoning brutes, it is a spectacle demanding
“nerve,” to say the least of it. This “nerve”--this power of valiant
endurance is what Great Britain’s women are displaying in “the time of
their lives”--the time of loss and sorrow, danger and difficulty; and I
doubt whether the true history of this indomitable pluck, cheerfulness,
patience, and resignation will ever be rightly known! They have been,
and still are--magnificent!--a glory and an honour to their sex!
“The time of their lives” will be recorded in the country’s annals
as among the most sublime things witnessed and proved in a century.
They have grudged no sacrifice, no pain; they have sent their best and
dearest to the great slaughterhouse of Flanders with smiles on their
lips, restraining the sobs of agony in their hearts--they have not
shrunk in one single instance from any clear duty, however difficult
or apart from their own ways of life. Where men’s places have needed
to be filled, they have filled them most ably, conscientiously, and
loyally, without grumbling or complaint; and though some of their
male employers, too old to fight, but never too old to “bully,” have
occasionally made things uncomfortable for them by coarse words and
coarser actions, they have held their peace for the sake of their
men at the front, and are content to bear with insolence and insult
in silence rather than interrupt the routine of the work they have
undertaken in order to “release” the men, such “release” often meaning
for themselves sheer heart-break and desolation. Oh, yes!--we are
having “the time of our lives”!--a time such as this world never saw,
and which we all pray it may never see again!--a time when wives
toil in munition works to “release” their husbands, knowing that such
“release” may mean their own widowhood--when mothers part bravely
from their sons, conscious that they are going into such a hell of
barbarous slaughter as never was known even in the days of the Roman
butcher, Nero--when girls “release” their lovers, and bend their own
slight bodies to the heavy toil usually undertaken by the physically
stronger sex, and say nothing of their own fatigue, suspense, and
sorrow! There are thousands of such splendid women to set against
the few hundreds who “dine at restaurants” and “peacock about,” and
even these latter are not so abandoned to self and vainglory as they
seem. True, there are women who push their own ends under cover of
professing charity, and are never so happy as when they see their own
portraits in the lower grade press--this class has always existed
in every country and will no doubt continue to exist. And there are
plenty of female “decoys” for men “on leave”--who dine and dance at
public restaurants in _un_-dress that would disgrace a savage; but,
again, these have always existed, and will probably continue to exist.
The good Bishop of London seems to have only just discovered them,
which is a great testimony to his guilelessness. Then there is a
particularly unfortunate section of the pictorial press which seeks
to attract the public eye by indecent pictures of half-nude “women of
the town”--dancers, actresses, and titled dames who are equally at one
in a voluntary outrage of morals and modesty, and though the public
Censor might very well put a stop to these offensive illustrations,
he is apparently one of those “blind who will not see.” But you, our
sisters in America, do see, and rashly pass judgment accordingly! Then
there are the ridiculous fashion-plates used as advertisements in
newspapers and in the catalogues of leading drapers, which represent
women as the merest caricaturess of womanhood, looking more like
cockatoos and chimpanzees than feminine humanity, in costumes presented
as “the fashion,” but which no decent woman ever dreams of wearing.
All this is “the scum of the pot” which rises to the top, thereby
becoming noticeable--but it does not represent the actual Womanhood of
Britain--the great, Silent Force of patient, brave, unwearying workers.
These are scarcely heard of, for they give no chance to the tongues
of Rumour, and the press cannot get at them either for portraits or
personalities. As noble and exclusive as that noble and exclusive
lady, the Duchess of Portland, whose good works are legion, they make
no clamour--they are too busy to contend with the already opposing
masculine spirit which is beginning to demand of them, “Are you going
to _dare_ do our work after the war?” The main fact with them is not
the Afterwards but the _Now_--the resolve to hold together the working
necessities of Commerce and Agriculture in Britain--Now!--in time of
need--thinking nothing of themselves or of the pleasant little vanities
and frivolities dear to them in days of peace, but bracing up all
their energies to oppose trouble with valour, patience, and faith. No
women in all the world’s history have ever risen to confront a world’s
crisis so splendidly and cheerfully as the British--except the French!
French women are superb in their magnificent patriotism!--superb in
their steadfast hate of the foe. We are often told that the British
do not “hate” enough--and that if we were better haters we should be
better lovers. It may be so, but the general tendency among us is more
to despise than to hate. A “Tommy,” for example, would hardly think
it worth while to “hate” anybody. Good-nature is the Briton’s strong
point; good-nature and a cool, easy, “happy-go-lucky” disposition.
These virtues or failings led him into the German traps whereby he was
losing his hold on the commerce of the world. He could not be brought
to believe that his progressing friend “Fritz” could stab him in the
back while he stood unarmed and unready for attack; and, even now, when
he is up and full face to the combat, his good-nature still moves him
to sing and whistle along the fire-swept path to death or glory, and to
stop, regardless of self, among a hail of bullets to give first or last
aid to a dying foeman. Is such conduct foolish or sublime? A higher
verdict than ours must give answer! In any case we know and may take
it for certain that the “Silent Force” of women who are “having the
time of their lives” is a great lever to lift the men up to the utmost
pitch of their native-born courage and resolution, and to help them
meet Death as a fellow-soldier, taking the hand of the grisly skeleton
as fearlessly as children might run to look at some attractive novelty.
For, back of us all, men and women alike, there is a strong Faith
which our enemies have lost. _They_ talk of “Unser Gott” as glibly as
though the Almighty were solely exercised in serving their whims and
passions--but though _our_ deepest religion be not of the Churches, we
cannot so trifle with the Holy Name! We are too conscious of “The Truth
that makes us free,” and in the Cause for which we and our Allies are
fighting, we can best pray with Shakespeare’s Harry the Fifth:

   “O God of Battles! Steel my soldiers’ hearts!
     Possess them not with fear; take from them now
     The sense of numbers!”

For our Cause is the Cause of Right and Justice, Freedom and
Civilisation. We are not out for personal gain, either in gold or
territory. We have enough of both and to spare. We endure “the time
of our lives,” and its wanton and wicked slaughter of the innocent,
because we are fighting for all Humanity that it may never be so
savagely tortured again. We are fighting for a surer, more impregnable
Civilisation--one that cannot be pushed back a thousand years by
the ferocious and blind stupidity of any temporary autocrat. Is it
possible that there can be people of even average intelligence in the
States and elsewhere that do not entirely understand this? The British
intervention in the dastardly attack of Germany on Belgium and France
was to protect and defend unoffending and peaceable peoples, and in
this defence of others we have found Ourselves. We were beginning to
lose ourselves among the dreary verbosities of theorists and agnostics
and atheists and all the swarm of destructive insects which accompany a
setting-in of decadence; we have discovered once again our true spirit,
our old and valiant mettle, our pride and love of country, and all the
mighty heart of resolution which has made the British Empire what it
is. And we cannot but feel that the young and strong heart of America
beats in tune with our own--that, despite financial interests and
pro-German intrigues, Right and Justice prevail with the men and women
of the United States as with the men and women of this “little isle set
in a silver sea”--and that they very well know that they, too, must
benefit by the clearance from the world of a monstrous Militarism whose
ethics are opposed to every principle of Christian truth and human
equity. A great, strong Faith is at the back of us all--a Faith which
believes in the utmost triumph of Good over Evil--and this it is which
inspires the women of Great Britain and gives them strength to part
with their nearest and dearest, so that they endure “the time of their
lives” without flinching, knowing that they who endure to the end shall
be saved!




THE WORLD’S GREATEST NEED

AN APPEAL TO THE SANITY OF GOVERNMENTS

’Tis a mad world, my masters.--J. TAYLOR


What is the most urgent need of the world? What would stop war and
ensure peace? What would push forward all that is highest and best in
our civilisation, and cause men and women to realise that they are
not created to brutalise, degrade, and destroy each other in sordid
struggles for place and power, but that their purpose in living at all
is to educate and uplift each other to noble aims and ends? The great
Need stares us in the face at every point of social law and political
government; it clamours in our ears and pushes its problem to the
front of every question. What is it the world demands in every form
of policy, legislation, and statesmanship? A simple thing--one would
imagine it to be a natural thing--yet almost undiscoverable in any
period of history--Sanity! Sanity, which means health of both brain and
body; Sanity which recognises self only as a portion of the greater
Whole; Sanity which knows instinctively that mankind must obey the laws
of God or else suffer extinction; Sanity, which combines with reason
and judgment a comprehensive sympathy for every unit of the human race
in its struggle upward from the brute period to the highest realisation
of intellectual and spiritual worth.

Judged from this point of view one may doubt, when reading history
from its known or traditional beginnings, whether Man, taken in bulk,
has ever been entirely sane. Something of the freak, the monster, or
the only half human, seems to taint his blood, displaying itself in
follies and excesses of the most violent or pitiful nature, which,
when dispassionately narrated in the chronicles of centuries, show him
to be a crank or a fool at the very time when wisdom might most be
expected of him. Some few individuals, notable examples to the race,
have stood out in splendid isolation as sane and self-sacrificing
teachers and helpers of humanity; but, in the aggregate, from the
very beginnings of what we are pleased to call “progress” down to the
present day, the desire to trample upon each other and wallow in blood
and slaughter seems to prevail with more force over the minds of men
than the clearest arguments of reason. Nevertheless this desire is
an insane impulse, and if we had any true perception of the laws of
right and wrong, we should check it in its very first beginnings. Any
man, any body of men, seeking to violate the peace and progress of the
world should be dealt with by combined international forces of the Law
and Medicine, not by armies--and should either be shot like mad dogs
as incurable and dangerous, or imprisoned for life in asylums for the
criminally insane. No one man or group of men can be considered in
sound mental condition if their actions imperil the existence of their
fellow-creatures.

Certain natural laws have been discovered, and proved by physiologists
who make the subject their study, as to persons who may marry, and
those for whom, through consanguinity or inherited disease, marriage
is nothing less than a crime. In the “arranged” unions of royal houses
these laws have been deliberately set aside with deplorable results.
The mad dog of Europe, William of Hohenzollern, is the diseased product
of several royal intermarriages, where human convenience and popular
complaisance ignored the divine natural law; and as this law is one
which prevails “unto the third and fourth generation” we have now a
Monster-Abortion of conscienceless cruelty raging loose in the world,
who ought to have been smothered in his cradle. There are plain rules
of health and sanity which are for ever being disobeyed by civil and
social convention; but because they are so disobeyed, we must not
flatter ourselves that they do not recoil in vengeance upon the rebels.
The Designer of this wonderful and complex universe is proved to be a
vastly Mathematical Intelligence; everything great or small, down to a
grain of dust, is balanced to the nicety of a hair’s breadth, and do
what we will or may, we cannot alter the balance. Our futile efforts in
such directions merely display insanity, of the type of an uncontrolled
temper in a child which screams itself hoarse because it cannot reach
fruit on a tree too high for it to climb. If, therefore, we would have
sane peoples, with sane rulers to govern them, we should see to it
that they are born and bred sanely, according to the laws of health
and mentality which have existed among the “lower” animal creation
since the foundation of the world. Every crime is an insane impulse.
No healthily organised brain could contemplate the murder of a single
individual, much less the wholesale slaughter of millions.

The Almighty has for ever had one gate of Heaven set ajar for humanity
to peer within and push open a little wider with each succeeding
generation--a gate opening to that fair pleasaunce of wisdom and beauty
which we call Science. A great logician has written “The basis of all
science is the immutability of the laws of nature.” Would that we
remembered that “immutability” more often! Yet, while sane pioneers
in medicine and surgery are patiently and devoutly following as best
they can these complex but beneficent “laws of nature” for the saving
of human life and the healing of human injuries, the _in_sane section
of the community have been and are still employing all their distorted
energies of brain and hand in fiendish ingenuities of invention for
weapons of war that shall destroy human life more quickly than it can
be saved. And while thus engaged, other insane persons shout in the
press and the market place wild warnings about “declining birth-rate,”
reproaching unhappy women for their lack of duty in not producing sons
for some future slaughter! The Car of Juggernaut was scarcely worse
than this! To appeal for a multitude of births during the making of
a multitude of guns, which mow down the flower of young manhood like
corn, is an insult to bereaved mothers, making their vocation appear
less valuable than that of the beasts of the field. For why should
they bring forth and rear sons, only that they may go to their deaths
at the bidding of this or that Government? The very proposition is an
exhibition of stark staring lunacy, combined with a brutish lust of
degradation and reckless destructiveness which could only emanate from
deficient mental organisms.


SANITY IN RELIGION

Here we touch the vital centre of the whole. On no subject does man
ever show himself so violently crazed as on religion. The gods of the
past, created by his fanatical imagination, were more or less the
deified types of his own vices, or symbols of such virtues as he feebly
strove to attain, but he had no real faith in their power to aid or to
circumvent his designs. Yet, in lunatic fashion, he behaved as if he
thought them omnipotent, though conscious all the while of the silly
comedy he was playing with himself. Now, after two thousand years of
the pure and beautiful Gospel of Christ which teaches how “god-in-man”
might be realised, a lesson to which has been added the strong
affirmation of Science, emphasising the fact that “God is a Spirit, and
they that worship Him must worship Him in spirit and in truth,” Man
still plays the crazed crank with dogma, and refuses to realise the
Actual Alive Intelligence behind creation, which, from the delicate
fluff of a small bird’s feather or moth’s wing, up to the height of
solar systems, works in perfection and balance to the exactitude of
a pin’s point. This living, loving Presence the dogmatists wellnigh
ignore, preferring to move in their own small orbit of creed rather
than risk the broader spaces of assured glory. The narrow spirit of
self-absorption not only limits their outlook, but holds them bound in
a condition of deplorable egotism, like that of an “unco guid” Scotch
body who, after accepting many useful kindnesses from a friend to whom
she “gushed” affection, changed her sentiments as soon as a slight
difference arose between them, and with much unctuous piety let it
be known that she was obliged to leave that once “precious” friend’s
name “out of her prayers”! The monstrous conceit that could imagine
God capable of noticing a name left out of a Scotchwoman’s prayers, or
out of any prayers whatsoever, would be ludicrous if it were not so
pitifully expressive of barbaric ignorance--and who shall count the
thousands of similar narrow mind and heart who have a lurking hope that
heaven is for them alone, and that their “dear friends” will all be
left out in the cold!

Sanity in religion would mean sanity in everything. A sane acceptance
of the actual Motive Force of things,--a Force, tenderly embodied to us
by Christ’s teaching as the “Our Father” of us all, would do more for
our souls and bodies than all the Churches; an intelligent study and
comprehension of the minute and careful work of creation, showing us
that nothing is wasted, nothing lost--but that all tends in an onward
direction to “some far-off divine event,” would help us to find and
keep the balance of our brains. We must be brought to realise that
Evil, persisted in, works its own recoil on the evil doers, whether
they be nations or individuals--the movement of things being always
towards Good. “I and my Father are one”--said Our Lord, for which He
was stoned. The failure of the Churches is the insanity of dogma, which
has supplanted the sanity of Christ.


BRAIN BALANCE

The brain, as all physiologists know, is a complex and marvellous
mechanism--so amazing in its movements, so miraculous in the result
of these movements, that no scientist has yet been able entirely
to probe its powers or foresee its progressive possibilities. Some
there are who declare that all impulses, good and evil, are primarily
started by the brain--others, more subtly accurate, aver that the brain
itself is impelled or “pushed” to action by an influence stronger
than itself, mysterious, unnameable, but nevertheless all-potent,
which we call “free-will,” but which may more justly be termed
“free-spirit”; that is to say the “free” and deathless force which
the Creator gives to each human being to use according to the laws He
has ordained, but which, turned aside from these, can be debased as
surely as exalted. This untrammelled power is bestowed on every man
and woman born into the world, and its mode of action is frequently
swayed by impressions, sometimes pre-natal, and sometimes by the
“afterwards” of early surroundings. If the material brain of a child
is sound and healthy, the impulses which move that brain should be
sane and pure--but, unhappily, through the physical mentality of
irresponsible persons who recklessly take the divine responsibility of
parenthood upon themselves, it often chances that a brain, perfectly
organised in the matter and placement of its cells, conceives ideas
and actions which are little short of devilish in their ingenuity
of evil and mastership of cunning. How is this? It is not the forty
pairs of nerves which convey sense and feeling to the brain that are
guilty of criminal suggestion--they are merely the telegraph wires
on which messages are sent. But Who is the sender? Who or what is
responsible for the messages which prompt wicked deeds? We feel that
we do not have to inquire as to the source of Good, inasmuch as that
Divine Manifestation is everywhere about us. One thing, however, is
certain--that evil propensities corrupt and obstruct the blood-vessels
of the brain and distort its images and impressions, so that its powers
become perverted--and instead of creating helpful work for the welfare
of humanity it dwells on what shall harm and terrorise and destroy.
But we must and should realise the fact that an obstructed brain is a
more or less _insane_ brain. Its channels do not run clear. From these
blocked passages inhuman thoughts are generated as weeds from slime;
and fiendish or vicious ideas take shape and action like noxious vermin
bred from a stagnant pool. Therefore, if we would have regard to sanity
in the race, it should be our business to see to the “Brain-Balance”
of our social, ethical, political, and religious conditions, and
eliminate from our lives such things as tend towards incipient lunacy.
“Crazes” for this or that particular person or fashion are painfully
common, and always ludicrous, accompanied as they frequently are by a
didactic obstinacy resembling the pompous assertiveness of poor madmen
who conceive themselves to be exiled kings. Men and women run about
jabbering and gesticulating on the “preciousness” of this or that
form of art, when it is utterly opposed to truth and nature, and in
this sort of spirit they have held up the “Futurists” and “Cubists”
as something worthy to be looked at, much as a child might hold up
for admiration a dirty rag doll. Insane themselves, they seek to lead
others into the chaos of their own insanity, and this trend towards a
warped mentality has of late displayed itself in all the arts, such as
the sculpture of Epstein, the crotchets and quavers of De Bussy, and
the large output of revoltingly sexual fiction and coarse verse. The
“pose” of a supreme and scornful egotism marks these devotees of sham
and ineptitude, and though they may, in mere numbers, be a negligible
quantity, they spread infection, just as one fever-stricken person may
infect a whole neighbourhood. From an unsanitary mental outlook no
good can come, and the moral filth in which Germany has wallowed for
years has so poisoned the German brain that it can devise nothing but
treachery and evil. It is a brain that is choked with miasma--and it
may be centuries before it is cleansed and restored to sanity.

Meanwhile let us pull the beam out of our own eye before we try to
cure other nations’ blindnesses. We have been mad enough in our
disregard of honest warnings--we are pretty mad still. We have vied
with the old-time “cities of the plain” in reckless orgies of vice
and intemperance; but the great War has pulled us back on the road to
ruin, and it seems we may be given another chance. Let us begin then
by a good try for Sanity. In the first place let us make such laws
for those who marry as shall compel them to submit to a searching
health examination, so that union may be forbidden to the unfit. A
diseased man or woman should no more be allowed to mate than any
other diseased animal. The animals arrange this themselves, in a much
more common-sense way than humans. They only rear healthy progeny. It
is for us to do the same, and to see to it that the _mentality_ of
children is safeguarded and set on a sound basis. This cannot be done
by forcing education at too early an age, or perplexing young brains
with difficulties of learning almost too much for their elders to
grasp. The brain in childhood records impressions as a disc prepared
for the phonograph records sound, and the circles marked on it in
early days are seldom or never effaced. Therefore care must and should
be taken that such impressions are of the best. Corporal punishment
should never be resorted to as a means of training. A blow to a
sensitive child frequently means a lasting contempt for the parent or
teacher who inflicts it, and excites a rebellious spirit towards life
in general. A vicious impulse or an act of crass stupidity does not
necessarily mean inherent wickedness or obstinacy--it only shows that
there is some “clog on the wheel” in the brain, which a day’s fasting
and cooling medicine may remove. At any rate, such a method of cure
is better worth trying than the rod and angry threats which have no
real effect on “insane impulse.” Sometimes--indeed often--a physical
defect in the brain is the cause of evil thoughts and evil deeds, as
in the recent case of a man whose warped mind always tended towards
murder and mutilation, and who was found to have a thickening of a
portion of the cranium which pressed heavily upon certain of the cells
within. The operation of “trepanning” was performed by a surgeon who
was scientifically interested in the case, with the result that the
previously insane criminal is now a person of perfectly normal type and
harmless disposition. Who that knows the history of the German Kaiser’s
ancestry can doubt that his brain has been more or less diseased from
his birth, and that with his approach towards the “grand climacteric”
the incipient lunacy bred within him has become more active and less
capable of control! No _sane_ man would have acted as he has done, for,
prior to the war, the trade of Europe was practically in Germany’s
hands, and in the interests of his country a sane man would have
realised the fulness and value of such a conquest, peacefully obtained
without the sacrifice of millions of useful lives.


THE IMPORTANCE OF CHARACTER

The brain is affected by “insane impulse” in the same way as the
digestion is affected by improper food. An error in diet will cause
pain and general _malaise_--so will an evil influence or suggestion
disorganise the brain cells and create obstacle and confusion within
their marvellous formation and movement. A child, from earliest
years, needs watching--and those who have that duty to perform should
be carefully selected persons who are particular as to general
surroundings. A child’s mother or nurse should be a refined woman of
soft voice and gracious manners, able to control her own moods as
well as the moods of her young charge, so that distinct “character”
may be formed and insisted upon. A “no” should be absolute--a “yes”
equally so. Character “tells” from the very beginning. The youngest
child understands a discipline of firmness conjoined with sweetness and
affection--the smallest boy has an ineffable contempt for weakness and
vacillation. From the “character” displayed by their elders, children
draw their own conclusions. An impatient, hot-tempered father makes
callous, indifferent, more or less contemptuous sons and daughters.
Children invariably despise and laugh at “temper” in their fathers and
“fuss” in their mothers. And the mocking, jeering spirit of scorn is a
spirit that grows with years, and makes of the person it dominates an
often spiteful and vicious influence in society, creating mischief and
rejoicing in the unhappiness of others. One sweet, strong, independent
character unconsciously forms the nucleus of many others, while one
soured malcontent infects a whole community. We have only to consider
the “character” of Prussian militarism--how from two or three blatant
and braggart egotists it has spread its infection through an entire
people, till the brain of the whole German nation has become clogged
with thick and poisonous thought and has been driven by “insane
impulse” to the committal of the greatest crime in history. If we would
avoid such crimes for the future we must see to it first that the race
is healthily and sanely born, and secondly that “character” is the only
basis on which all education must be founded, or it will be merely a
house of cards, toppling at a breath. And the corner-stone on which
“character” itself must be reared is a high and reasonable faith in
the Supreme Cause of all creation, coupled with an earnest and devout
following of the divine order in which that great Force at the back of
all things has ordained this Universe to move.


SCIENCE AND RELIGION

Religion is not what the Churches would have us accept as such. It is
not man-made dogma. So far as Christianity is concerned, the saying is
true that “There never was but one Christian and He was crucified.”
No more uplifting faith was ever taught than that of Christ; but
it has never been spiritually realised or fully practised. Read
Christ’s own words in the New Testament, and then ask where shall
we find His commands obeyed? In some exceptional cases there have
been saintly lives and saintly deeds resulting from the sincere and
devout application of the Gospel--but in dealing with this question
we have to think of mankind in general, not in an individual sense.
This horrible war with its riot of blood and carnage is a damnatory
answer to professing Christianity. Man has made of himself his own
god--and in the God as revealed or explained in all the conflicting
religious “formulas” he has ceased to believe. Faith of any kind must
be supported by reason. And Science is the door to the highest heaven
of faith. Every new discovery, every new aid to man’s well-being on
the planet, is a fresh proof of God. It has taken twenty centuries and
more for us to begin learning the wonders of electricity, though the
miraculous force, with all its component and divergent radiations, was
with us always. It may take us twenty times twenty million centuries
to discover God--nevertheless He is with us, notwithstanding our
intellectual blindness and lack of Spiritual perception. Science is our
peep-hole, through which we may, even now, glimpse Him, but which in
time to come will not only be our window, but our open door, through
which we may approach Him, full-eyed, without fear. But, to arrive at
this, we should remember that Science, like every other power bestowed
upon us, must be used sanely; and through “Free-Will”; that is to say,
we may bend its force to either good or evil. It is good when we use
it for the advantage of humanity--it is evil when we make of it an
agent to injure or destroy humanity. The scientist who employs his
abilities to discover means whereby he may remedy disease, eliminate
pain, and assist his fellow-men to the betterment of life, is that
“good and faithful servant” who, when God comes, He finds watching--but
the scientist, equally brilliant, who devotes himself to the invention
of fiendish instruments of destruction and death, whereby he may
make the wholesome earth a terror, the sea a snare, and the sky a
scourge, is a warped intellectuality, moved by “insane impulse,” which,
combined with creative activity, makes of him a devil rather than a
human being. Let any thoughtful person try to realise himself engaged
day and night on the work of evolving some instrument of death more
cruel than any old-time torture, will he maintain that such persistent
concentration on the means of killing can mould him into a worthier
or nobler individual? But reverse the position and let him imagine
himself absorbed in finding out remedies for pain and suffering, aids
to happier and more useful living for mankind in general, will he not
admit that however difficult his work may be of accomplishment, he
knows within himself that he is striving for constructive good, not
destructive evil, and that his science is an output of clear sanity
which must bring, not only deep contentment to his mind, but also the
consciousness that his energies are moving in harmony with the Divine
Spirit of law and order.

This is the true and only religion--to bring one’s soul into unison
with the infinite beauty and reason which prevail everywhere in Nature.
And the Christian Faith, could it but be relieved from ecclesiastical
dogma, is the truest symbol we have of our spiritual and immortal
destiny, for it teaches the possible god-in-man which should be born
through the purity of woman. Carry the symbol further, and we find the
Crucifixion of Love through selfishness and hypocrisy--yet another
step, and we are shown the Resurrection from the grave--“the Light of
the World” released from the stone and seal of priestcraft, breaking
free from the cerements of prejudice, and ascending to the Father of
us all! Search as we may through all the religions of the world, we
shall never find a grander, simpler “Symbol” of eternal truth than
this--the faith preached by Christ. But it must be divested of its
clerical encumbrances. Like a glorious ship that has lain too long
in harbour, it must be cleansed of weed and barnacle and launched
unhindered into the open sea. And those who man the ship must be
free from self-interest, from “cranks” and meddlesome theories and
formulas--briefly, they must be _sane_, with the great sanity of
nature and nature’s immutable laws. Without this neither Religion nor
Civilisation can endure. They can only be crazed attempts to build that
“house upon sand,” of which we have been told that “the rain descended
and the floods came and the winds blew and beat upon that house, and it
fell; AND GREAT WAS THE FALL OF IT!”




HAS CHRISTIANITY FAILED?


Has Christianity failed? No! Men and women have “failed,” but
_not_ Christianity. The very question is to my mind terrible and
blasphemous--one of the many terrible and blasphemous utterances common
to the Press and current literature during recent years.

It is a shame to a professingly Christian nation that such a question
should be asked at all. The greatest, purest religion in the world
can have no weight with mere apes of humanity, who practise the most
appalling hypocrisy in front of the sacred altars, and assume to
believe in and to obey Christian precepts, while indulging to excess in
their own private and particular selfish vices and passions, without
restraint and without regret.

The nations have mocked at God and disobeyed His laws. It is the old
story over again. “The earth was corrupt before God, and the earth was
filled with violence.” Christ said, “Why call ye Me Lord, Lord, and do
not the things which I say?”

Christianity is based on two great laws--love to God and love to one’s
neighbour; can any one say that modern civilisation fulfils these
demands?

We have only to note the fearful corruption in Church and State, in
every phase of politics and business, and the unspeakable vices which
pollute so-called “society,” and poison our literature and art, to
realise that the “cities of the plain” were no whit worse than our
own, and merit no less than they a rain of fire.

But Christianity itself, as taught by Christ, towers above all
“failure,” despite the apathy and hypocrisy of thousands of its
professing priests, who in many instances are as selfish and flagrant
blasphemers as the worst atheist and iconoclast in _un_christianised
and brutalised Germany.

Without that heavenly faith which helps us towards the attainment and
reverence of the Divine in all things, what has Germany become? More
cruel and callous, more lost to every sense of decency and honour than
the savages of prehistoric times, she is sowing the wind and will reap
the whirlwind.

But let us take care that we do not join her in her rush towards
annihilation. Political shams and treacherous intrigues would drag us
thither--“Unfaith in aught is want of faith in all.” If a weak section
of men and women fail to find their souls, Christianity itself has not
“failed,” nor will it fail; because it is the divine expression of the
unconquerable Spirit of Truth.

The most brilliant House of Lies ever built by man’s careful stupidity
falls into dust at the lightest breath of a truth based on eternal
equities. The microbes in a rotting cheese may deny the existence of
the sun because they do not see it, and may ask, “Has the daylight
failed?” But the sun pursues its glorious course, lightening the
visible universe.

So it is with Christianity. And those who presume to ask “Has it
failed?” are but the microbes in the rotting cheese.




SNOOKS’S OPINION


Snooks is one of those entertaining persons who makes a point of giving
an “opinion” on everything. From the Almighty downwards he has what he
calls a “calm common-sense view” on all subjects in heaven or on earth,
and his chief object in life is to get that “calm, common-sense view”
on all to the front, so that the poor, purblind, uneducated public who
seldom have any time to indulge in “views,” and still less chance to
express them, may understand that there yet exists one truly great man
of sane and sober judgment--namely, SNOOKS.

Before the War he used to write letters to the _Times_ on the urgent
necessity there was for complete disarmament. In fervent language
he pressed the reduction of naval expenses. He was, and is still,
under the impression that the _Times_ is still as it was in ages
past--a British Thunderer; an Oracle which manifested itself as “I
am Sir Oracle; and when I open my mouth let no dog bark.” He forgets
that journalism is now only a monstrous Syndicate, not expressive of
thoughts, but of Shares and Dividends, and that if the _Times_ were
what it once was, it would not publish any letter from Snooks. But
Snooks is “fixed” in his opinions. He admits no change in the course of
things--an old-established institution must, without argument, remain
always as such, and must not totter to decay. When decay sets in,
despite Snooks, he firmly denies its possibility.

“Nonsense!” he says--“D’ye think I’ve come to my time of life without
knowing better than that? Teach your grandmother!”

Just at the time when he wrote letters about naval expenses and
disarmament, one or two other “Snooks’s” popped up and replied. He was
not pleased with their replies, as they opposed him. So he took up that
Scheme of Idiots, the “Channel Tunnel,” and wasted a deal of ink in
seeking to point out what a fine thing it would be to spend needless
millions on a tunnel which the Richborough Ferry makes superfluous. His
arguments fell a little flat, and he was for a short period reduced
to writing about “the first primrose in my back garden”--and “I hope
some of your readers have noticed the very early arrival of the wasp
this year,” to the indulgent _Daily Mail_. But he never has found quite
enough to do in the way of letter-writing to satisfy his ambition.
There are not enough wrongs for a Snooks to set right--people of place
and position do not make enough mistakes for a “Snooks” to correct.
Daily and nightly he is consumed by the desire to see his name in
print, and his craving sometimes leads him to look up familiar Latin
quotations, more or less applicable to the political situation, and to
send them (with the usual signed letter) to certain small newspapers
whose position and reputation make the chance of their editor’s
classical scholarship doubtful. To see himself in print, no matter how
or when, is Snooks’s joy. And now that the war is blowing the dust of
human affairs in all directions, Snooks has, as some press reviewers
say: “come into his own.” He finds, so he states with engaging
modesty, that if HE had been consulted, there would have been no war.

“There was that Algeciras business,” he says vaguely, not knowing in
the least what he is talking about. “It should all have been settled
then.”

He knows Viscount Grey personally, so he says, but--“he never would
take my advice”--and as for Kitchener--ah!--“That’s a man who had
immense possibilities!--immense!--but he was obstinate--he wouldn’t
listen to a word I told him!”

Here, impressed with the reflections awakened by this melancholy fact,
he writes a letter to the _Times_--a letter which happens to be just
the proper quantity of “stuff” to fill up the end of a column: so
it goes in. No one pays any attention to it. Snooks shows it to his
friends at the club--they smile, half read it, don’t understand it and
don’t want to understand it. After some difficulty he gets an old deaf
gentleman to look at it.

“What’s this, what’s this!” says the old deaf gentleman
nervously--“Something happened to our Allies!”

“No, no!” roars Snooks--“It’s a letter!--a letter I’ve written; I,
myself--to the _Times_ about Kitchener!”

“Ah, I wouldn’t do it if I were you!” mildly replies the old gentleman,
with one hand up to his ear--“We don’t know anything about his work----”

“_I_ know!” shouts Snooks--“If he had taken _my_ advice----”

“Ah, ah! Did you know him?” inquires the old gentleman, evidently
surprised and unconvinced.

“_Know_ him!” Snooks snorts defiance, as much as to imply that if he
knows the inside of his own pocket he knew Kitchener still better! In
irritable impatience he watches the old gentleman’s leisurely perusal
of his epistolary effusion.

“Ah! Yes--er--yes! I don’t agree with you,” says the old gentleman at
last, putting aside the paper. “I’m not quite sure that I understand
it, but it’s not the way I’d put it.”

“Oh, all right!” and Snooks turns on his heel with a superior air of
disdain. “I suppose you’re for the wasting of millions! Everybody is,
that doesn’t study the subject. Now _I_----”

Here a stray man comes to the rescue of the deaf old gentleman, the
conversation changes, and the famous _Times_ letter is forgotten.

Often Snooks seems to be ubiquitous. His letters appear in numerous
papers, especially the provincial ones. Sometimes a Snooks’s “opinion”
is squeezed just under the “Space for Special News,” which in many
halfpenny rags is not “Special News” at all, but merely the results
of--Football!

When all the intelligent world was waiting for war news, a Birmingham
paper had a “Space for Special News” in which football results were
printed first and the war news second! The absurd folly and incongruity
of this sort of thing never seems to strike the syndicated Press.
The effect of it on the minds of our French and other Allies is too
humiliating to be written. It might draw forth a letter from Snooks,
if only Snooks’s opinion carried weight. But it doesn’t. The greatest
“opinion” that could be imagined, even that of Plato or Shakespeare,
doesn’t much matter to any one. It is not a time for individual
criticism; it is only time for inspiration and action. A strong thought
is always silent; it resolves itself into deeds rather than words.
There has been altogether too much talk during the progress of the war;
too many “Snookses” in too many newspapers. Snooks has even cropped
up in the House of Lords, to say nothing of the House of Commons. And
it should be borne in mind that Snooks _does_ nothing; he is not in
the smallest degree useful to his country; he merely stands, like an
old washerwoman leaning over her tub, and talks. He talks to any one
who is idle and stupid enough to listen. He finds out all sorts of
“queer things” about General this or Colonel that, and for women he has
scarcely a good word to say.

“_They’re_ no use!” he declares contemptuously. “All their sick nursing
and sewing was done just for sheer man-trapping! Show them some new
hats and they’d forget all about their patients!”

When this heresy is indignantly refuted, he snaps his mouth in a firm,
hard line, as though it were a steel box.

“I’d bet you a hundred pounds,” he says, “that if it were women
who were wounded in the war instead of men, you’d hardly find one
of their own sex to wait upon them! They love fussing round a man!
It’s a perfect godsend to them, especially the old maids! There’s an
excitement about it; a sort of morbid interest! They delight in washing
a Tommy’s face and brushing his hair. If it were one of themselves
they’d scrub the face till the skin was ruined and brush the hair the
wrong way! _I_ know ’em, I tell you! You give a pretty woman who is ill
to an ugly woman who is well, to be nursed, and she’ll ‘nurse’ her!
You’ll see what she’ll make of her in twenty-four hours! I tell you I
take a calm, common-sense view of all this sort of bunkum!”

Unfortunately for Snooks, his “calm, common-sense view” does not appeal
to the world in general. It does not even impress the Premier, who, up
to the present, has failed to consult Snooks respecting the “conduct
of the war,” or to offer him a “portfolio.” He longs to be consulted.
He yearns to be displayed on the headlines of the halfpenny dailies or
Sunday pictorials in flamboyant beauty, or as,--

“MR. SNOOKS SPEAKS OUT”; or “THE GREAT MESSAGE OF MR. SNOOKS.”

But these things don’t happen. He has still to content himself with
letters to the Press, which sometimes get read, but more often are
passed over and forgotten altogether. Nevertheless, his “opinion” is
in all the newspapers, whether read or unread, and though the King has
not sent for him yet, and he has no “portfolio,” he is admittedly and
visibly “SNOOKS.” So that when any particularly mischievous comment
on affairs in general appears in print, or any “calm and common-sense
view,” which gives useful “points” to the enemy, and irritates the
patience of the public, we know who it is, and we don’t much mind! We
merely say “SNOOKS again!” or “Another powerful letter from Mr. Snooks
will appear next week!”




SEA POWER, 1805–1918


                                   I

    Glory and terror and splendid joy of the Sea!
    Thunderous Sentinel-Guard of our flowering Isles of the Free!
    Fortress impregnable, built with the mountainous waves
    Toppling in fury of laughter sheer over our enemies’ graves!
    God!... It is all we can ask for!... that still we ever may be
    Saved by the glory and terror and conquering joy of the Sea!


                                   II

    Sea that sprang to the keels of the ships of Nelson and Drake,
    Billows that leap’d for delight in the battles for England’s sake--
    Will ye fail us now? Nay, never! Ye are strong as ye were of yore,
    And Victory’s voice rings clearly out in your rush on the rocky
          shore--
    And shark-like Death, at the enemy’s cry, to meet him swiftly runs,
    For your swirl and sucking sands are as sure as the fire of a
          thousand guns!


                                  III

    Glory and terror and conquering love of the Sea,
    Circling our Fortunate Isles of Fame, more famous still to be!
    Let us praise the Giver of Life for the silver and azure band
    He hath set between us and our foes on the other side of the land.
    Break, it cannot! Yield, it shall not! England, home of the free,
    God keep thee safe in the strength and light and conquering love of
          the Sea!




THE SPLENDID SERVICE OF THE SEA

(_Written by request for the Navy League_)


In this greatest War of all history, a War which in extent, in
terrifying armaments, and in massed millions of men surpasses in
fearful slaughter and incalculable results all the battles ever
chronicled from earliest times to now, why is it that in these Isles
of Britain, the nucleus of the Empire most concerned, there is so
much indifference, apathy, and real ignorance displayed among the
general public of the “man-in-the-street” type concerning the silent
but ever vigilant work of our Navy? There is no use in denying the
fact--indifference, apathy, and ignorance exist; and all taken together
constitute an extraordinary, wellnigh alarming national phenomenon.
Carelessness arises from what is sometimes called “cock-sureness,”
and we are amazingly “cock-sure” of ourselves, especially in naval
matters. The levity of our women, apart from those who are engaged in
sick nursing and charitable works, and who are happily numerous, is
almost unbelievable; their outrageous, not to say positively crazy “new
fashions” in dress, their “dinner dances” at London restaurants, their
“bridge parties,” and their “night clubs” make one think of the warning
words of the prophet Isaiah:--

“Rise up, ye women that are at ease; hear my voice, ye careless
daughters; give ear unto my speech. Many days and years shall ye be
troubled, ye careless women; for the vintage shall fail, the gathering
shall not come!”

For truly the “vintage” of prosperity and the “gathering” of good for
this country of ours would fail, and fail utterly, if it were not for
our resolved and invincible guardianship of the sea--a guardianship
which must never be relaxed, and which every one of us should learn to
appreciate and help to strengthen by every means that we may.

We are assured by many sagacious essayists and historians that it is
the women of the nation who make and who influence the men; and if
this be the case, at least one-half of our British women have cause
to be proud of the splendid fellows they have sent forth to take part
in the vast contest on which such mighty issues depend. But the other
half seem deaf to the roar of the guns, or to the call of the Sea. The
land forces occupy all the attention of newspaper readers, and very
little information can be gleaned about our seamen. The women prattle
pleasantly about the grim struggle at Neuve Chapelle or at Ypres; one
hardly ever hears them talk about the long, long hours of long, long
days and nights spent by our silent mariners, watching from every great
battleship and cruiser for the treacherous foe. Yet every woman should,
at the present moment, be well on the alert; eager, enthusiastic, and
ready to inspire, even to command the youth of the rising generation;
and among other duties falling to their lot is distinctly that of
teaching their own boys, and other women’s boys too, the inestimable
value of service in the Navy.

That grand protector of our islands, the Sea, is to Great Britain more
than a hundred million of men; and every boy should learn the history
of what it has been to us, what it is, and what it ever will be, held
by a Fleet which has never been conquered! Every brave lad’s heart is
bound to thrill when he is told of the magnificent deeds of daring
performed by our naval heroes whose names are household words; but it
is to be feared that of latter years boys have been encouraged both at
home and at school to think more of “sport” and games of skill than
patriotism, and the special training which would help them also to be
heroic and to “make history.” Lawn tennis is now regarded as a serious
business, but it is only a game, and a country will never be saved by
it. Cricket and football are equally “games”; neither one nor the other
will drive the foe from our shores should he invade us. Games are good
as “games,” but when they become a national obsession the hard and fast
line must be drawn before it is too late.

The Sea is our fortress, and so long as that is kept and guarded by a
perfectly trained and efficient Navy, we need not fear. Nevertheless,
to keep that training and efficiency up to the mark we must show no
slackness, no falling-off; there must be a perpetual addition of new,
youthful, and ardent blood; brave boys and young men for whom the ever
glorious lines of Shakespeare express life’s utmost truth and meaning:--

   “This royal throne of kings, this sceptred isle,
    This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,
    This other Eden, demi-paradise;
    This fortress built by Nature for herself
    Against infection and the hand of war;
    This happy breed of men, this little world;
    This precious stone set in the silver sea,
    Which serves it in the office of a wall,
    Or as a moat defensive to a house,
    Against the envy of less happier lands,
    This blessèd plot, this earth, this realm, this England,
    This nurse, this teeming womb of royal kings
    Fear’d by their breed, and famous by their birth,
    Renownèd for their deeds as far from home--
    For Christian service and true chivalry--
    As is the sepulchre in stubborn Jewry
    Of the world’s ransom, blessèd Mary’s Son;
    This land of such dear souls, this dear, dear land,
    Dear for her reputation through the world,

           *       *       *       *       *

    England, bound in with the triumphant sea,
    Whose rocky shore beats back the envious siege
    Of watery Neptune!”

I wish that every word of this magnificent outburst of noble patriotism
were learned by every boy in Britain, and imprinted on his memory,
as ineffaceably as his daily prayer. It is the heart’s utterance of
the greatest poet and truest lover of his country England has ever
produced, and inspires the soul with the same emotion as that expressed
by Sir Humphrey Gilbert, of Shakespeare’s time and spirit:--

“Give me leave, therefore, without offence to live and die in this
mind, that he is not worthy to live at all that for fear or danger of
death, shunneth his country’s service and his own honour, seeing that
death is inevitable, and the fame of virtue immortal.”

Great as were the responsibilities and labours of the Navy in the past,
they were nothing compared to those of the present. In the days of
the brilliant and sagacious Queen Elizabeth, there were no submarines,
mines, or torpedoes, and the historian Camden tells us:--

“This great Armada which had been three complete years in rigging and
preparing with infinite expense, was within one month’s space many
times fought with, and at the last overthrown, with the slaughter of
many men, not an hundred of the English being missing, nor any large
ship lost.... Whereupon several monies were coined in memory of the
victory, some with a fleet flying with full sail; others in honour of
the Queen, with fireships and a fleet all in confusion, inscribed _Dux
Fœmina facti_, that is, A Woman was conductor in the Fight.”

At that time the enemy Spanish Fleet came forth and showed battle,
but up to the present the German Fleet, which took much longer than
“three years” to prepare, has not been much in evidence till its
humble surrender, and its only exhibited warfare was the treacherous
method of torpedoing unsuspecting and mostly neutral vessels, some
of which had no means of defence. My own heart thrills when I think
of our splendid naval men, whose spirits still respond to Nelson’s
undying signal--“England expects that every man will do his duty!” The
Germans are not a seafaring race. The British are born and bred “of the
sea”; the salt and savour of it are mixed with their blood, and for a
thousand years they have been accustomed to it in all its wildest moods.

Herein our Navy has an immense advantage, but because we are thus
fortunately bred, there is no need that we should forget that breeding,
or neglect the long education we have had, and allow the youth of
the country to imagine there is no need of their service. On the
contrary, there is more need of their service than ever, and for the
furtherance of this purpose we are all anxious that as many of our
hopeful lads, who have a turn for seafaring and adventure, should join
the Navy League at once, and “train” to be defenders of their country
as young and smart “sea-dogs” of the old, dauntless, unconquerable
mettle. Every help should be given to this end, especially through the
women, the mothers of strong and gallant boys, who can influence their
sons and imbue them with the true spirit of patriotism, and while we
work to strengthen and replenish this vital and necessary force on
which we depend so much for our defence and our means of existence,
we should think--we who “sit at home at ease,” of the long periods
of watchfulness endured by the men of our Fleet at sea in waiting at
every turn for each fresh move of an insidious and unscrupulous foe. We
should manage to let them know that their work is not all in vain; that
there are plenty of young fellows ready to follow them when the time
comes, and join in their splendid service of the guardianship of the
sea.

In this effort, the Navy League is a fine and necessary institution.
It keeps the youthful spirit of the Navy alive and enthusiastic, and
it reminds us of what might otherwise be forgotten, that far more than
all other defences we rely on the Sea and our Fleet to preserve our
existence and protect us from invasion.

We can help them at home by spreading the Spirit of the Navy--the
spirit of Drake, Frobisher, and Nelson among all our growing lads
who are, in their hearts, eager to be “up and doing.” I should like
to see an active branch of the Navy League established in every
town and village all over Britain--a centre where ambitious boys can
be sure of receiving sympathetic attention and assistance for their
training; and I think it would be good and serviceable if women would
help more than they at present do in this work, by teaching their
boys to honour and love the Service, and encouraging them to read the
stories of naval heroism and naval conquest, so that their minds may
be turned constantly towards ideas of their country’s defence, their
country’s safety, their country’s glory. None of these things will,
or can, be assisted by football, cricket, or lawn tennis, except as
games for physical development; but by discipline, study of the art
of navigation, and the wonderful ways of Nature in wind and wave, and
by that sincere devotion to duty which brings a man’s life into safe
port as surely as a well-piloted, well-guarded vessel. A sea-girt land
should breed seamen; we cannot have too many of them. And by early
training such powers may be attained as may build a bright British lad
into his land’s history as an unforgettable hero. For, as the famous
song tells us:--

   “Britannia needs no bulwarks,
      No towers along the steep;
    Her march is o’er the mountain waves,
      Her home is on the deep!”




THE LILIES OF FRANCE

(_Written by request for “The Golden Book of France”_)


Glorious Lilies! Stainless and sweet, they spring from a sacred soil,
wet with the life-blood of brave men and the tears of noble women! They
are the Children of France and of the Future!--the gracious youth of
a happier day, when tyranny and fear are past, and when Peace of the
highest and purest is the canopy of safety and honour, under which the
nation may rest after long and bitter strife! The Lilies of girlhood
and boyhood; the Children, some of them deprived of fathers and
mothers, but never entirely orphaned because France is their closest
parentage! Oh, beautiful human blossoms, growing up like buds of snow
from the black smoke and ashes of battle fires!--we thank God for
you, and we pray that you may expand in happy fragrance, nourished by
the fresh air of freedom, so that the sufferings your heroic fathers
have endured for France may be transformed into joys for you! You are
the hope and glory of your land, you fair flowers which even now are
beginning to bloom innocently in the dust of many graves; you will be
the radiant and triumphant France of coming years, when your wealth of
splendid youth and victory shall flame a white aurora against skies
of heavenly blue, undarkened by any cloud of treachery! Children of
France!--Lilies that grow around the standard of Liberty!--we commend
you to the Future in faith and in hope! Not without some natural
sorrow, for, alas! your garden is the graveyard of many loves!--but
though we weep, our tears are tears of pride that those whom we have
lost are fallen in honour, and that the blood from which you draw your
sustenance is unpolluted by so much as one drop of traitor’s gall! So
shall you rise nobly, on stately stems of heroic ancestry and memory to
make France once more an earthly paradise, and in the very fairness of
your youth we shall see reflected the light of the dauntless spirits
that have fought and passed away, leaving you with us as their most
precious legacy, which we accept with gratitude--which we keep with all
tenderness--holding you reverently to our hearts as the “Annunciation”
Lilies of a New Gospel!




“WHOSO SHALL RECEIVE ONE SUCH LITTLE CHILD!”

(_Written on behalf of St. Nicholas Home for “Raid-shock” Children at
Chailry, Sussex_)


Nothing is lovelier than the sight of a perfectly happy child--a
little, laughing, dancing, restless, sparkling bit of humanity just
beginning to expand into life like a plant putting forth leaves
and tendrils and buds that promise fairest flowering--a creature
of unspoilt confidence and innocence whose whole consciousness is
absorbed in wonder and delight at the strange newness of the world
around it, and all the beautiful, amazing things the world offers
for its attraction and pleasure. The flight of a bird--the delicate
caperings of a butterfly--the flicker of sunshine on the wall--the
ripple of water--the sound of joyous laughter and dainty music--all
these pleasures and many more captivate and move a child to smiling
and pleased gesture--the little voice, the little hands, express
wordless ecstasy--the young eyes glisten with unutterable meanings.
Fresh from the unseen Power that declared “Let us make man in Our
image,” it displays a pathetic faith in good--it trusts all the big,
grown-up people around it in an exquisite confidence that none of them
will allow it to suffer harm--it accepts life as it finds it, with the
beautiful assurance of a flower which opens to the sun, instinctively
certain that all is, or shall be, well. Let us remember that a child
might never know evil if its elders did not instruct it therein! It
is as innocent as any other young animal--innocent as a kitten or St.
Bernard puppy, than which nothing is more blunderingly simple and
touchingly confident. If we watch the unspoilt, natural gaiety and
playfulness of all young things we cannot but realise the truth of the
Divine pronouncement on creation, “Behold, it was very good!” and that
we were meant to be happy on this planet--moreover, that we _should_
be happy, if it were not that we cannot leave each other alone--we
must always be backbiting and hurting each other, interfering in our
neighbour’s business and grudging our neighbour his or her special
form of happiness. No child can be honestly said to know evil till
we assure it that evil exists--till we frown and say “Naughty! That
is wrong!” heedless of the bewildered eyes that mutely ask “Why?” As
the Italian proverb says: “The ‘Why’ of a child is the key of the
Universe.” Generally speaking, a child’s attitude towards life is
one of complete reliance on unknown but trusted destiny, and in very
early years, if that reliance should be broken, the little spirit
so startled by some cruel blow is seldom or never the same again.
But a few years ago, when we who plead for the children now were all
children ourselves, the phrase “a bolt from the blue” was a phrase
merely, expressing a possible calamity, too sudden almost to ever take
place--and little did any of us dream that we should be forced to
realise its literal achievement. The ingenuity of man, warped to devise
schemes of wickedness rather than beneficence, has brought about a
state of things in which the once secure loveliness of the heavens has
become accursed by his vindictive presence, bearing with him through
the offended air the means of destruction and death to the innocent
and non-combatant populations of peaceful earth places below--and
without a generous human thought for the lives of others, he speeds his
selfish and devilish flight, insanely convinced that he is a brave man
in his efforts to kill his fellow-creatures from the air, as well as
on the land and under the sea. Nothing more heroic is left to him by
his governments, teachers, propagandists and the like but to kill--to
kill! Were he--apart from the red crime of War--to murder man, woman,
or child in cold blood, with circumstances of mutilation and burning,
he would be condemned to the gallows--but the wind-blown scarecrow of a
false “patriotism” speaks, nay, shouts, “Herein killing is no murder!”
and he rushes on his way through the air as though to perform an errand
of mercy instead of slaughter, dropping bombs of destruction anywhere
that seems to him feasible, and when he can have, as he reports, “good
results!” “Good” results! “O Father, forgive them, for they know not
what they do!” Let us look with the eyes of the mind and the heart on
such a scene as has been enacted many times recently--a group of little
children in a school, singing their little play-songs, or repeating
their earliest lessons--happy, innocent, confiding--when, suddenly and
without warning, a murderous crash and thunderburst of explosives is
launched from the air through the roof above them, and where the young
lithe bodies a moment ago disported themselves, there lie mutilated
corpses drenched in blood. Our foes call that “war”--but I would fain
believe that in their own hearts they know it is butchery, and that
they deplore the merciless militarism that compels them to perform such
deeds. And even worse than death for these little ones is the stunning
blow on their mentality--the horrible knock, as it were, on the
delicate membrane of the nervous system, which bruises it in a subtle,
creeping way that is almost unimaginable. Contrast a healthy, happy
child, playing fearlessly in the fields among the flowers, with one who
is suffering from “raid shock”--and who sometimes sits lost in a vague
stupor, unwilling to move--afraid to look up at the sky lest something
fiendish should fall from it! I know one such child who refuses now to
raise his eyes from a morose study of the ground. Hour after hour he
sits frowningly absorbed. Pressed recently to look at the flight of a
butterfly through the air, he gave a terrified glance at it sideways,
and then resumed his downward staring. A kindly nurse, trying to rouse
him, said, “You mustn’t be frightened of the sky--God is up there!”
but he uttered a little pained cry and covered his face, sobbing,
“No--no--no! Wicked man up there--not God!”

There is no need to comment on the effect of such impressions on a
child’s vivid imagination; it is altogether dreadful and disastrous,
for who can tell what damaging results to the brain may be in store for
the innocent little victim! Time and care, with healthful surroundings
and healing influences, may do much to eliminate the evil and disperse
the horror and cruelty of such experiences--and this is why the “St.
Nicholas Home” exists to-day, thanks to the loving heart and patience
of its founder, Mrs. Kimmins, whose tenderness for children makes one
feel that Her guardian angel, as well as the angels who watch over
Christ’s little ones, must always “behold the Face of the Father.”
No one with even a small amount to spare from the multitudinous
claims made on the pocket of the unfortunate British taxpayer, whose
Governments have dragged him into the incredible wickedness of a war
for which he had neither the taste nor the inclination, will refuse
that mite to assist the work of the “good Saint Nicholas” in the home
over which his childhood-loving spirit presides, while those who are
making much of the “filthy lucre” out of the exigencies and demands
of the nations’ slaughter-houses will perchance salve conscience by
munificence. Some of the donors may call to mind the story of the
father who murdered his three sons, and whose crime St. Nicholas
discovered in a vision. Going to the inn where the murderer was, the
saint forced him to confess his wickedness, and forthwith raised
the three boys to life again. In this legend we may find a happy
symbol for the “Home” on whose behalf we plead. For the “raid-shock”
children are, in a sense, murdered, though alive--murdered in their
natural confidence, hope, and gaiety, and crushed by the oppressive
consciousness of an ever-looming evil. We wish, as St. Nicholas did
with the three boys, to raise them to life again--to re-establish
their youthful trust, to make them forget that there are men who are
devils--but perhaps to persuade them that there are women who are
angels! Women, with mothers’ hearts, ready to put mothers’ arms round
them--to play with them and talk “fairy bits”--as a sweet little
girl asked me to do the other day--women who will care for them and
see that nothing scares them from their healthful sleep at night, or
their innocent games by day. This is the object of our appeal for “St.
Nicholas Home”--a worthy cause--a noble, humane, and sacred cause, for
we must “take heed” that we “offend not one of these little ones.”
And most earnestly do I join with all who have put their shoulders to
the wheel of this great Car of good effort steadily going a stiff way
uphill--a strong push, a big push, and a push all together, and we
shall stand on the shining summit of success with our saved children
gathered round us in the light of happier days!




APPEAL FOR THE FRENCH RED CROSS

(_Written for the Shakespeare Memorial Theatre, July, 1918_)


DEAR FRIENDS!--We are here to-day in the name of France; France, the
beautiful, the beloved country, now ravaged and desolated by the
crudest enemy that ever dishonoured the name of War. I am asked to make
an appeal to you,--to you, the people of the land of Shakespeare, on
behalf of the people of the land of Victor Hugo,--and I esteem it an
honour, a privilege, and a duty to plead this great Cause. I ask you
to look away from yourselves, your own interests, your own comforts
in this peaceful town, which has never known the horrors of invasion
and destruction by brutal foes,--I ask you to think of other towns and
villages, once as happy, but now ruined and desolate, where thousands
of harmless people have been driven out of their homes and forced to
endure miseries such as you have never known! Remember, too, with
what heroism they have borne their sufferings!--with what courage and
fortitude! Never complaining, they have put their own sorrows and
losses in the background for the sake of their country, and when all
the tale is told, the splendid and unflinching patriotism of France
will shine on the page of history as a deathless example to all the
nations of the world!

Think for a moment what it would mean to you, if you had to look on
at your beautiful old Church, the holy shrine of Shakespeare’s rest,
battered into ruins by the bombs and shells of the remorseless German
foe!--your houses shattered--your gardens laid waste--your streets
broken up by the machines of war, and you yourselves turned forth
as homeless wanderers without hope or refuge!--your little children
murdered before your eyes! This is what France has had to endure, and
it is your happy fortune to be spared these terrible calamities only
because brave men are fighting for you and giving their lives for you
that you shall never know such desolation! And not only your own brave
men but the brave men of France are fighting, for _you_ as well as
for themselves! France and Britain are friends and brothers-in-arms;
and in the great and terrible struggle they fight as one soul! We,
who are protected in our island home by the magnificent heroism
and self-sacrifice of such splendid men, can do but little to show
our grateful love and admiration towards France for her unmatched
endurance, resolution, fortitude, and courage; but such little as it is
and must be, let us do it with a full and generous heart! Let us take
pride and joy in helping to rebuild the ruined towns and villages,--let
us try to comfort the brave people by giving homes to the homeless, and
restoring in some measure their lost peace and prosperity. Every pound
that can be spared goes to alleviate some trouble. No money brings
such divine interest as that which we spend in helping those in need.
Therefore let us not grudge our offerings to the heroic martyr of the
nations! She is pierced with many swords,--she is scourged and crowned
with thorns,--but her invincible faith and honour and patriotism
will bring her through the darkness to the light of a triumphant and
glorious Day! _Her_ cause is Ours; _Our_ cause is _Hers_! Now is the
time when we, who are not in the stress of battle, can cheer and help
her by proofs of love and sympathy in her sorrows. Most earnestly do I
hope, and most ardently do I pray that the noble, ever-living spirit
of the Master Poet of the world whose name and memory make this town
honourable, may so influence your hearts that you will give freely all
and more than you can spare, in generous tenderness, and with that
“quality of mercy” which brings blessing beyond all wealth, and reward
beyond all fame!

(_The above Appeal was spoken in French on the stage of the Shakespeare
Memorial Theatre, Stratford-on-Avon, by Monsieur Combet de Larenne as
follows_:)

MES CHERS AMIS,--Nous nous réunissons aujourd’hui en l’honneur de la
France, la France, ce beau pays, ce pays aimé, à cette heure ravagé,
désolé par le plus cruel ennemi qui ait jamais déshonoré la guerre.

On m’a demandé de m’adresser à vous, mes amis, à vous qui foulez la
terre de Shakespeare, en faveur de ceux qui foulent celle aujourd’hui
dévastée de Victor Hugo, et je considére comme un honneur, comme un
privilége, et an même temps comme un devoir de plaider auprès de vous
cette grande cause.

Je vous demande de vous recueillir, de considérer votre situation
propre, de jeter un coup d’œil sur votre confort, vous, habitants
de cette ville paisible, qui n’avez jamais connu les horreurs de
l’invasion, de la destruction causées par le plus féroce des ennemis!
Je vous demande de diriger votre pensée vers d’autres villes, vers
d’autres villages, autrefois joyeux et prospères aujourd’hui ruinés,
désolés, au des milliers de malheureux innocents ont été chassés de
leur foyer et contraints de subir des misères plus terribles que toutes
celles que vous pouvez imaginer!

Rappelez-vous aussi avec quel héroisme ils ont enduré leurs
souffrances, avec quel courage, avec quelle force d’âme! Sans se
plaindre, ils ont, pour le salut de leur patrie, refoulé dans le plus
profond de leur être leurs chagrins et leurs angoisses, et quand
l’Histoire parlera, le splendide et inébranlable patriotisme de la
France, brillant d’une lumière étincelante, sera pour toutes les
nations un noble et impérissable exemple!

Pensez, mes chers amis, un instant seulement aux angoisses qui vous
étreindraient le cœur si vous deviez considérer votre vieille et belle
église, le sanctuaire vénéré au repose Shakespeare, réduits en cendres
par les bombes et par les obus de l’impitoyable ennemi allemand! vos
maisons abattues, vos jardins dévastés, vos rues détruites par le fer
et par le feu, et si vous deviez vous trouver vous-mêmes errants,
hagards, sans espérance, sans refuge! vos petits enfants massacrés sous
vos yeux!

Ces sant ces terribles supplices que la France endure! Vous avez
la bonne fortune d’échapper à ces épouvantables calamités grâce au
dévouement des braves qui combattent et qui donnent leur ire pour vous,
et c’est a eux que vous devrez de ne jamais connaître une si abominable
désolation! Ce ne sont pas seulement les enfants de l’Angleterre qui
se battent pour vous: ce sont aussi les enfants de la France; ils sont
frères dans la grande et terrible lutte actuelle; ils n’ont qu’une âme!

Nous qui sommes protégés dans notre île par le magnifique héroisme
et par le dévouement d’hommes aussi splendidement grands, donnous une
preuve de notre amour reconnaissant et de notre admiration pour la
France, pour son incomparable ténacité, pour sa résolution indomptable,
pour sa grandeur d’âme et pour son courage, et si peu que nous
puissions les uns et les autres faire pour elle, faisons--le avec tout
notre cœur, avec toute notre générosité! Sayons fiers et joyeux d’aider
à reconstruire les villes détruites, les villages anéantis; essayons de
donner un peu de confort aux malheureux éprouvés, en leur procurant un
abri, en leur rendant un peu de la paix et de la prospérité perdues!
Chaque obole allégera une part de souffrance! Nul placement ne peut
rapporter d’intérêt plus divinement profitable que celui consacré à
secourir les malheureux dans le besoin!

Donc, donnans san hésiter à l’héroique nation martyre! Elle est
meurtrie de coups de lance, elle est flagellée et couronnée d’épines,
mais sa foi invincible, son honneur et son patriotisme la conduitent à
travers les ténèbres vers la lumière éblouissante d’un jour de gloire
et de triomphe. Sa cause est la nôtre; notre cause est la sienne. Le
moment est venu au nous qui ne sommes pas dans la fournaise de la
lutte, nous pouvons venir en aide à la noble nation et lui donner les
preuves de notre amour et de la profonde sympathie que nous ressentous
pour elle.

J’espère ardement que le noble et vivant esprit du génial poète dont
le nom et la mémoire illustrent cette ville, inspirera vos cœurs et
que vous donnerez à l’œuvre française ce que vous pourrez, tout ce
que vous pourrez, presque plus que vous ne pourrez, dans un élan de
tendresse généreuse et avec cette qualité de miséricorde dont parle
notre grand Shakespeare, cette qualité de miséricorde qui apporte une
bénédiction supérieure à toute richesse, une récompense supérieure à
toute renommée!




GLORY OF THE WORCESTERS

(_Written by request in aid of the Homes for Disabled Worcestershire
Soldiers and Sailors_)

A TRIBUTE TO A FAMOUS REGIMENT

    “You have deserved nobly of your country.”
                                  _Shakespeare._


Far down the long annals of past history we must look for the
beginnings of the brave breed of Worcestershire men--the outcome of
that ancient heroic blood which nourishes the flower of chivalry and
strengthens the spirit to perform imperishable deeds of valour. Between
a band of tenacious Britons holding the summits of the Malvern Hills,
and a military guard and outpost of Roman warriors at Worcester itself,
was seemingly produced that special type of Englishman who, ever since
those far-away days, has been famous for courage and conquest. The
native fighting force of the Gael, and the trained skill and prowess
of the Roman are mingled in his being, and they make him, almost
unconsciously to himself, a hero from his youth. Something of the salt
of ocean, as well as of the salt of the earth, is in him, bracing his
energies and hardening his muscle and, indeed, if we grope farther back
in the dark recesses of time, we shall find geology suggesting that
Worcestershire was once a sea, and the hills of Malvern, islands, and
that the projecting bluffs on each side of the gaps in the opposite
range were capes standing out from what some imaginative folk called
the “Severn Straits,” so that we may be permitted to fancy the earliest
progenitors of the Worcestershire breed were, perhaps, bold mariners,
sailing round a veritable archipelago of islands, and skilfully
steering their primitive craft into harbours sheltered by the very
headlands which confront us to-day; or they might have been hunters,
chasing the innumerable wild beasts which at one period infested the
formerly dense “Forest of Malvern”--a forest that even in the Middle
Ages stretched from the plains to the very tops of the hills. Be this
as it may, our redoubtable men of Worcestershire must have been born
and bred from strong beginnings; they come of a stock which knows no
fear, no hesitation, no failure. The “Firm” fighters whom we delight
to honour are the product of centuries of heroism. Heroism comes so
naturally to them that they think little or nothing of it. Their pride
is in each other--not in themselves individually; what is said of one
man, must be said for the whole Regiment. Their spirit is expressed in
Shakespeare’s lines,--

   “In this glorious and well-foughten field
    We kept together in our chivalry!”

And though they have performed prodigies of valour in bygone great
battles, as in the terrific “World War,” they make no boast of their
proved mettle, nor have they called upon the country they so nobly
serve for special consideration. It is with difficulty, and only by
piecing dry and desultory bits of history together, that we are at all
able to read their Golden Chronicle, or to realise the nature and worth
of their splendid services, splendidly performed in defence of “This
dear, dear land, this land of such dear souls--This England!”

       *       *       *       *       *

We do not know with any certainty the character or military
qualifications of their first Colonel, Thomas Farrington, who raised
the Regiment in 1694, but we do know many of their brilliant exploits
since that far-off day, especially in India, such as the carrying
of the Delhi Gate and the storming and capture of Bangalore, which
helped to bring about the vanquishment of that notable rebel, Tippoo
Sahib; and though the overladen pages of historians find little space
for special mention of special companies of soldiers, the Duke of
Wellington’s praise of the Regiment after Badajos has not slipped
notice, nor is it likely to be forgotten:--

“It is the best Regiment in this Army, has an admirable internal system
and excellent non-commissioned officers.”

But the laurels of the past, thickly showered as they were on the
“Worcesters,” are little to compare with those of the present, when
valour is put to its utmost test, and when war weapons contrary to
all international usage, more deadly and treacherous than ever were
known before, are employed by the most inhuman and dishonourable of
foes. We have only to recall the dramatic scenario of the village of
Gheluvelt during the battle of Ypres, when the Worcesters literally
saved the day. No page of romance was ever more thrilling! The Germans
had carried the village, but the Welsh, true sons of “Gallant Little
Wales,” remained, firing, holding their ground and refusing to admit
any sort of defeat. Even when they had been given the order to retreat,
they hung on with the grim tenacity of their Celtic ancestors, and it
depended on the merest chance as to whether any company of men could
advance to their assistance under the deadly fire of shrapnel which
covered and cut them off from the rest of their line. But rescue was
forthcoming--a mere handful of Worcesters--six hundred of them, were
stationed but a mile off Gheluvelt. Their commanding officer gave the
order--“Advance without delay and deliver counter-attack.”

   “Theirs not to make reply,
    Theirs not to reason why,
    Theirs but to do and die!”

They responded, and rushed for about half a mile under the battering
rain of shrapnel, going for two hundred yards without cover.

   “Into the jaws of Death,
    Into the mouth of Hell
    Ran the Six Hundred!”

Shrapnel showered thick and hot in front of them, and on their
right flanks the Bavarians poured bullets upon them from rifles and
machine guns. In crossing the two hundred yards without “cover” they
had one hundred casualties. But what did death or danger matter to
the Worcesters? What have they ever cared for shots that have sped
their brave souls to Heaven? They pressed on, up on the left of the
splendidly stubborn Welsh, and opened fire with so much success that
the foe was forced to retreat. The effect of their action was such
that the position was entirely changed--the Germans fell back and
the British line was reinstated. In Sir John French’s despatch it is
written:--

“The recapture of the village of Gheluvelt at such a time was fraught
with momentous consequences. If any one unit can be singled out for
special praise it is the Worcesters.”

Quite recently, a British General, whose name, for some occult reason
or other, was withheld from the public by the newspaper reporter,
gave an enthusiastic account of the fine deeds of the Worcestershire
Regiment on the Somme.

“The Worcesters have a wonderful record,” he said. “They have seen some
of the hardest fighting of this war, and they have won new honours for
a fine regiment, which already boasts some of the most glorious records
on our military history.”

We shall do well to think of, and to long remember, some of this
“hardest fighting.” For example, when they made their wonderful stand
against the Prussian Guards, with the Wiltshires. Some of the incidents
in that fight have never been recorded, and yet, to those who witnessed
them they make the glory of the Worcesters still more glorious. Listen
to the stirring account of the stirring action!

“The battalions had been fighting incessantly for weeks, with little or
no rest. They had taken trenches from which the enemy had to be flung
out. The subsequent German attack or counter-attack was delivered by
a force of picked troops, made up of Prussian Guards and other crack
regiments. There were at least ten thousand of these crack troops.
They were supported by magnificent artillery and had been trained for
an attack over this ground for days before they were sent against the
Worcesters. Judging by the ordinary standard of things, the weary
Worcesters’ battalions ought to have been crushed and finished under
such an avalanche; but they withstood the fiercest attacks for two days
and nights. They captured many prisoners, as many as themselves, and
the German killed and wounded were twice as numerous as they. There was
one great mound of dead before the trench, after the last attack was
driven off, the Germans being simply mown down by the machine guns of
the Worcesters.”

“Firm” has ever been the character of the Regiment, as well as its
motto. On five several occasions they have held their ground and
carried strong positions held by superior enemy forces. They have come
triumphantly through every ordeal--shell-fire, machine-gun fire, liquid
fire, and poison gas, without shrinking or complaint--and on several
occasions the foe himself has been moved to praise of their splendid
heroism. Here is another story:--

“On one occasion a battalion of the Worcesters was advancing under
great difficulties against a strongly fortified village. The artillery
fire and infantry defence was stronger even than they expected. For a
moment the battalion seemed to pause. The officer in command sprang
forward with the shout, ‘Firm! Firm! Give them Worcester Sauce!’ The
men responded with a cheer and laughter--they swept forward, rushing
the position and fighting their way to the rear of the surprised and
baffled foe.”

Think of the time when a little band of these splendid lads were cut
off by a sudden descent of the enemy in force! They were holding a bit
of trench, which was powdered to ruins by shell-fire, and they were
half-buried under the wreckage; but they dug themselves out again, and
fought with such resolved fury that not all the forces of the foe
could overwhelm or overawe them. _They held their ground for three
days_--though every man who wasn’t killed was wounded. When they were
at last relieved they were cheered wildly by the troops who watched
their limping march down to billets for rest, heroes all, without a
single exception!

Such is the “way” of the Worcesters--such has always been their way
from their beginning. Unflinching valour, duty, and love of country
beyond all love of life, has made them and still makes them what they
are. They, and all their brave and noble kind, have fought and are
still fighting for us that we may dwell in our homes in peace. It
must now be our pride, as well as our honour, to prove our gratitude
to them, not only by words but deeds. Many of them will return to us,
broken men, deprived of health, strength, and all ability to work
for their living--crippled, blind, disfigured--suffering too from
what we may call mind-hurt beyond remedy. That is to say, the awful,
ineffaceable impression of ghastly sights and sounds, so inhuman, as
to shame humanity. What shall we do for our self-sacrificing defenders
when they come home? How shall we assuage their sufferings and seek to
make them forget the terrors they have confronted for our sakes?

In matters of this kind, many people incline to the old conventional,
rather worn-out business of a “War Memorial,” which conveniently and
with all official publicity and importance, writes the names of living
subscribers as well as those of the heroic dead, but it is more than
likely that the whole face of the Empire will be strewn with such “War
Memorials” in so great a number that in a short time no passer-by
will pause to look at them. And a monument of cold stone cannot come
into comparison with the expressed warmth or loving hearts; so that
the best and kindest “Memorial” to the gallant “Worcesters” who have
passed away “in the stern and grim life-battle, in the morning of their
day”--should be of a nature to care and to provide for the “Worcesters”
who have come alive out of the Valley of the Shadow, and who remain
with us to witness our recognition of their services. Such a “Memorial”
is proposed by the Mayor of Worcester, and I, for one, do most heartily
wish that his lead could be followed in every County and Town of
Imperial Britain. For what a fine scheme it is! Could anything be more
practically humane and sympathetic than the idea that small, pretty
cottages or bungalows should be erected to provide permanent homes,
rent free, not only for the life-disabled men of the Worcestershire
Regiment, but also for Worcestershire Sailors and Soldiers in other
units, similarly disabled, who have “borne the burden and heat of the
day,” and who are entitled to the country’s heart-whole gratitude. I
can imagine no more beautiful “Memorial” to these brave fellows than
the free gift of charming little houses to live in, fragrant little
gardens to tend, and a fair and peaceful prospect to look upon for the
rest of their days. Nothing better, nothing kinder could be advised
for the permanently injured and maimed, the sad and battered wrecks of
once strong and comely men--no more comforting reparation scheme could
possibly be thought of--and it is good to know that much has already
been done, and is being done, to forward its success. The Mayor of
Worcester himself has given the site for building, and one individual
has offered five tons of lime to assist operations. Then come the
Pharmacists of Worcester, who are willing to supply free all drugs and
medicaments needed by the dwellers on this “Pleasaunce of Peace”--while
the “Old Comrades” of the County Regiment have incorporated an effort
of their own with the general plan, which has the approval of the local
military authorities. Subscriptions are beginning to flow in; and when
it is fully realised how welcome and warm “a Home-coming” can, by these
means, be given to the heroes who have sacrificed their own homes to
fight for us, surely every one will be eager and anxious to contribute
to so worthy a cause. For say what we will, there is a truth in the
familiar song,--

   “Be it ever so humble,
    There’s no place like home!”

And it is within our power to give our broken Worcestershire men that
blessed abode of simple tranquillity and content, which, if they had
not fought for us they might have earned for themselves. They will have
their pensions from the Government of course, but we doubt whether
those pensions will be as adequate as they might expect. Anyhow, we
of the British People, who have been defended by their valour, cannot
do too much for them, and if the Mayor of Worcester’s scheme were
copied and carried out all through the British Isles it would lift a
considerable burden of anxiety from the State. If any “County” must
have a special “War Memorial” to coldly chronicle names of the dead
rather than hearts of the living, there is nothing in our “Happy Homes”
work to prevent the erection of “marble or the gilded monument,” but
to the eyes of thinkers, philosophers, and all teachers and helpers
of mankind, a little village of clustering cottages on the lovely site
which the Mayor has freely given, commanding as it does an outlook over
picturesque country--cottages with tiny gardens easy to till, plant,
and care for, where in summer the dear old-fashioned flowers which are
a liberal education in themselves, may bring their beauty and sweetness
into lives that have been blackened by shot and shell--will offer a far
greater and more impressive testimony of memory and gratitude.

I, who am privileged to write this brief token of honour and admiration
for men whose fine character and splendid courage have been chronicled
by infinitely worthier pens than mine, now plead this noble cause, as
worthy of the strongest and most loving support of every man, woman and
child in the historic county of Worcestershire, and I want the spirit
of a fine and active enthusiasm to “catch on” and spread like a prairie
fire, not only through Worcestershire, but even farther afield. Why
should not every county have its own soldiers’ and sailors’ settlement?
It’s own well-organised, picturesque haven and “Pleasaunce of Peace”?
It is impossible that any of us should sit down in satisfied comfort at
the close of the war and do nothing for the men who have done so much
for our defence. A new “Garden City” would hardly be spacious enough
to provide them with their well-earned ease--and shall we hesitate to
build them villages? Villages so artistically and prettily planned, so
dainty and restful that the wandering stranger in future years shall
pause, enchanted, to ask what influences have been at work to create
such little Edens on earth. And he will be told:--

“These are the homes of heroes!--here dwell men who faced death for
duty’s sake and Britain’s honour--and Britain has given them what she
can to prove her gratitude, and to make their remaining lives sweet.”

For, of every man that has fought for us in this terrific
World-Struggle for nobler freedom and higher ideals, it can be said
with Shakespeare,--

   “The blood that he hath lost, he dropp’d it for his country,
    And what is left, to lose it by his country,
    Were to us all that do’t and suffer it
    A brand to the end of the world!”




EYES OF THE SEA

(_Written by special request of the Directors for the British and
Foreign Sailors’ Society_)

A TRIBUTE TO THE GRAND FLEET AND ADMIRAL BEATTY

  “Then said David to the Philistine, ‘Thou comest to me with a sword
  and a spear and with a shield, but I come to thee in the name of
  the Lord of Hosts.... This day will the Lord deliver thee into mine
  hand!’”


We all know that in Bible history there was a certain Goliath of Gath.
His height was six cubits and a span,--that is to say, about ten feet.
He had a helmet of brass, and he wore a coat of mail weighing five
thousand shekels of brass,--about a hundred and fifty-six pounds. He
had brass on his legs, and brass between his shoulders, and his spear’s
head weighed six hundred shekels of iron. Taking him altogether he was
a fine prototype of the Hun, who is similarly a monster of Brass, Iron,
and Brag. And then DAVID, “ruddy and of a fair countenance,” drew near
to this Brazen Being, and smote him with a stone in the middle of his
forehead, so that he “fell with his face to earth.”

And this is just what _our_ “David” has done. A matter for national
rejoicing! Especially for “they that go down to the sea in ships and
do business in great waters” do we rejoice that the “David” of the
Grand Fleet,--high-souled, brave-hearted DAVID BEATTY,--commands the
Sling and Stone of our straight-hitting Naval Power! What better man
than he to take the place of Nelson?--to carry out with zealous
ardour Nelson’s one wish, Nelson’s last desire that “every man should
do his duty!” Look at the strong face,--the keen, clear “eyes of the
sea,”--the resolute yet tender lines of the mouth,--the whole bearing
of this bold and dauntless commander, and then think of the lofty and
devout spirit of him expressed in his recent “message” to the nation:--

“Until religious revival takes place at home, just so long will the war
continue. When England can look out on the future with humbler eyes and
a prayer on her lips, then we can begin to count the days towards the
end!”

There’s a challenge for you! Flung out unhesitatingly and manfully in
the very face of a swarm of atheists in Church and State, who for the
past decade at least, have copied Germany in mockery of all things holy
and divine, and have spread their “literary” blasphemies throughout
the land, assisted in their work of “tearing down” Christianity by a
corrupt section of society and a decadent Press! It’s a challenge we
are bound to hear,--given in simple, manly words which echo the high
faith of him who won the Battle of Trafalgar, and who, on the eve of
the fight retired to his cabin and wrote this prayer:--

“May the great God Whom I worship grant to my country, and for the
benefit of Europe in general, a great and glorious victory; and may no
misconduct in any one tarnish it; and may humanity after victory be the
predominant feature in the British Fleet! For myself individually, I
commit my life to Him that made me, and may His blessing alight on my
endeavours for serving my country faithfully! To Him I resign myself
and the just cause which is entrusted to me to defend. Amen!”

Without such faith, such humility and resignation as this, few great
victories are won. Even pagan heroes sought the favour of their gods in
every high enterprise; but in our time the nations of Europe, assuming
an “advancement” beyond either pagans or Christians, have been seeking
to ignore the Higher Power Almighty altogether; with what dire results
is now witnessed by desolated peoples drenched in blood and tears!
Of Nelson it is written: “All men knew that his heart was as humane
as it was fearless, and that there was not in his nature an alloy of
selfishness or cupidity, but that he served his country with a perfect
and entire devotion, therefore they loved him as truly and fervently as
he loved England.”

Cannot each word of this be said with equal truth of David Beatty?
Every man of the Fleet will answer “Yes!” And every man of the Fleet
will endeavour to be a copy of him in all the grand essentials of
honour and duty. And here comes in a little story.

Only the other day I received a letter from a lad on board one of our
mine-sweepers,--a stranger to me personally, but one who evidently felt
sure (as he might) of my interest in his difficult and dangerous work.
In that letter he writes:--

“I am in his Majesty’s Navy and I am just twenty. My last ship was
Admiral Beatty’s Flagship, the _Lion_, on board of which I had the
honour of being a little over three years under _an Admiral whose
qualities are magnificent_. I want to say this, because people are apt
to take doubtful views through articles in the papers about our truly
Great Leaders.”

Yes,--“articles in the papers,” written by caterers for mere
sensational gabble, are apt to influence the majority of fools; and
“doubtful views” are generally entertained by persons who in themselves
are more than doubtful. But if a boy of twenty, after serving for
three years under Admiral Beatty, can write, “_His qualities are
magnificent_,” it means a very great deal. Young fellows of that age
are not always easily impressed by their superiors,--they are more
critical than complimentary; and the rules of naval discipline go hard
with them unless administered by a kindly as well as just hand. “Eyes
of the Sea” must be everywhere vigilant,--watching men’s minds equally
with God’s stormy waters,--ever on the look-out for enemies of the
soul as well as enemies of the country; and so well and truly do they
watch,--so faithfully have they always watched, that sailors’ eyes have
grown to be quite different to all other eyes in the world! We know
them at once by their far-off steady gaze--by their look of mingled
pathos, persistency, and cheerfulness,--by the sparkle of the waves and
the light of stars which are somehow commingled in their keen glances,
suggesting the wonderful power and indomitable energy of “one life, one
flag, one fleet!” The strong lines of Alfred Tennyson, the last worthy
Laureate of Great Britain, may well ring in our ears to-day:--

   “You, _you_, if you shall fail to understand
      What England is, and what her all-in-all,
    On you will come the curse of all the land
      Should this old England fall
             Which Nelson left so great.

    His isle, the mightiest ocean-power on earth,
      Our own fair isle, the Lord of every sea,
    Her fuller franchise--what would that be worth,
      Her ancient fame of ‘Free,’
            Were she--a fallen State?

    Her dauntless Army scattered and so small--
      Her island myriads fed from alien lands,
    The Fleet of England is her all-in-all;
      Her Fleet is in your hands,
            And in her Fleet her Fate.

    You, you that have the ordering of her Fleet,
      _If_ you should only compass her disgrace,
    When all men starve, the wild mob’s million feet
      Will kick you from your place,
            But then too late, too late!”

But Great Britain “is no longer an island,” we hear. Who says so?
Merely brazen Goliath with his big mouth of Brag. “No longer safe from
invasion.” Who says so? Goliath again! Our “supremacy of the seas is
gone for ever!” Good old Goliath! Submarines and Zeppelins are to bring
the invaders along as surely as weeds swept on the sand by the tide!
Easier said than done! What says the old song?

   “Since our foes to invade us have long been preparing
    ’Tis clear they consider we’ve something worth sharing,
      And for that, mean to visit our shore;
    It behoves us, however, with spirit to meet ’em,
    And though ’twill be nothing uncommon to beat ’em
      We must try how they’ll take it once more!
          So be this the toast given,
    England for ever, the land, boys, we live in,
          England for ever, huzza!

    Here’s health to our tars, on the wide ocean ranging,
    Perhaps even now some broadsides they’re exchanging,
      We’ll on shipboard and join in the fight!
    And when with the foe we are firmly engaging,
    Till the fire of our guns lulls the sea in its raging,
      On our country we’ll think with delight--
          So be this the word given,
    England for ever, the land, boys, we live in,
          England for ever, huzza!”

True enough, we have to deal nowadays with pirates,--not true
naval men,--with burglars, not warriors,--and inhumanity being the
characteristic of all such folk, the international laws of Imperial
Britain and her Allies, regulating the conduct of warfare, have no
hold on them. We are not at war with an educated people,--for they
have shown themselves openly as savages. But though the wholesome air
may be poisoned by the breath of the Hun, and murderous bombs may
be flung through those spaces of heavenly blue, once most blessedly
free from the presence of humanity, we have already proved equal to
tackling the Zeppelins, and shall tackle them yet again. And we shall
“manage” the submarines in a way of our own, if only the garrulous
and indiscreet Press will leave us alone to do it, and refrain from
giving elaborate details of all our newest machinery in their columns
for the benefit and instruction of the enemy! We would not “tell it
in Gath” to Goliath, how many of his under-sea “sneak” boats have
already been “bagged” by our sportive captains--that’s a “secret of
the Admiralty.” But it is just possible that even Huns may be weary
of the certainty of death by fire in the air, and death by “ramming
down” to the bottom of the sea! Neither way is a pleasant exit from
the world of living men. Both are the result of inventive science
put to wrong uses,--namely to injure, instead of to benefit. The old
ways of combat were more open and honourable. Better the sword and
shield than the gas and the bomb,--better the fair fight between ships
confronting each other boldly on the ocean, than the floating mine or
the sly torpedo, sneaking like a low thief beneath the waves. There is
something cowardly about the new “scientific” weapons of war,--they
manifest the assassin’s spirit rather than that of the honest soldier.
The long-distance gun, the poison-vapours, the “dum-dum” bullet--all
show the inventive faculty of murderers in training, not the sane
education of civilised and honourable men. There has been much talk of
“advancement”--but if human progress takes the form of “scientific”
torture, barbarity, and outrage on our fellow-creatures, it is not
progress at all, but terrible retrogression and back-sliding which must
be checked before it is too late. No man can do better than see to it
that what has been written of Nelson may also be said of him:--

“All men knew that his heart was as humane as it was fearless.”

We _say_ this, _think_ this, and _feel_ this of David Beatty,--and by
the Almighty’s grace and power, we want to say, think, and feel the
same of every man and boy under his command! And so the Fleet will be
as it always has been,--the star of victory in the crown of Empire.
On the memorable occasion when Mr. Lloyd George rose to make his first
address to the House as Prime Minister, Admiral Sir H. Meux, Member for
Portsmouth, asked:--

“Will the right hon. gentleman say a word about the Navy before he sits
down?”

And the new Premier replied at once:--

“My hon. and gallant friend knows that the achievements of the Navy
speak for themselves. I do not think that anything I can say would
be in the least adequate to recognise the enormous and incalculable
services that the great Navy of Britain has rendered, not merely to the
Empire but to the whole Allied cause. Not merely would victory have
been impossible, but the war could not have been kept on for two and a
half years had it not been for the services of the Navy.”

These words called forth ringing cheers. For it is We,--we Britons--who
sweep the seas! It is our heritage to do so. A rumour is about that one
of the “peace terms” foolishly proposed by Germany is, that we should
“abandon our supremacy of the sea!” As well ask the sun to abandon its
supremacy of the skies! It would be an evil day for _all_ nations, not
only our own, when Britannia ceased to rule the waves! Her just, wise
laws of freedom and fairness would soon be replaced by ruthless piracy,
and there would be no security for any coast. It is a good thing for
America and Europe likewise that this

        “Precious stone, set in the silver sea,
    Which serves it in the office of a wall,
      Or as a moat defensive to a house,
    Against the envy of less happier lands”

should be the guardian of the girdling ocean, maintaining its highest
rights and liberties in the face of all foes. And so may it ever remain!

What stories I could tell, had I the time and space, of heroic deeds
“unwritten and unsung” performed by the men of the Fleet, not only
in the past, but now!--now, in these actual present days, when great
London, plunged to the neck in a flood of gold, poured in for the help,
healing, and comfort of our fighting men on land and sea, is striving,
like a giant caught in a net, to disentangle its sacred duties from
its selfish pleasures,--trying to realise in its vague way that War is
really War! Of “Tommy” one hears much; but of “Jack Tar” less,--though
they are close comrades in the one spirit of devotion to duty, and
each has his own burden of difficulties to bear,--his own sphere of
danger to surmount and to master. The story of brave Jack Cornwell
thrilled every heart,--putting well into the shade the similar exploit
of “Casabianca,” of whom, when we were children, we all learned, in the
verse of Felicia Hemans:--

   “The boy stood on the burning deck,
      Whence all but him had fled;
    The flame that lit the battle’s wreck
      Shone round him o’er the dead.”

and

   “The noblest thing that perished there
      Was that young, faithful heart.”

Only there is no poet among us worthy of the name to “sing the memory”
of Jack Cornwell, thanks to the swarm of atheists, pessimists,
decadents, and anti-idealists who have been encouraged to darken and
disgrace the literary annals of Great Britain. “Casabianca” was a boy
about thirteen years of age, son to the Admiral of the _Orient_, who
remained at his post in the Battle of the Nile after the ship had taken
fire and all the guns had been abandoned, and perished in the explosion
of the vessel when the flames had reached the powder. All who have
read the enthralling pages of our sea-history will remember that the
_Orient_ was the French Admiral’s ship, carrying a hundred and twenty
guns, and that he himself died on her quarter-deck, his little son
remaining at the post where his father had placed him, all unconscious
of his father’s end. “Soon after nine o’clock,” says the historian,
“the _Orient_ appeared in flames, which spread with astonishing
rapidity, and by their prodigious light the situation of the hostile
fleets could be seen at a distance of fifteen miles. The _Orient’s_
crew, however, continued to fire from her lower-deck to the very last,
and at about ten o’clock she blew up with an explosion which was felt
by every vessel to the bottom of its keel. To this succeeded a silence
not less awful,--the sanguinary conflict ceased on both sides,--and
the first sound that broke that portentous stillness was the splash of
shattered masts and yards falling into the sea.”

So “Casabianca” perished gallantly--but not more gallantly than Jack
Cornwell. Both boys, the one French, the other English, were made of
the same heroic stuff that gives worth and honour to the nations that
breed it.

Very quaint and poetic it is to read at this time of day, the
picturesque record of William Camden, Clarencieux King-at-Arms to Queen
Elizabeth, concerning the entrance of the Spanish Armada into English
waters:--

“The next day the English discovered the Spanish Fleet with lofty
Turrets, like Castles, in front like a Half-Moon, the wings thereof
spreading out about the length of seven miles, sailing very slowly,
though with full sails, the Winds being, as it were, tired with
carrying them, and the Ocean groaning under the weight of them....
But so far was it from terrifying the seacoasts with its name of
‘Invincible’ or with its dreadful Show, that the young Gentry of
England, with incredible Cheerfulness and Alacrity (leaving their
parents, children, wives, and friends at home) out of their hearty
Love to their Country, hired ships from all parts at their own private
charges and joined with the Fleet in great numbers.”

I think we, in our present days, have had the word “invincible” thrown
at us a good deal from the braggart mouth of the “Hun”--but “so far
from terrifying us”--it has had the same effect on our manhood as it
had in Tudor days so far as “incredible Cheerfulness and Alacrity” are
concerned! And Queen Elizabeth apparently found a prototype of Nelson
and David Beatty, for, says Camden, “The command of the whole Fleet she
gave to Charles, Lord Howard of Effingham, Lord Admiral of England, of
whose fortunate Conduct she had a very great Persuasion, and whom she
knew by his moderate and noble carriage, to be skilful in sea-matters,
wary and provident, valiant and courageous, industrious and active, and
of great authority and esteem among the seamen of her Navy. Drake,
whom she appointed Vice-Admiral, joined with him.”

Queen Bess evidently knew how to select the best men! And we may justly
claim to have kept up the breed. For there is not a word written of
Admiral Lord Howard in those old days that cannot be equally written
now of Admiral Sir David Beatty. Every man of the Fleet knows it; and
is proud and glad to serve under his command. “Skilful in sea-matters,
wary and provident, valiant and courageous, industrious and active, and
of great authority and esteem among the seamen of the Navy!”

And we shall do well to remember that on the outbreak of war, the
country was assured that the Mercantile Marine accepted the risks
incurred in maintaining the supplies of food so indispensable to the
existence of the people, and in ensuring a path of safety for commerce,
and the transport of troops and war material. And British shipmasters,
officers, and seamen alike expressed their resolve to keep the seas
open at all costs. The result of this inflexible determination is that
throughout continuous struggle, exposed to daily and nightly peril
from mine and submarine, British ships continue to arrive in British
ports and sail again with a splendid disregard of all the difficulties
and dangers which beset them in maintaining the overseas trade of the
nation. It is time such priceless valour was more absolutely defended
and held dear by the Empire which owes it so much. Our merchantmen
should be armed. The expenditure would be less than the loss of
heroic lives! Merchant seamen should be given every possible means of
protecting their own existence and securing the safety of their ships
and cargoes. Their foes are ruthless,--they should be given ample
means of retaliation and defence. For--

   “We sing the British seamen’s praise,
      A theme renowned in story,
    It well deserves more polished lays,
      For ’tis your boast and glory,--
    When mad-brain’d war spreads death around,
      By them you are protected,
    But oft when peace again is found,
      Your bulwarks are neglected!
    Then oh! protect the hardy tar!
      Be mindful of his merit,
    And when you’re plung’d anew in war
      He’ll show his dauntless spirit!”

And no man of any class needs a “dauntless spirit” more. Courage alone
makes him what he is. For though I love the sea with an intense love
beyond all world-expression, I know how cruel it can be, although so
beautiful--and while I rejoice and revel in the splendour of terrific
waves breaking in pillars of foam up against rocks a hundred or more
feet high, I cannot but hear in my soul the wild and despairing cries
of drowning men, and the noise of breaking ships--I see the horror of
drifting dead forms and faces swirling on the blackness of the deep,
and with my whole heart I join in the prayer:--

“God, Who alone spreadest out the heavens, and rulest the raging of
the sea, be pleased to receive into Thy most gracious protection the
persons of Thy servants and the Fleet in which they serve! Preserve
them from the dangers of the sea and from the violence of the enemy,
that they may be a safeguard!--and that the inhabitants of our Island
may in peace and quietness serve Thee, our God!”

       *       *       *       *       *

Amen, and many times Amen! And it is possible that Admiral Sir David
Beatty, like his great prototype, Admiral Lord Nelson, may have sent
the same message to the Fleet on the day of the German surrender which
Nelson sent after the Battle of the Nile, thus:--

“Almighty God having blessed his Majesty’s arms with Victory, the
Admiral intends returning Public Thanksgiving for the same at two
o’clock this day, and he recommends every ship doing the same as soon
as convenient.--Signed, HORATIO NELSON. August 2, 1798.”

       *       *       *       *       *

A similar devotional spirit inspires our “David” of the sea, when
he says that England must look to the future “with a prayer on her
lips.” This great War, the greatest in all history, will, with all its
wickedness and bloodshed, prove a blessing, if the cloud of Atheism
which has swept over us through perverted and decadent German ideals,
is rolled away,--leaving a clear and wholesome heaven of faith and hope
for a nation brought back to God through humility, self-sacrifice and
splendid heroism!

              Eyes of the Sea!
    Steadfast and clear as the light of a midsummer morning,
    Sure in your vigilance, swift in the flash of your warning,
    Pledges of safety for us and our land of the free.
              Slumberless Eyes of the Sea!

              Eyes of the Sea!
    Watchful at midnight, companioning stars in their courses,
    Fronting the storm or the fire of the foe in his forces;
    Yours be the honour of all that we are or shall be!
              Glorious Eyes of the Sea!




IS ALL WELL WITH ENGLAND?

A QUESTION OF THE MOMENT


Yes, all is well!

Or, rather, let us say all _will_ be well! And in our steady progress
towards future good we may confidently aver that all is well even now.
Even now! though the great “spring-cleaning” of the Empire’s house is
scarcely half-way through. Our home is topsy-turvy, familiar objects
are thrust aside, our goods and chattels are disarranged and turned
out to be swept or beaten or otherwise relieved of their accumulated
dust and cobwebs, and the clatter of brooms and pails and general
hurry-scurry, with many irreparable breakages, make comfort and quiet
impossible. Yet there is a freshness in the air, the windows have been
cleaned, and one can see the sky through their lately begrimed and
sooty panes, the floors are swept and the furniture polished; deft
hands are arranging flowers for the rooms--we may breathe in health and
hope if we will.

There is much yet to be done, for the cleansing of a nation is God’s
work more than ours, and He leaves no corner unvisited. He has not done
with England yet, no, not by any means! The festering mass of diseased
moral fibre resulting from a long worship of Self, the canker in the
body social and politic, has to be cut out ruthlessly, despite bleeding
veins and torn sinews, and God will not spare the remedial knife.

But even so, it is well for England! Well, and more than well! For no
greater ill could chance to her than her condition prior to the war.

Far more injurious to her fair fame than the murderous attacks of
the most dishonourable and unscrupulous enemy she has ever known was
the stealthy undermining of her people’s ideals through the slow but
sure rot which had begun to set in at the very core of her civilian
life. That rot was eating its way through commerce and crumbling
down every bulwark of society. Its ravaging microbes swarmed through
every channel--the pulpit, the stage, and all forms of art. Through
its influence the abominable crimes of Sodom and Gomorrah were
re-enacted and condoned, both in the political and social world. By
gradual and subtle process, step by step on the downward grade, the
unthinking public were led by certain writers of the Press who are
special pleaders for vice, to accept sensuality as the only meaning of
love, and every town possessing a bookseller’s shop was flooded with
published outpourings of sickly and degrading sexuality, insulting to
the self-respect of men and women, old and young alike. Girls and boys
hardly in their teens carried these vile books in their hands, and read
and discussed them without shame. Their poisonous trail is over many
a young mind, and the mischief they have wrought will take years of
undoing.

This kind of pernicious literature, coupled with a “sensational” Press,
by which I mean that side of the Press which truckles to the baser
inclinations of mankind, and flaunts pictorial representations of
semi-nude women of the stage and of the demoralised portion of Society
in the eyes of decent folk whether they will or no, is in a great
measure responsible for the recklessness, extravagance, sloth, and
selfishness which have disfigured social England for the past decade.

Things were getting worse and worse; men who truckled to vice were
paid with baronetcies as “hush-money,” women passing for “ladies,”
lower than the lowest of street sinners, because they had education
and opportunities which the street sinner has not, were praised as
embodiments of all the beauties and all the virtues, and “home,” that
dear possession of the faithful soul, was voted “dull” by the younger
folk, because of its wholesome restrictions on harmful impulses and
runaway passions.

And let us not imagine these clouds on the sun of our country have yet
passed away. They are passing, but the full splendour of the light is
not yet. “Home, _dull_ Home,” is coming back to its own as “Home, sweet
Home” once more, because a dark and threatening destiny has torn sons
from their mothers, and has broken up dear associations which were
unvalued, because possessed. Now that death has darkened many windows
and shut many doors, the bereaved ones begin to realise what “home”
really was in the past days of peace, and what it never will be again;
while those that are absent on the battlefield, amid the roar of the
guns and the storm of shot and shell, turn back wistfully to the memory
of days spent “at home,” in a tranquillity of mind and body that seemed
“dull,” but that now shines forth in the visions of the brain as a
reflex of positive heaven.

Few, I think, have taken the trouble to consider what this Empire would
become without the saving grace of “Home”--that oasis in the desert
where love has its best chance and friendship its surest footing.

It is in very truth the foundation of national safety and the basis of
educational progress, and yet it is what a very large majority of us
have lately esteemed but lightly, moved as we have been by a spirit of
strange unrest, impelling us to wander hither and thither in search of
satisfaction which, after all our quest, awaits us at our own door.

Suppose that one and all we ran “amok” in the liberty which speedily
degenerates into license, without any restraining hand? Would it be
“well for England” then? We know it would not, yet if our young people
are brought up to disdain and to neglect their parents, and “friends”
so-called, only seek other “friends” in order to make use of them for
their own ends, the social code will be one of pure egotism without
a shred of conscience to soften its hard and fast self-seeking. This
would not be “well for England,” and from this point of view alone we
have to be thankful for the scourge of this terrific war. For here God
has taken the lead. He has indeed “put down the mighty from their seat,
and has exalted the humble and meek,” for the humblest ranks of our
British fighting men are heroes to-day, and the true spirit and mettle
of the British race, long suppressed beneath a featherbed softness of
prolonged peace, have sprung up in splendid and unbroken strength,
proving in deeds more than words that “all is well with England!”

No praise can be too high for their courage, cheerfulness, and
self-sacrifice; the sword of their unquenchable valour has long been
sheathed, but it has not grown rusty--the blade is as bright as ever it
was.

This is something to be proud of, something for us to remember when
inclined to pessimism. We have nothing to fear on the score of our
warriors who have gone forth in the flower of their manhood, to contend
with and to conquer a brutal foe; and, if the creeping suggestion that
all is _not_ well with England steals into our minds, it is on account
of _traitors at home_.

Yes, _there_ is a dire possibility of mischief, a chance of infinite
harm being wrought on England, and on the whole British Empire by the
avarice and short-sightedness of some of our leading men who have “axes
to grind.”

It may be unpleasant to face the truth, but surely it is wiser and
safer to do so than to wait till it overwhelms us. And the merest tyro
in diplomacy, the most casual looker-on at the moves on the political
chess-board, can see how many a man “in official capacity” is playing
the German game, and manœuvring towards a patched-up “peace” which
shall give Germany every possible trade advantage.

The people’s confidence is being daily betrayed by such treacherous
hypocrites, some of whom have financial interests closely bound in with
Germany, and who hesitate and shuffle and delay action indefinitely,
though the slaughter of innocent thousands may pay the price of their
ineptitude.

In such scandalous matters, all is _not_ well with England--and all
will never be well, unless the people take a hand against their own
spoliation and betrayal. And they cannot begin too soon. The house of
the nation is being “swept and garnished.” We shall need to take care
that the “unclean spirit” of Germany does not take “seven other spirits
more wicked” to “enter in and dwell there,” so that “the last state”
of that house be not “worse than the first.”

We need the resolved spirit of Queen Elizabeth, whose proclamation
against certain troublesome foreigners “which had flocked to the coast
towns of England” in 1560, commanded that they “should depart the
realm within twenty days,” whether they liked it or not, “upon pain of
imprisonment or loss of goods.” Queen Bess did not put on gloves when
dealing with treachery; she hit it fair and square in the face. We
should do wisely to imitate her example.

No great reforms are ever accomplished without opposition from
prejudiced and self-interested persons, and it needs a strong soul to
stand firm and full-fronted against malcontents, and to steadily baffle
political intrigues. With these latter, the Ministry is hemmed in and
environed, and it is a regrettable fact that in some quarters “party”
is ready to overwhelm patriotism, despite all plausible assurances to
the contrary.

On this point I would venture, as an independent writer who has no
favours to seek and no “axe to grind,” to warn our more or less
passive, silent, and patient people of dangers ahead.

The people are the nation, the people whose labour makes the wealth
of the country are the worth of the country; and for them the name of
Britain should represent all things British. But unless they themselves
take good care, their trades will be again swamped by Germany in the
future as in the past, especially if they put in less hours of work.
It stands to reason that if a British workman will only work for eight
hours, and a German will work for fourteen or sixteen, the German will
score in every kind of labour.

Even now the German is preparing for the relaxing of “restricted”
trades. The goods which the British Government declared “unnecessary”
in time of war are being “made in Germany,” and at an opportune moment
will be “dumped down” on these shores before the Englishman, returned
from battle, can so much as set his house in order.

We may think, or we may hope, that protection against such unfairness
will be guaranteed by Government--but will it? Does it look like it
even now?--when Germans are permitted to run the business of absent
Englishmen, and to make profit therefrom!

Sometimes it would almost seem as if there were a certain numbness or
apathy in the minds of the British people here at home, which robs them
of “the native hue of resolution,” so that in

      “Enterprises of great pith and moment
    With this regard their currents turn awry
    And lose the name of action.”

There is a general tendency not to take too much personal trouble
over any matter, a desire to avoid “being bothered,” and a persistent
jog-trot in the same old way, like “dumb, driven cattle,” no matter
whether the road lead to prosperity or ruin. This is like the fatal
lethargy which overcomes the traveller in heavy snow, when he yields
himself to a sleep from which he shall never wake.

Half the people in these islands do not yet realise the full meaning
or the real horror of the war in which we have been forced, by all
the rights of law and liberty, to engage. They do not think--they
cannot. Their sense of perception seems stunned as by a heavy blow.
All religion, all faith, all hope, have in a great measure failed them.
They do not see why they should suffer undeservedly.

A poor woman receiving the news that her son was killed, had no
tears--her face grew white and stiffened, as with frost--but she had
nothing to say except this: “Ah, well! I couldn’t expect anything else,
as there’s no God left to us now! Only man, the devil!” She could
but realise that the war is man’s work--the result of his miserable
ambitions, his delight in destruction, his selfish pride and cruelty.
And the church had taught her little more than that the God she was
told to worship was “a jealous God,” and out of that saying little
comfort can be drawn for the broken heart of a bereaved mother.

Perhaps one of the most terrible notes struck from the great
thunder-echoes of the war is this apparent failure of all churches to
cope with the sorrow that has swept over all lands, destroying homes
that were once happy.

Our Lord’s pitiful and pathetic words are realised to-day:--“Because
iniquity shall abound the love of many shall grow cold.” Ah, yes, love
for Him and all the tenderness He taught _has_ “grown cold,” and many
of His professed ministers are tongue-tied and spirit-frozen, and seem
all unable to raise the broken lives from the dust of despair, or dry
the weeping eyes which are too tired and heavy to lift themselves to
heaven.

There is a strong instinctive sense among us all, no matter to what
sect we belong or what religious formula we profess, that if the
churches had ever truly taught and truly followed the example of
Christ, war and its horrors would have been impossible. For He gave us
only two commandments--two instead of the Mosaic ten--thus:--

“Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart and with all thy
soul and with all thy mind. This is the first and great commandment.
And the second is like unto it--thou shalt love thy neighbour as
thyself. On these two commandments hang all the law and the prophets.”

Who is there that can deny that if these two commandments had been
obeyed by man in his social and civil life, the whole face of things
would have changed to an almost divine betterment, and the world’s
progress, assisted by a sanity of thought and a clarity of action,
would have been towards beauty and spiritual uplifting?

The word “spiritual” is sadly wronged and degraded nowadays by
misguided or semi-crazed persons who “blaspheme the Holy Ghost” by
their pretensions to psychic power, and play with the names of scared
things in order to further their own sinister designs. Our Lord
prophesied this evil when He spoke of “false prophets” who should “show
signs and wonders,” insomuch “that if it were possible they shall
deceive the very elect.”

Is it not a fact that we have come upon such days? Days when the
pure, simple, and helpful ethics of Christ are set aside in exchange
for an insane credence in the vulgar trickery of “mediumship,”
“crystal-gazing,” and other base forms of superstition pertaining
to the eras of ignorant barbarism? Does it seem believable that
there should be so-called “intellectual” men in this country, even
statesmen of admitted ability, who are actually partially under the
sway of illiterate “mediums,” generally women, who pretend to hold
communication with the dead, and even presume to offer advice from
the “spirits” on the affairs of the nation and the prosecution of
the war? One could hardly imagine a wilder improbability, yet it is
an absolute fact! The names of persons in high and trusted positions
are on the books of the unscrupulous jugglers and tricksters who earn
their wicked living by mischievous tampering with the brains of their
dupes and victims, and the wonder is that these notabilities should so
feebly allow themselves to be duped and victimized. But one has only
to think of the entire submission of the Romanoffs to the villainous
machinations of that unspeakable “monk,” Rasputin, to realize that
there is no depth of abasement to which the human mind may not fall if
it loses its hold on God.

It has to be confessed there are very few indications of real religion
among us at present. A large portion of the clergy seem stricken with
ineptitude, and one longs for a strong man who would not only preach
the truth, but _live_ it. A narrow egotism disfigures the ministering
spirit of the Church, and I could name more than one cleric whose
absorption in self entirely blinds him to the real duties he is called
upon to do.

The service of Christ should be broad and all-embracing, generous,
cheerful, ungrudging, and untiring in the aid of all humanity, rich and
poor, old and young, sinful and sorry, and only men who are prepared to
work on these lines should be admitted to such a high and holy calling.

But things are moving, and will move in the right direction presently;
when the roar of the guns has died away and the memory of our slain
heroes weighs on our stricken souls with sorrow and shame, and we have
time to reflect that it is for us and the saving of our honour that
they have died.

We shall then lift our eyes to Him from Whom cometh our strength, we
shall unite in a grand revolt against hypocrisy and shams; we shall
hold our homes more preciously, seeing and knowing what blood has been
shed to keep them inviolate, and we shall value simplicity and purity
of life for ourselves and our children far more than wealth and the
fleeting, feverish pleasures which wealth can attain.

In this new dawn of our day it will be well for England!

One of the happiest and most hopeful auguries for the future is the
stimulus given to agriculture and the “life of the land” by the
necessity of providing food supplies for our own people on our own soil.

The menace of the submarine has done this for us, and devastating as
its brutal work has been, we may regard it as a blessing in disguise.
For we should not need to depend on foreign imports of food if we
utilised our own acreage as fully and diligently as we might.

Life in the country, work in the country, means health and a light
heart; and many there are who would like to see the olden days of
purely native production come back again--the days of home spinning,
home weaving, home manufacture of every kind carried on in all the
towns and villages of rural England.

Here and there of late years there have been some efforts in this
direction--there is a spinning and weaving school at Haslemere, at
Stratford-on-Avon, and elsewhere--but the support given to these
praiseworthy industries is not sufficiently certain and prolonged
to push them with sufficient prominence into the public notice.
Nevertheless, many a woman helps the movement by electing to wear
only home-woven goods; they are beautiful and artistic enough to
deserve patronage, and can be purchased direct from the weavers and
spinners without the intervention of the middle-man whose business is
“profiteering.”

What an England it might be--what an England it _will_ be--when
every acre of suitable soil bears its weight of golden grain!--when
every orchard’s value can be appraised by its measure of luscious
fruit!--when farmyards are full of cattle, and good wives are so clever
at poultry and dairy work that the country can do without “millions of
foreign eggs”--having such “millions” of its own--and when prosperous
farms in the country are esteemed more valuable possessions than houses
in town, where money is often uselessly wasted on so-called “pleasures”
which have their end in damaged health and “vexation of spirit”!

To my own mind there is nothing more lovely or more satisfying than the
life of the country, where one may see the real breadth of the sky, and
feel the real freshness of the air.

In great cities, where humanity is a mere hive, the houses of brick and
stone block out the sky and impede the air, and somehow one imagines
that God is a long way off, while in the country He seems “nearer
than hands and feet.” Everything speaks of His infinite care and
providence--the birds, the flowers, the trees, the murmur of the leaves
that clap together like little fairy hands in the wind, and the low,
sweet, sigh that sways through the long grass at sunset.

The nearer man approaches to Nature, the more he becomes conscious of
a Divine, mysterious Presence to which his whole being instinctively,
though almost unconsciously, responds as “Our Father.”

In the rush and roar of great cities he loses this delicate intimacy
with his own origin, and all that is or might be divine in himself
becomes lowered to the level of gross material needs and ideas which
are the reflex of the coarser atmosphere around him.

The dweller among country sights and scenes is an idealist--sometimes
even a poet, though he may never express himself in words--and many an
ordinary labourer turning the rich clods of soil with the plough can be
found who will at times say things both trenchant and eloquent which
will give food for thought to the most cultivated stylist.

Some people imagine that cities educate, and that the country does not;
but one may question whether it is not quite the other way about. In
any case, the life of the country makes for health and strength, and
these are two potent factors for happiness. No man can be happy or
contented if he is ailing and weakly, and in our many “new” systems of
education, which are now being so much talked of, it is to be hoped
that health for the children will be the first thing to be considered
and maintained.

Here I may perhaps touch upon a point where one may trust that “all
is well with England,” in the immense change the war has wrought as
regards the position of women in the State.

Some years ago I was one of the many who were strongly opposed to the
“Votes for Women” movement, judging it to be wholly unnecessary.

I had been brought up on the chivalric view of man as taken by Sir
Walter Scott in his immortal romances, and my idea, gathered from
these exalted specimens of the race, was that as man was always ready
to worship woman it seemed invidious on her part to contend with him
in his own particular sphere. But when it was forced on me that, more
often than not, man was more ready to deride rather than worship
woman, that the special “strain” of Walter Scott’s heroes was in
Walter Scott’s delightful imagination only, and that as a matter of
fact men denied to women such lawful honours as they might win through
intellectual attainment, and that in certain forms of their legal
procedure women were classed with “children, criminals, and lunatics,”
I began to change my opinion.

I thought that if the mothers of the race were to be assorted with
“criminals and lunatics,” the men they had given birth to might be, in
their toleration of such a stigma, criminals and lunatics themselves.
And when the war broke out and all the world raised itself, as it
were, on tiptoe to see what was going to happen, and beheld among many
marvels perhaps the greatest marvel of all--the women going forth
to work in the places of men, going in thousands, without demur or
hesitation, and taking their full share of the hardest and most menial
labour with a cheerfulness and spirit no less remarkable than the
intelligence with which they handled difficulties hitherto unknown,
it was no longer possible to deny them equal rights with men in every
relation of life and every phase of work. By every law of justice
they deserved the vote--and I who, as a woman, was once against it,
am bound to support the cause. All the same I shall be sorry to see
them in Parliament; deeply sorry to find them straying so far out of
their higher and far more influential sphere. The vanishing of modest
and refined womanhood will prove a greater loss to the nation than
any other asset of its power and renown. No woman can mingle with the
mess of political intrigue without losing something of the charm and
reticence originally in her nature, which has inspired men to their
noblest aims and ends. I imagine that a true woman would rather be the
Madonna of a Faith than the Premier of an Empire!

Nevertheless I grant freely and fully that it will be “well for
England” when women have a voice in the education of children, and when
they can refuse to “temporise” on questions of the national morality
and well-being.

The recent “food muddle” under the management of men is a proof, if one
were needed, of the superiority of women in all matters of domestic
management, for any capable housekeeper would have organised the scheme
with better knowledge and finer tact. That there will be jealousy and
injustice displayed by the stronger sex towards the weaker on this
matter of the vote, goes without saying. But jealousy and injustice
exist anyhow, and a proof of man’s inconsistency towards women in
matters of art alone is furnished by the purchase of Lucy Kemp-Welsh’s
fine picture “Forward the guns!” in the Royal Academy, which has been
bought “_for the nation_.” Yet, mark you, though this woman’s work is
considered worthy of national keeping, she herself may not be admitted
as an R. A.! Comment is superfluous. But it is possible that the
granting of votes to women will alter all this, and that the barriers
which the men have carefully erected against the sex of their mothers
will be broken down for good.

The Jewish dispensation has to be credited for the rule of “keeping
women in their place,” along with flocks and herds. But the Christian
dispensation teaches a lovelier lesson--for a woman was the first to
hold the God-Man in her arms, and a woman was the first to greet Him on
His resurrection from the dead.

Does this teach nothing? Is there no symbol of the future of womanhood
thus gloriously foreshadowed? I venture to think there is.

I believe and hope that a wider freedom to woman will mean a nobler
heritage to man, and that through her intelligence and influence he
may find and prove the “god” in him, and rise from the grave of old
prejudice to the light of more brilliant possibilities. And this will
be “well for England.”

Many changes are bound to come, many sorrowful and tragic happenings
are yet in store for this dear country, but “it is well” that so these
things should be, to the end that we realise where we have missed the
way, and take heed that we stumble not again.

The secret of our regeneration is not in this or that government; it is
with the _people_.

Yet on the whole, despite clouds in our sky, it is well for England so
far. We shall come out of the darkness if--if the _people_ will it. Up
to the present they have grudged nothing--neither time, nor labour, nor
money, nor sacrifice. They have been in every sense worthy of British
tradition--a people splendid. Now it is that they must see they do not
fall a prey to “party” traps, designed for the safeguarding of Germany
in those quarters where British financial interests are concerned.

I repeat, “All is well with England!”--all _will_ be well--if the
_people_ are awake and alert, if they will unite to remove the German
foe from their midst, and if they will in time remember the old proverb
which says, “It’s no use shutting the stable door when the horse is
stolen.” The German has the fixed intention of re-monopolising trade
when the war is over, and already our Indian Empire is in advance of us
by the ban announced against German trade in India, and the barring of
German ships from Indian ports.

Decisive action must be taken in these matters before it is too late.
British trade interests, British artisans, British workers of all
classes must be defended and protected and encouraged.

The agricultural arts and sciences must be made a primary matter of
education for the people, and our productive soil must be given a fair
chance. Landowners who have held thousands of acres for the pleasure
of sport alone must yield to the necessity of feeding men instead of
preserving game, and a prosperous, smiling England, “a land flowing
with milk and honey,” will be the reward of all those who steadily set
their energies to work in the right direction, that right direction
being always for the good of the many and not for self or the few. It
should surely be the aim of every true patriot to leave his country
better than he found it, and all personal interest should and must go
to the wall where the welfare of the people is at all concerned. The
trend of thought is all in this one way, for which we may thank God. A
renewed faith in the highest, a return to the devotional spirit of true
religion, and a resolve to root out from every educational system,
from every art, from every form of literature all that makes for evil
and degradation; this will ensure all being “well for England,” so
well, that neither the hatred, envy, nor malice of rivals can move her
from her sure foundations of peace.

She should be, and she _must_ be great and pure, with the greatness and
pureness for which our heroes have fought in the past, and for which
they fight to-day, and for this high cause, though we mourn our slain
manhood, we must grudge no sacrifice, however hard. We have not grudged
anything as yet--we shall never begin to do so. And so both now and in
the days to come, through God’s mercy, may we ever be able to say--

    “All is well with England!”

(When the above was first issued as a booklet by the publishers,
Messrs. Greening, it elicited a long and eloquent letter from the “St.
Andrews Society,” asking me why I addressed my pamphlet to England?
Where was Scotland in my thoughts? Knowing the curious prejudice some
Scotsmen entertain for the word “England” (which I have liked to
imagine included Scotland, Ireland, and Wales), I made haste to reply
that I had not presumed to ask “Is all well with Scotland?” as I know
all _must_ be well, and that all would be for ever well! How could
anything go ill with _Scotland_? I do not know whether I satisfied my
truculent correspondent, but I hope I did.)




THE WORLD IN TEARS

  (_The following was written at the request of Mr. Robert Hayes,
  the publisher, who asked for it as a preface to a helpful little
  book of “Messages of Hope, Sympathy, and Consolation,” entitled_
  THE WORLD IN TEARS. _Those who contributed to this book included
  many well-known “leaders,” such as the Bishop of Birmingham, the
  Archdeacon of Westminster, the Dean of Manchester, etc., etc., and
  the publisher introduced my article in the following kindly note_:--

    _In preparing the book for Press it was thought desirable
    to obtain, and include, an introduction by an author whose
    sympathies would commend it to the general public. Miss
    Marie Corelli immediately came to mind. No one could essay
    the task better._

    _To Miss Marie Corelli, then, the publisher wrote for
    assistance. It was generously, courteously, and promptly
    given. His best thanks are recorded here for this able and
    kindly help in producing what he hopes will bring comfort
    to a multitude who sorrow and some financial assistance to
    that benevolent and deserving institution, the British Red
    Cross Society._)


All over the world to-day looms the brooding shadow of Death--that
strange and solemn Mystery which to most of us seems a complete
Disappearance for ever into the eternal Unknown. Though truly, if our
faith in God be perfect, we should not look upon it as a Shadow, but
a Brightness; a glorious fulfilment for which the experiences and
trials of this present life are the needful training and preparation.
Nevertheless, the ties of human affection are strong, and partings
are always bitter--so that whether our beloved ones go away from us
for weeks, months, or years--whether to a far country or to another
world--it is hard to say “good-bye!” and the sorrow of separation is
the sorrow of all the lives that are left thus lonely. The strongest
and bravest of us know well enough that those we have lost are not
really “dead,” but living elsewhere; yet the fact that they are not
actually with us--that we cannot hear their voices or hold their hands
in our own--is sufficient to crush us down under such a burden of grief
that we feel as if we could never lift up our eyes to heaven again or
trust the great Power Invisible which has allowed us to be deprived of
all we hold most dear. Nothing can be said in the way of consolation
that does not, at such a time, sound poor and trivial. A great grief
is of all things the most sacred: and even the gentle words of the
gentlest and most compassionate friend hurt like a careless touch on an
open wound.

In this unspeakably wicked War much of our best and bravest British
manhood has been sacrificed, to say nothing of the terrible losses
suffered by our noble and resolute Allies. Young, promising, and heroic
lives have been ruthlessly slaughtered on all the fields of battle,
and it would not be too much to say that the whole of Europe is in
mourning. It is the hour of supreme self-sacrifice; we are called
upon to give the best of everything we have to our country, so that
we may keep it safe from the invasion of a remorseless foe, and hold
its liberty intact. Blood and treasure and tears are the price of
our freedom; we hold nothing back. But an awful responsibility rests
upon all those who primarily brought about this most un-Christian
world-contest; for war and the murder of the many is always the result
of the evil thoughts and passions of a misguided few. If Peoples in the
aggregate were governed by strong, brave, honest men who loved equity
more than their own advancement, there would be no wars. But as yet we
are still seeking for even One strong, brave, honest man! Our national
Poet speaks truth when he tells us,--

“To be honest, as this world goes, is to be one man picked out of ten
thousand.”

Meanwhile, for the incalculable crimes of Dishonest Governments, the
Peoples are bereaved of their children--their young manhood--and
mothers, sisters, sweethearts, wives, and little ones are flung
remorselessly into withering fires of agony, and drowned in a deep
sea of tears. Who shall comfort these poor wounded hearts?--who shall
fill these empty and desolate lives?--who shall raise them from their
swooning despair amid the dust of graves and turn their hopes towards
that Higher Life, which though unseen and unrealised, is as certain as
what we understand to be life in this world? The Christian Faith is,
or should be, the Comforter, if accepted in its true spiritual sense.
We are too prone to deaden and cheapen its splendid teaching by the
dullness of our own understanding: we seek to materialise into common
earthiness that which is purely heavenly. If we trusted more absolutely
in the Divine Intelligence, through whose will and power we have come
into being, we should be entirely sure of the positive truth pronounced
by St. Paul to the Corinthians:--

“There are celestial bodies and bodies terrestrial, but the glory of
the celestial is one, and the glory of the terrestrial is another....
So also is the resurrection of the dead; it is sown in corruption,
it is raised in incorruption; it is sown in dishonour, it is raised
in glory; it is sown in weakness, it is raised in power; it is sown a
natural body, it is raised a spiritual body. There is a natural body
and there is a spiritual body.”

This is what all the scientific, theological, and psychical instructors
that ever lived in the world have been striving to teach humanity
through ages upon ages. But we still continue to cling to the natural
“body”--not the spiritual--to the temporal, and not the eternal; and,
despite both religion and science, we surround the episode of death
with every sort of gloomy panoply and weeping protest against the
Divine decree. Yet our men who have died at the front have died with
extraordinary cheerfulness; it would seem that some God-given influence
has surrounded them in the very midst of all the most awful ways of
dying! Never a murmur--never a complaint--never a regret! Wonderful,
and indeed miraculous is this, if we pause to think of it! It is as
if they knew, or were being told, that there are many things in life
worse than death! They face the Last Terror with a dauntless smile and
unflinching eyes, and it may be that they see light where many of us,
blinded by personal sorrow, are only conscious of darkness. Our Selves
are the clouds which cover the sun.

And while we continue to sit in the shadow and mourn for our absent,
though never lost ones, it is well we should bear in mind that no life
lived on earth, however long extended, is complete. No lesson is ever
thoroughly learned, no accomplishment ever entirely mastered. No poet,
musician, or painter ever produced a “perfect” work. Why? Because here
we are only in a preparatory school--wider instruction is to come. The
fullness of existence which is ultimately destined to be ours is an
ever-increasing perfection and power which are at present impossible
for us to conceive. Just as when we came into this world we had no
knowledge beforehand of its natural beauties and delights, so in the
same way we cannot, in our present condition, realise the “Shall Be”
of the Hereafter. Our bodies, to which we attach such undue importance
here, are composed entirely of particles or atoms which are constantly
changing, and none of us possess the same body we had seven or fourteen
years ago. That body has already suffered death--not by violence, but
by change. The manner in which the change has been effected is not
perceived by ourselves, yet it has occurred. Identity of person does
not depend on the identity of these atoms; the individual Spirit is the
same, despite the shifting forces or renewal of cells in its tenement
of clay. Continuity, persistency, and individuality are eternal laws,
and remake the vesture of the soul according to its needs. Therefore
our beloved dead are not truly dead, for, “as we have borne the image
of the earthy, we shall also bear the image of the heavenly.”

Many of us find it difficult--even impossible--to accept this
reasoning, and why? Because our minds are always more or less attuned
to the lower key of Self--Self, and our own private and particular
sorrow. As long as this is the case the light will never come through
the gloom; we shall never “see God.” We shall never understand that
the lives sacrificed with such splendid heroism, for the freedom and
purification of the whole world, have not ceased to live, and that
they have simply “passed on.” But--is not the parting from them cruel?
Ah, yes! but partings even more cruel are common in the most ordinary
daily life. When love grows cold--when fair illusions perish--when
the friend we trusted is treacherous and ungrateful--when we have
to “let go” those we have most dearly cherished to other loves and
new surroundings--are not these things “cruel”? Crueller far than
death!--for death most usually clears up many misunderstandings and
sets the true soul right with itself and with that which it has loved
faithfully. For there are many kinds of so-called “love” which is not
love at all, but merely the passion or caprice of the moment, and
which, if resolved into marriage between the two persons concerned,
ends in mutual indifference and life-long unhappiness, and in such
cases, death is a release which separates finally and for ever. But
there is another sort of love which is so deep and unselfish, and
loyal, that it needs no earthly bond to make it eternal, and which, no
matter how long the parting, whether by absence or death, is so truly
love in the highest sense that all the powers of earth or heaven could
not hinder its complete union with the beloved.

“Shall we meet again?” sighs the bereaved mother, the lonely wife, the
despairing lover! Most assuredly you will!--by all the known laws of
attraction in this glorious Universe you _must_ meet again, if your
love be love indeed! Love is not limited by time or space; we know
that we can obtain light from a star many millions of miles distant,
and in the same way we can give and receive love from our parted dear
ones, and can exert this power far beyond the confines of our bodies.
But only when love is really true can this happen. For, when the veil
is withdrawn from heaven and the released Spirit goes hence, it sees
and knows clearly which of all its friends on earth has loved it most
unselfishly and sincerely--whose sorrow is the most tender--whose
faith is most entirely faithful! And only shall such an one meet it
again and rejoice in everlasting union. _We find our own_: we discover
our beloved ones in that state of clear vision and life-fulfilment to
which we are all hastening. And in realising this we shall also realise
that in all the truths of science and of reasoning there is No Death;
and that we deceive ourselves in the confusing shadow of our personal
griefs when they are strong and bitter as they are to-day, because of
our own “personal” sense of loss.

“It is because my beloved is gone!” is the cry--“Because I shall see
him no more!”

Patience! He has not “gone” far! Just into the next room of existence,
whither you yourself will soon go; there is but the slightest partition
between you! And you will see him, as it were, directly--and you will
know him, as he will see and know _you!_--and you will wonder why you
shed so many tears when all the while he is alive, and happy in the
consciousness of having done something in his earthly life to prepare a
cleaner, safer world for the generations coming after him.

But, if this is so, some of us ask, why are we not given the proofs of
it? Why does not God make us sure? You might as well demand why, in the
former ages of the world, the learning and science of the present day
were not revealed. “Sound-waves,” “light-rays,” “radium,” “electric
force,”--all these existed from the very beginning of creation--_why
were we not told?_ Simply because, by universal law, all advancement
is, and _must_ be the result of gradual evolvement, suited to the
slowly expanding capacity of the human brain and its attendant mental
spirituality, and because it is decreed that we shall “work out our own
salvation.” One thing is certain, and that is, that--_if_ we knew--if
we were told the smallest part of the wondrous hidden future awaiting
us, hardly any of us would have the resolution to live this preparatory
life through! We should all hurry ourselves out of the world, for we
would not have the patience to endure its schooling. We could not wait.
We would rush to grasp our glory; we would not work to win it, and so
we might lose what we must ourselves deserve to gain. Hence arose the
saying, “Those whom the gods love die young.” For their schooling has
been brief and easy--“Even so, saith the Spirit, for they rest from
their labours.”

A striking illustration of faith in God and the future life has been
given to us in these days of darkness by the heroic martyrdom and
death of Edith Cavell, murdered by human brutes for whom Christianity
has become a dead letter. Her resignation, and her thanks to God for
her “ten weeks’ quiet before the end”--her unaffected devotion to the
Christian Faith--her simple “Good-bye” to her spiritual adviser with
a happy smile and her confident assurance, “We shall meet again!”
make a brilliant and inspiring contrast to the doubt and distrust of
God’s mercy openly manifested by many of those who are bereaved and
mourning in the “Valley of the Shadow.” Prayerfully one wonders when
the inhabitants of this small planet of ours will come to realise
the fixed law of its being?--a Law which knows no changing! Namely,
that Progression towards Good--Good, not only for one’s Self, but for
Humanity--brings peace and prosperity; while Retrogression towards
Evil results in war and ruin! God Himself cannot undo this Law, which
is part of His own Eternal Existence--it is as fixed as the poles. We
dare not blame His Almighty justice for the evil we have deliberately
brought upon ourselves. No one can deny that all the nations now
warring together have for many years past sought to put God altogether
out of their countings, while societies and individuals, rejoicing in
prolonged good fortune and taking as their right the blessings bestowed
upon them through the mercy of a beneficent and kindly Providence, have
forgotten to Whom they should give thanks, and have become “puffed
up,” as the Psalmist says, with pride, and enervated by luxury. We
have had innumerable warnings, but we would not listen. We have made
a jest and a mockery of all those who sought to rouse us from our
lethargy. We have permitted such inroads of vice and atheism into our
lives and morals, our art and letters, as might make pagans blush.
The Press of the world has not occupied itself with the uplifting
of the brotherhood of the peoples,--on the contrary, it has taken
pleasure in sowing the seeds of discontent and rebellion, and has given
prominence to the unworthy, praising the stage-mime more than the
statesman--the materialist more than the idealist. Moreover, so far as
our foe is concerned, it has left no stone unturned that could rouse
the Teuton wolf from its lair. Bitter mockery, stinging gibe, misplaced
sneers--these have all been flung at Germany for the past ten years or
more, and, though they have been written chiefly by half-educated young
men and boys who in the might of an ineffable conceit “rush in where
angels fear to tread,” they have had harmful effect. A great statesman
said to me recently, “Had there been no Press there would have been no
war.”

This may or may not be true,--but whether true or false the eternal
verities make no mistake in their summing-up of evil things to a
fatal figure. Thoughts give place to words, and words to actions. The
War-thought is the embryo of the War-deed. Let us not, therefore, in
the bitterness of our own personal sorrows blame God, or demand “Where
was He?” when our dear ones have been slain. The nations have brought
this chastisement of terror upon themselves; and that the innocent must
suffer with the guilty is the worst part of the punishment. The world
was becoming sordid, covetous, and materialistic; and now the young
and strong and brave of our best manhood are called upon to cleanse it
of its foul humours and to _leave it clean_. Some thousands of lives
must be sacrificed in this great struggle for Freedom and for Right,
but better to die honoured than live shamed! Life, as generally lived,
is not worth the pains we take to preserve it; we do our loved ones an
infinite wrong when we assume that their best chance of happiness is to
eat and sleep and play, and make the wherewithal to eat and sleep and
play. A brave death is more valuable than an ignoble life; death itself
being the admission to a more vital and splendid experience.

This being so, we should not mourn as “those having no hope.” We, who
have loved and lost for a time, will go on loving till we find our lost
again, as we shall surely do. We shall meet and know each other on that
higher plane where life is life indeed and love is love indeed; and
we shall make amends for all our weeping and complaint. We shall see
how slight and brief, after all, were the troubles of this present,
compared with the perfect joy of the attained future. And we shall read
the Book of the Wisdom of God without mistaking one word or letter of
its meaning, and we shall learn that Love alone is the conqueror of all
kingdoms. So lift up your weeping eyes, ye million mourners!--lift them
to the Light and Life Eternal, which shall not fail you even in this
dark Battle-Dream of Death!




GOD AND THE WAR

(_Written for “Some 1918 Reflections.” A collection arranged by Guy
Glendower Croft_)


Among the many “reflections” flashed upon the mirror of the time there
is one which to my mind is not so much a “reflection” as a blur--a blot
which is almost a dark and deepening shadow. I, who venture to write of
it, own myself to be but a mere romancist, whose ostensible business is
to weave night and day, like the “Lady of Shalott,”--“A magic web with
colours gay,” a web of thought-tapestry into scenes and episodes which
may or may not please my readers and distract them from the continuous
harassment and grief brought upon them by the war. It might even be
said of me that--

    “So she weaveth steadily
     And little other care hath she,”

but for the further fact that--

   “Moving through a mirror clear
    That hangs before her all the year
    Shadows of the world appear,”

and the Shadow which darkens my outlook most is what I may call the
Shadow of Negation, or what the Roman Church classifies among the sins
against the Holy Ghost, namely, “Presumption of God’s mercy.”

There are any number of apparently worthy, respectable and
well-intentioned persons who regard the Great War as a singular piece
of Divine injustice and undeserved annoyance to themselves--and their
attitude towards it is so amazing as to be almost incredible.

They are incapable of taking a broad outlook; and, to them, the whole
terrible business is a monstrously impertinent interference with the
peaceful working of the Parish Pump--no more.

This curious mental standpoint was forced upon my notice recently by
the remarks of a seemingly intelligent man of commerce, who, having
made a pleasant little “pile” which enables him to live comfortably
for the rest of his days, and being much too old for any form of
“active” or “national” service, has, literally, nothing to complain
of, and nothing to do but offer his valueless opinions on the terrific
happenings of the hour. And he it was, who, with an air of judicially
settling the business of the Universe, once and for all, said firmly,--

“I’ve given up God! I don’t believe in a God! If there was one He would
not have permitted this war!”

This crushing observation from one of the least of human microbes
would not merit notice but for the fact that many more intelligent
and thoughtful microbes than he have committed themselves to the same
unwise and, I may venture to say, blasphemous utterance. For, if any
doubter has need of assurance as to the existence of God, this great
and terrible war is the most profound, significant, and emphatic
declaration of Almighty Power and Justice that the world has ever known.

It is the strong, resolved assertion of a vast spiritual and
intellectual Force, which, for many years, all the nations now
warring together have elected to ignore, or else to acknowledge in
such half-hearted fashion that sheer ignoring might betoken greater
reverence. It is the Force, which by natural and immutable law acts
upon unclean and poisonous things and exterminates them without mercy
or appeal. We may call it Fate or God as it suits us--but whatever be
the accepted name of this eternally working system of Mathematics, it
admits of no false quantities and has to be reckoned with as the only
positive FACT in the universe. All else may change, “Heaven and earth
may pass away but My Word shall not pass away.” That is to say--“My
Word” is the eternal Law; and however craftily and cleverly we may
arrange our little “civilisations” and schemes of “giving” in order to
“get,” we cannot carry forward a single act of injustice or falsity
without punishment following the offence. If not soon, then late. _Our_
judgments, _our_ opinions on the scroll of everlasting equity, are as
the scrawls of babes who are incapable of mastering the fact that two
and two make four. We are always trying to make them five, the one over
being a clumsy attempt to gain some advantage to ourselves.

It is our “camouflage”--that vulgar expression of French police
“argot” which truly is not in the French language at all, but
which, nevertheless, has lately become the stupid parrot-cry of the
irremediably illiterate British press, whose paragraphists seize with
rabid joy on any foreign word they do not entirely understand and run
it to death.

Yet, try as we may, two and two will _not_ make five. Hence our small
political quarrels and big greedy wars.

The _pros_ and _cons_ of the present terrific clash of nations can
be totalled up as easily as a sum on a slate--each effect has had
its causes. Belgium is devastated, and her people have been and are
robbed, tortured, and murdered. True! But what of Belgium’s own
tacitly approved cruelties on the Congo? The present is the result of
the past. Consider Russia! She is like a great creature fallen in the
dust--the seeming corpse of herself, helpless to move, while birds of
prey gather round her seeking to tear her to bits and divide the spoil.
But does not Russia deserve her fate?--has she not invited it? May we
not think of her cruelties, tyrannies, and enslavements practised on
her own people for hundreds of years? The gods have been patient with
her arrogance, but there is a limit even to divine patience. Italy and
France--prosperous, and growing more and more fond of money-getting,
eager to destroy all their noble, ancient ideals--these have, as it
were, administered a kick to the very thought of Deity.

Twenty years ago in France the _Catechisme du Libre Pensuer_ was taught
in schools, and the name of God excluded from the general curriculum.
Italy has long been openly pagan, notwithstanding the “Holy Prisoner”
of the Vatican. And Germany, our brutal foe, has flung every ideal to
the winds save Self and Greed, so that not even the “untutored savage”
principles of honour have any hold on her.

And what may we, what _dare_ we say of Great Britain? Is it a _true_
religion that to suit convention prints a prayer to God in a rag
newspaper, when for years that same newspaper has ignored every sign,
symbol, or suggestion of religious faith? Rightly or wrongly, British
folk are credited with more “camouflage” than all the French police put
together; “camouflage” in this instance standing for hypocrisy, and if
they do believe in a God it is difficult to realise their sincerity.

Meanwhile the old thunder rolls from Heaven--“God is not mocked!”
and, so far from seeing His “injustice” in this terrible war which is
ruining so much that can never be replaced, let us realise that we, the
offending Nations, have brought it upon Ourselves.

Ourselves have been ungrateful for His mercies and blessings; Ourselves
have made Self our god, and Wealth our chief aim--and so now by the
Divine Law shall Our Selves be slain and our wealth taken from us. Thus
the Shadow darkens the mirror of my “reflections”--for I feel with
Admiral Beatty that (as he expressed it) “until religious revival takes
place at home just so long will the war continue. When England can look
out on the future with humbler eyes and a prayer on her lips, then we
can begin to count the days towards the end!”

Then--and only then! Then the Shadow will lift and the mirror will
reflect the glorious figure of Victory....

   “Like to some branch of stars we see
    Hung in the golden Galaxy!”

But not till then! And meanwhile the Great War must be seen in its true
light--as a Punishment of Nations for their unrepented wrongs to one
another!




TRIUMPH OF WOMANHOOD

(_Written for the Scottish Women’s Hospital_)


As a light in deep darkness she has arisen--woman, pure womanly, with
all the God-given attributes of her highest nature at last acknowledged
by her self-styled “lord and master,” Man! She has shaken off the
trammels which for many centuries he had fastened about her--as heroic
maid and mother she has roused the better spirit in him. Out of the
gloom and blood and slaughter of this world war--the most wicked war
that ever devastated the earth--she has radiated upon him like an
angel, clothed in a glory of love and pity; and, moving by his side
through the poisonous smoke of battle and the thunder of the guns,
she has cheered him on his way. When wounded and fallen she has been
swift to rescue him, and first to soothe. Who will, who _can_, ever
justly estimate the saving work of women in this terrific holocaust
of nations!--this mad hurtling of man against brother--man without
thought for the consequences of such wholesale murder! To Woman, in her
mother-love and mercy, friend and foe are alike indifferent; all that
her pitying eyes see are the gaping wounds, the flowing blood, the torn
and disfigured limbs--her province is to save, heal, and comfort if she
can. She knows that with God there are no nations, but that all men
are human beings, subject to the same sufferings, the same deaths; she
knows by the teaching of Christ that not a sparrow shall fall to the
ground without Our Father, and that men are of “more value than many
sparrows.” So, placing herself in tenderest unison with that “quality
of mercy” which

                  “Is not strained,
    But droppeth, like the gentle rain from heaven,
    Upon the place beneath,”

she gives her care and service to all. She has no fears for herself;
she would as soon die as live, provided only she is doing her duty.
Perhaps, away down in the very core of her heart, her natural maternal
instinct teaches her that these struggling, contesting masses of men
are more or less enraged children, tormented and driven by bigger boys
than themselves to fall upon each other and slay without thought--she
may sometimes think wistfully that had they sought her counsel they
might have found some better way out of their quarrel than the killing
of their brothers--but, until lately, her rôle through all the
centuries has been the mistaken one of submission to man’s caprice
or ordainment, and any attempt at individuality on her part has been
decried as a perversion of sex. Now the question of sex, reduced
to first principles, appears to be that woman should find her sole
content as the “vessel” of man’s pleasure--the breeder and nurse of his
offspring and no more. This great war has somewhat altered the lines of
the masculine perspective, for men have been forced to admit that women
can do all their work as well as themselves, and sometimes better. They
can even build ships and aeroplanes, and all this without losing the
spirit of womanliness. Strange as it may seem, the woman who might
lately have been seen hammering at the keel of a “Dreadnought” can
prove herself soft-handed in tending the wounded, and most reverently
loving in her last cares for the dying and the dead. She has mastered
her nerves--those “Early Victorian” nerves which shuddered fastidiously
at the sight of blood, and sent their hysterical owners into a swoon
when dangers or difficulties arose, in order to create fresh confusion;
she knows the great secret of self-control, and the wonderful vigour
and courage which are born of that fine quality. There are very few
women nowadays who scream at the sight of a mouse! But this was
considered quite “the proper thing” to do in Jane Austen days, just
as in some of the queer old novels written before the grand romances
of Sir Walter Scott, the heroines invariably “fainted away” when the
lover of the piece declared his passion. Women know that “lover of the
piece” fairly well by this time, and all his limitations--sufficiently,
at any rate, to be convinced that there is nothing in him worth even a
pretended “swoon,” though there may be much that _is_ worth cherishing,
guiding, and inspiring to the best purposes. Not every man is like a
certain one I wot of, who, after being nursed for three months in a
friend’s house, said to that friend and hostess on the day he left in
restored health,--“If you want a man to like you, never do anything for
him!” This was not said in jest, but in grim and churlish earnest. It
was a curious recompense for three months’ watchful anxiety and care,
but I dare say she realised then, if never before, that “one cannot
make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.” Fortunately there are few such
“sow’s ears” about; most men, especially our heroic fighters, are
touchingly grateful for women’s kindness and devoted nursing, while
fairly astonished at their endurance, cheerfulness, patience, and
devotion. Truly, the supposed “incapacities” of woman never existed
except in the hopelessly unintelligent of her sex which have their
counterpart in man; she has supported her share of the burden of life
under a stupid system of repression and tyranny which has frequently
resulted in discouragement, weariness, and indifference. But give her
the chance to be her true, free self, and she will be the most powerful
factor in the world for the betterment of humanity. We shall not deny
that there are worthless women--fool-women, toy-women,--fit for nothing
but posturing in various attitudes and sets of clothing; but these
will find their level and grow fewer as time goes on. The grander,
purer natures will, like waves of a clean, bright sea, roll over the
mud-banks and eventually wash worthless things away. For now, after
centuries of oppression and servitude, in which her incalculable love
has been more than half wasted, and her splendid qualities misprized,
now at last Woman has her chance! And those who see her day dawning
must and will pray earnestly that she will use her powers always
for the highest and the best, to the end that Man may find in her
not a “drag on the wheel,” but a great lifting strength to bear him
upward and onward to that completeness of noble living which from the
beginning God has ordained.




IN PRAISE OF ENEMIES

(_Published in the “Sunday Times”_)


We are not always thankful for our blessings; often, indeed, we do not
recognise them as such. They come to us disguised in the fashion of
curses, or so we are apt to consider them till we know better. Many
of us are absurdly proud of the number of our friends; with equal
absurdity we deplore our evil destiny if we have but one enemy. Yet if
all the truth were known, we should find that we have more reason to
thank God for our foes than for our friends!

In the actual storm and stress of life’s battle our “friends,”
so-called, are of little use to us; they are more prone to be a drag on
the wheel. They are, generally speaking, kind, conventional folk, who,
when a soul is girding on its armour for action, will give “advice,”
such as “Oh, I wouldn’t run any risks, if I were you!” or “Do be
careful not to offend any one!” or “You’ll get yourself disliked!”
as if risk, offence, dislike, and trouble were not full of stimulus,
inspiring the fighting spirit which alone can beat down difficulties
and carry us on from triumph to triumph till the great victory over
ourselves be assured! But enemies! Praise God for them! They are the
useful and necessary Force which hurls itself against all progress,
all power and originality of thought or action--the murderous obstacle
laid across the line in an attempt to wreck the express train--the
great contrary wind that seeks to drive the sailing boat against the
rocks--the “thing in the way” that must be thrust aside and trampled
underfoot. What worker or warrior would willingly forego “each rebuff
that makes earth’s smoothness rough”? The man or woman without an enemy
must be of all persons the most insignificant; one who _does_ nothing
and _is_ nothing; of whom no one is envious, and who can never have
said a brave, original thing, or a word of upright, downright truth in
any circumstances.

You never know how high you are climbing till you feel some one behind
you trying to pull you down. Perhaps the greatest compliment that can
be paid by ignorance and malice to a man or woman of genius and virtue,
is the verdict passed on the Divine Master in Galilee, that he (or she)
“hath a devil”!

At the present time more than at any other period of history we of the
British Empire should bless God for our enemies! What they have done
and what they are doing for us, albeit unconsciously and unwillingly,
can hardly be accurately estimated--not while they are still attacking
us. We must wait some years before we can measure up the advantages
they are bestowing upon us--advantages which we might not in a century
have obtained for ourselves.

We were too satisfied with our apparent “friends”; we were, and still
are, much too sure of them! We were comfortable, contented, lazy. We
had everything we wanted and more. We spent money freely, and being
eminently good-natured and trustful, we allowed every one to come in
at our open doors and partake of our hospitality. Out of our full bags
of gold we poured rivers of charity in every direction; we helped
everybody that asked for help; and we allowed all sorts of folk to
exploit us and make money out of us. We could not believe that the
“friends” we entertained and whose hands we had filled with good gifts
could ever turn upon us. We seemed to have no foes; and we trusted
these “friends” of ours implicitly. Too casual and easy-going to heed
the teachings of philosophy we forgot that it takes a far nobler nature
to receive benefits than to bestow them.

Mean minds resent generosity while taking advantage of it, and nothing
goads and envenoms some dispositions so much as the near consciousness
of a superior force and ungrudging hand. This was, and is, the trouble
with the Kaiser and his particular following--we will not say Germany,
for German without the Hohenzollern autocracy would be a very different
and far greater Germany than it has been since the days of Goethe and
Schiller.

The Emperor William, as an eminently theatrical monarch, loving
grease-paint and the limelight, and obsessed by various crazes, such
as hate for his English mother and intensified hate for his mother’s
country, filled even with a morbid revulsion against the English
blood in his own veins, cannot abide the thought of the greatness
and far-reaching protective influence of the British Imperial Power.
To bend, break, and destroy THAT has been his dream from boyhood--a
dream never to be fulfilled! His visits to our shores were the visits
of a seeming “friend,” and we treated him as an honest people treat
an honest man. He took our kindness for stupidity, our trust for
ignorance, our faith for credulity, and his complete misconception of
the British character has led him into a trap which he set for us, but
by which he himself is snared--the usual Nature-law enacted surely and
remorselessly on every treacherous soul.

What would be said or thought of a man invited to the house of a
kindly hostess and permitted to enjoy the full freedom of the place,
its hospitality, its food, its comfort and shelter, who, on having
used it as a convenience and gained personal pleasure and advantage
therein, even to the making of money, suddenly turned roughly upon his
entertainer, abused her manners, her voice, her speech, her friends,
her servants and mode of living, and having got all he wanted out of
her personally insulted her? Probably not one man in ten thousand
would conduct himself so vilely, but if that one man did so forgo all
manliness, there would be not a few of his own sex ready and more than
willing to put him in his place at the point of the boot.

Yet such has been the “honorable code of chivalry” of the Emperor
William--the “Kultur” which boasts of treachery to his own kindred, of
injury to his mother’s native land, of wantonly murderous attacks on
innocent civilians who are not in any way concerned with the diseased
obsessions of his brain--a “Kultur” which is more than anything else
the “cult of stupidity”--the stupidity of a blinded bull charging into
everything with unreasoning fury. But for us the bull-onslaught is a
saving grace, for through the blindness of the beast we see!

Yes, we see, and see clearly! We have discovered our foe behind the
disguise of our “friend,” and instead of opening our doors to him we
shut them. Instead of holding out the hand of welcome and confidence we
put up the curtain of our artillery fire!--and the valour of Britain,
wrongfully supposed to be asleep or dead, is up in all its pristine
might and mettle, full-armed with a strength and magnificent courage
unmatched in all our history.

This is what our enemies have done for us: they have brought
us to realise the truth Ourselves! Had it not been for their
“stab-i’-the-back” we might still have played away our time, and with
it our commerce. Our enemies have roused our grip and grit; they have
taught us that we can turn out as many fighting men and munitions in
twelve months as they could do in forty years. Even we, accustomed for
a century to a peace unbroken save by small foreign skirmishes, are now
with our Allies winning the greatest war of the world.

Assaulted in new and brutal ways from the air, from the underseas,
as well as on land, Imperial Britain holds her own, for which she
may thank, not her friends, but her foes. True it is that, as Christ
taught, “A man’s foes shall be they of his own household,” and this
saying is markedly fulfilled in the Kaiser’s hatred of his mother’s
country and people. But whether of one’s own household or not, nothing
is so salutary, so rousing, so inspiring and vivifying to the mind as
the consciousness of enemies, the knowledge that some one envies you,
grudges you success, and would be glad to hear of your failure in some
great effort. It rouses all your latent forces and makes you stronger,
bolder, more irresistible than ever you were before.

A fair woman never looks fairer than when she is being “picked to
pieces” by a yellow-skinned scandal-monger, and to any individual
possessing gifts above the ordinary the spite and malice of the
envious and jealous are as light on the path and music in the air,
invigorating the heart, bracing the energies, and emphasising the fact
that any one so envied is _worth_ envying, any one so hated is _worth_
hating, because so far above the reach of either envy or hatred!

So let us praise God for our enemies! They are adding to our triumphs
and renewing our glories. When we chant the “Te Deum” let us mentally
include an extra strophe which shall say, “We bless Thee, O Lord,
for our foes, that Thou dost suffer them to teach us the sure way to
victory! We thank Thee for their broken faith, their cruelties, and
their falsehoods, as from these we renew our own resolve to keep our
promised word to all nations, and even in the bitterness of battle to
be honest and humane!

“From their unjust cause we draw fresh justice: from their defeats
we derive our conquest. Without them we might have forgotten what we
_were_ and what we _are_! We thank and praise Thee, O God, that through
these our enemies we have found our best friends--OURSELVES!”




RECRUITING SPEECH

(_Delivered in the De Montfort Hall, Leicester_)


In the De Montfort Hall, Leicester, at the conclusion of Sir Arthur
Conan Doyle’s Lecture on the Great War, Miss Marie Corelli, who
presided as Chairman, made an appeal for recruits in the following
terms:--

“There is very little for me or for any one to say, after what we
have heard to-night. The moving and magnificent panorama which Sir
Arthur Conan Doyle has brought before our eyes by the force of his
eloquence should inspire us more to deeds than words. He has told us
what our men have already done; he has hinted at what they have yet
to do. This fearful war is not a game at football; we cannot play
at it, or put it aside as something to be thought of casually after
we have consulted our own humour and convenience. It is a time of
self-sacrifice; we owe the best of all we have to our country. We must
give, not only ourselves, but those we love to the country’s service.
In these fortunate islands, mercifully protected by the sea, we have
not as yet experienced the horrors of invasion; but invasion _may_
come, and _will_ come if we are not prepared, alert, and watchful!
We must grudge nothing to prevent such disaster. We must put aside
our own concerns entirely, and think of what this Great War means.
It means wider freedom for the whole world! It means an end to the
tyranny and savagery of Prussian militarism; it means greater progress
and broader civilisation. And being such a war, every man should be
proud and eager to bear his part in it. Any man, physically “fit” who
hesitates or hangs back at such a crucial moment in his country’s
hour of trial is a coward! And any woman who holds him back is also a
coward, and a selfish one! We love our men--yes!--but love is not true
love if it hinders a man from doing his duty. There is danger--there
is chance of death on the field of battle; but death comes to all
of us sooner or later; and we may question whether it is not better
to pass away gloriously with honour, than to creep languidly out of
existence in bed, surrounded by physic bottles. A soldier must face all
possibilities, and a brave man must be willing to risk the worst for
the chance of winning the best. As Shakespeare tells us,--

   “‘Cowards die many times before their deaths;
     The valiant only taste of death but once.’

“There is urgent necessity for every able man (who is not employed in
turning out munitions of war) to join the colours--and if he is a man
at all, he should have no hesitation. After such a moving history as
that told us by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, is there a ‘fit’ man here who
is not willing and eager to join his brothers-in-arms, and do his best
to make their task easier? Is there a man whose work lies, not abroad,
but at home in the making of shells and ammunition, that would grudge
a single hour of labour for his country in such urgent need? If there
is, he must be of bad blood and not a true-born Briton!

“If I had the right, the eloquence or the power to plead with you, I
would ask every man here present who can join the colours, but who has
not done so, to do it now! And I would also ask every man whose skill
and strength are needed for the manufacture of war material, to work
steadily, cheerfully, and ungrudgingly, in the full consciousness that
by urging on the necessary output he is helping to save hundreds of the
lives of his countrymen. He, the worker, is as necessary to the Empire
as the soldier; he also is fighting the King’s enemies.

“And, if I had any force to persuade, I would pray every woman in
this audience to prove her love for the men belonging to her by
inspiring them to do their duty to ‘King and country’; either by
sending them away to join the Army, with all good blessing and trust
in God for their safety--or by ‘heartening’ them up to their work in
war munitions, and putting no difficulties in their path of honour.
For every man that hangs back from military service, or ‘shirks’ his
work refuses to help his brothers; and every woman that keeps a man
away from the great fight, or encourages him to grudge and shorten his
hours of labour is wronging other women’s husband and sons. In this
great test of national character none of us must fail. In the war, as
in work, we must all pull together, shoulder to shoulder to win the
victory which must and shall be ours--

  “‘If England to herself do rest but true!’”

The speaker concluded by asking her hearers to join in a hearty vote
of thanks to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle for his “fine, instructive, and
impressive lecture.” This proposal was seconded by the Mayor of
Leicester (Alderman J. North) and Sir Samuel Faire, and carried with
acclamation, the vast audience being evidently moved to exceptional
enthusiasm.




SPLENDID CANADA

A TRIBUTE


To you, brave Canadians, to you who have fought so magnificently for
the old Mother-Country, and of whose valour and dash and spirit never
too much can be said or sung, I would address Tennyson’s noble lines:--

   “A People’s voice, we are a people yet
    Though all men else their nobler dreams forget,
    _Confused by brainless mobs and lawless powers_;
    Thank Him who isled us here and roughly set
    His Briton in blown seas and storming showers,
    We have a voice with which to pay the debt
    Of boundless love and reverence and regret,
    _To those great men who fought and kept it ours_
    And keep it ours, O God, from _brute control_:
    O Statesmen, guard us, guard the eye, the soul
    Of Europe, keep our noble England whole,
    And save the one true seed of Freedom sown
    Betwixt a people and their ancient throne.”

The one true seed of Freedom! This is deeply implanted in our Empire,
and you Canadian boys are fostering it and helping it to grow. Your
help is needed in peace as much as in war; we want your strength,
youth, and resolution as a firm bulwark against internal discords and
mischievous disloyalty. It is as brave a thing to face and overcome the
Evil Spirit at home as it is to face him in the field, and showers of
fiery shrapnel are less disintegrating than the showers of personal
malice and intrigue directed only too often against the men to whom we
owe the amazing and almost miraculously sudden downfall and humiliation
of our enemies in the greatest war of history.

You Canadians have strongly helped to bring this downfall and
humiliation to pass; like a fine family of stalwart sons, you have
formed a guard of honour round your Motherland, and defended her from
the hands of the spoilers. All honour to you! We want you to know and
to believe that we are grateful, and that we shall never forget your
dauntless daring and heroism! Ingratitude is the commonest and yet
the deadliest of sins--ingratitude to God in the first place, and,
in the second, ingratitude to the men whom God has given us to be
our saviours. The first part of the indictment is a matter for each
private and individual conscience; it is for every man and woman to try
and visualise the devastation and misery which have been mercifully
spared to the uninvaded British Isles, and to decide whether his or
her thanksgiving is real, and deeply felt. The second part concerns
the whole people of Great Britain and her Overseas Dominions--whether
they, in very truth and earnest, sufficiently realise what they owe
to the sorely-tried military and naval leaders upon whose shoulders
has fallen the gigantic responsibility of conducting the war to a
victorious issue. _Not_ to realise it is to be guilty of a mental
crime so monstrous as to be almost unimaginable. And yet, the moment
political pawns are set on the chess-broad, every claim to integrity
and patriotism is questioned and argued from the base point of view
of “personal interest.” Personal interest is a powerful motive force
with most men, but it does not count with heroes like Sir Douglas
Haig, Admiral Beatty, or Marshal Foch. Think of these men! for it is
_they_ who won the war--_they_, who through God, have given us the
victory! Not the talkers, but the doers; not the politicians, but the
fighters, among whom you, brave Canadians, held your part like the
heroes of an epic. You are rough, perchance, but you are ready! Some
there are who say you have not received half your rightful share of
honour in this country; if this _is_ so, then your Motherland is indeed
unworthy of your prowess! But I hardly think this is, or can be so.
You do not get the true voice of the British People in the British
Press--always remember that! The People know their best men, and honour
them accordingly. And if, by chance, they are misled occasionally, and
those leaders whom they have believed their “best” prove false to the
trust placed in them, none so swift, sure, and deadly as the British
People to rend them for their broken word. They know you, Canadians, as
their blood-brothers; and as such will resent any wrong inflicted on
your liberties and commerce. They applaud your patriotism and rejoice
in your courage; you are the younger sons of the Empire, and in the
name of one Throne, one Flag, we salute you and give you our heart’s
gratitude!




SHELLS; AND OTHER SHELLS

(_Written by request for the Magazine published on behalf of the
Munition Workers of Georgetown, Paisley_)

A THOUGHT


In one of the finest and tenderest poems ever written by our last great
Laureate, Alfred Tennyson, whose departure from this world closed, for
the time, the reign of true English lyrical melody, there occur these
delicately beautiful lines:--

   “See what a lovely shell
    Small and pure as a pearl
      Lying close at my foot,
    Frail, but a work divine,
      Made so fairly well
    With delicate spire and whorl
      How exquisitely minute!
    A miracle of design.

    The tiny cell is forlorn,--
      Void of the little living will
    That made it stir on the shore.
      Did he stand at the diamond door
    Of his house, in a rainbow frill?
      Did he push, when he was uncurl’d,
    A golden foot or a fairy horn
      Through his dim water-world?”

How often we have seen such shells as these!--and how little have we
associated the familiar name of “shell” with any thought of war or
“shock” or bloodshed! Holding a sea-shell close against our ears we
listen in fancy to the solemn music of the ocean surging through its
hollow cavity,--the ocean with its sweeping thunderous harmony,--though
all the time we know it is but the sound of our own life-blood pouring
through our veins and pulsing upon our senses. And now, when we talk
of “shells,” we mean something vastly different to the “small and pure
as a pearl” object which moved a great Poet to song--for the “pure”
thing was the work of God, and “a miracle of design” wrought to suit
the needs of the “little living will that made it stir on the shore”;
but the “shells” _we_ have to do with are man’s work, made to destroy
all living wills that come in contact with them! In their terrific
way they too are “miracles of design,” for their cavities hold death
and scatter it broadcast. Still more wonderful it is to realise the
fact that women’s hands have been taught and trained to prepare this
flying death--women’s hands, surely formed by nature for tenderness and
caressing, for soothing and consoling! How, then, has it chanced that
they should adapt themselves to such dire uses? Why do they labour so
strenuously and eagerly to make weapons for the armoury of the King of
Terrors? Women’s hands! What charming and poetic things have been said
and written about them! Think of the hands in Fra Angelico’s picture of
the “Angel of the Annunciation” where the dainty tapering fingers are
as exquisitely delicate as the buds of the lilies they hold! Or, recall
the subtle beauty of Heine’s description of the hand of an unknown
lady, resting white and beautiful on the carved edge of a confessional
in a dark cathedral aisle, the owner of the hand being too enshrouded
in shadows to be visible.

“So still and pure was that lovely hand,” wrote the poet, “that
whatever sins its mistress might be admitting to her confessor, it was
evident that of itself it had nothing to do with sin or folly. It was a
stainless sweetness alone and apart, and shone in the gloom of the vast
cathedral like a sculptured ivory emblem of innocence.”

Nevertheless!--women’s hands that are, or that might be, as delicate
and caressable as those of Fra Angelico’s model, or Heine’s unseen
lady, are now at work in the strangest kind of “annunciation”!--the
most amazing form of “confession”! Why do they toil in such a contrary
fashion to their natural bent and inclination? The answer is swift and
conclusive. Because Evil is let loose on the earth, and because Good
must use all force to overcome it. And, out of sternest necessity, Good
must arm itself with weapons that shall not only match but surpass
those employed by Evil. In a fight against devils, angels must join
battle. In some of the most magnificent scenes of Milton’s “Paradise
Lost” when war rages between the warriors of God and the followers
of Satan, the good are described as fighting against the bad with
terrific weapons of attack, and the outbursts of fire hurled against
the devilish foe were none the less potent because wrought by the
angelic hosts. Our women workers who prepare the munitions of war are
one and all inspired by the same fixed motive and desire--namely, to
end the sorrows and suspense of the suffering nations who are involved
in the disastrous upheaval which is the result of a people’s pitiful
belief in the “divine right,” of a crowned madman. And as they turn
out “shells” and yet more “shells,” we know that they hope and believe
that for every one completed, at least one of the fiendish murderers
of the innocent may be dismissed from a world which his presence has
darkened. Perchance they may, as they press on with their work, hear
more mystic sounds than are conveyed in the cavity of an empty shell
“void of a living will” on the sea-shore--for their filled shell speaks
of their own blood, burning with grief and indignation at the slaughter
of their kindred--and of the roar and thunder of the guns instead of
the crashing billows of the sea. Who shall count the throbbing thoughts
of the women who fill these “shells”?--women who look calm enough and
resolute enough, and who work on tirelessly and almost wordlessly, as
though moved by a single heart, beating through each one’s separate
labour! A visitor to a shell factory in the Midlands said to me,--“They
work quite mechanically; I think they hardly know what they are about.”
_Don’t_ they know what they are about? Indeed they do! They know they
are making weapons of destruction that shall bring reprisals for the
deaths of brave men--they know that they are helping to save the lives
of their own kinsmen, and with all their strength they “speed up,”
because they feel that by so doing they are pushing on the end of the
war. We shall never be able to realise how much they have done for us,
and alas!--the ingratitude of nations to its workers is proverbial.
It takes a woman to understand woman’s enforced labour, and to enter
with sympathy into all she loses by taking the place of man in hard
and difficult times--what sacrifices in health and vitality she makes
by long hours of steady application to monotonous factory work--what
temptations she has to resist--what bribes--yes!--bribes of cash and
comfort she has to forgo. For the enemy is busy elsewhere than on
the field--insidious and indefatigable in stirring up strife in this
country and sowing the seeds of disloyalty and discontent, and it says
much for our women that they are awake and alert to the fact. Of the
contemptible few who “make love” to “Fritz” in his prison camp, one
can only be sorry that they are so “weak in the upper story!” The real
women of the Empire--the women who, in the after-war days that are
coming, will have so much of the country’s destiny in their guidance,
are in the majority sound, sane, and loyal--we can trust them with work
even more momentous than the making of shells! Meanwhile, we can try to
be grateful to them for their steadiness and perserverance, their pluck
and patience, and let us not forget at any time what we owe to them.
It should be graven deep on the records of the nation that--_Without
Women’s Work the War Could Not Be Won!_ And in the hour of victory let
us not fail to pay them our debt of Honour!




DARKNESS AND LIGHT

(_Written at the request of Sir Arthur Pearson as the Prologue to
an Entertainment on behalf of St. Dunstan’s Hostel for Soldiers and
Sailors Blinded in the War_)

   “Oh, dark, dark, dark amid the blaze of noon,
    Irrecoverably dark! Total eclipse
    Without all hope of day!”
                                  Samson Agonistes.


You, whose eyes are able to read these tragic lines of blind John
Milton, can you realise what they mean? Do you feel to the innermost
core of your heart the blackness of that “eclipse without all hope of
day,” which like a never-lifting cloud envelopes those from whom the
blessing of sight has been taken for ever! Can you, even by the utmost
exertion of your imagination, truly grasp what it would mean to you
if all light and colour were blotted out from your consciousness, and
you had to rely on a merciful guiding hand to lead you to and fro, to
hold you lest you stumbled, and conduct you from places of business
or pleasure safely back to your home? If you could not see beloved
faces?--if the sunlight could never again reach those poor closed
channels of the vision you once enjoyed?--if the skies, the lovely
country, the woods and the ocean were all glories that should never
again gladden your sight?--if this were so, would you not pray to God
that being thus handicapped He would at least give you _friends_?
Friends who would be eyes to you, hands to you--who would cheer you in
dreadful moments of depression blacker than blindness, and who would
help you to find occupation and train you to do useful work, although
sightless, so that the days and years should not be so fraught with
monotony and dull regret; and that life, after all, should not seem a
barren and empty thing?

You have heard of St. Dunstan’s Hostel for soldiers and sailors blinded
in the war? It is now one of earth’s “Holy Places”--holy because
the benediction of heaven has made it a sanctuary--a sanctuary of
love, patience, self-sacrifice and untiring devotion--holy, because
the patiently endured martyrdom of a brave man has been and is its
spiritual foundation. Sir Arthur Pearson--(some of you do not know it
or think of it)--is himself blind. And what makes his sorrow darker for
him, is that he has known all the blessings of perfect sight--he has
enjoyed all the activities of an eager and vigorous life, and is still
in the prime of manhood. “How sad for him!” murmurs the conventional
Society voice--“Such a drawback!” Yes, how sad!--but what gladness for
others he gathers from his own handicap!--what splendid results have
sprung from his “drawback!”--what sunshine pours from the cloud of his
night! The American essayist, Emerson, in advising one stricken with
adversity, writes, “Be like the wounded oyster, _mend your shell with
a pearl_!” With what a pearl of great price has Arthur Pearson mended
his life’s wound! Knowing the bitterness of blindness, he has devoted
all his energies to the care of the blind and to the lightening of
their darkness, especially to those heroes who, in the very hey-day
of their youth and manliness have gone unhesitatingly forth to face
the foe in this wickedest of wars, and have been blinded by shot and
shell explosions, losing all sense of vision in one cruel moment--a
moment that rings down the curtain on all scenes and faces for ever!
Shall we not, with all our hearts, help the sublime cause of “love to
our neighbours,” and consolation to our self-sacrificing soldiers and
sailors, taught to us by the example of this Englishman who does not
protest, but _lives_ his Christian faith in a manner that Christ must
surely approve? It would be trespassing on sacred ground to presume
to guess how much heavenly light has been mystically shed on his own
darkness by this noble dedication of his sorrow to noblest ends. But
it may be reverently said that he has followed as far as is humanly
possible the Divine Teacher who, in healing a blind man, “put His hands
upon his eyes and _made him look up_.” In this we can all help. We
can make our brave, blind friends, the soldiers and sailors, rendered
sightless for our sakes, “look up!” We can make them feel they are not
alone and helpless in a dark world; we can convince them that their
welfare is dear to us, and that we are fully conscious of the immense
sacrifices they have made for us and for the country. Let us all then
do our utmost and best for St. Dunstan’s and strengthen the hands
of its Founder, and let it never be said that we were guilty of the
meanest vice known to humanity--Ingratitude!




SWEEPING THE COUNTRY


They say it does; and I hardly wonder! The broom is so long and
searchful; it goes into so many holes and corners that surely not a
single spider’s web is left unvisited. It gathers up the pale dust
of British gullability with an admirable adroitness, and what is
perhaps the best thing about it is that it pays for its sweepings. Not
every broom does that! But I am told--I do not assert it or vouch for
it--that it is a German broom; and no make of broom in all the world is
more capable of industry or more resistless to wear and tear. Opposed
as we are, and as we must be, to German militarism, German labour
will, I fear, be always ahead of us, especially if the German worker
puts in eight or ten hours where the British decides to give only four
or six. This is a matter for future testing; in the meanwhile let us
consider with attention, in capital letters “THIS MORNING’S NEWS ABOUT
PELMANISM,” as it appears in that esteemed journal _The Sunday Times_,
to which I have had the honour to contribute. It is but the other day
that I was assured “on the highest authority” (as the bewildered press
reporters at the Peace Conference have expressed it) that “Pelman”
was originally spelt “_Poehlmann_,” and that at discreet intervals
his “Magic Card” would be followed by another, inscribed “_Roth_.”
Both names have the euphonious Teuton ring about them, and they both
imply Money--money spent lavishly and magnificently on the “flowing
tide of Pelmanism” by way of opulent and ceaseless advertisement in
all the newspapers which joyously yield their columns to cash rather
than to intelligent information, and give up whole pages to “Pelman”
or “Roth” indiscriminately, in competition with a kindly Swedish
masseur or exercise-man, who in equally lavish announcements and
large type, promises health to the healthless even as “Pelman” and
“Roth” promise brain to the brainless. Of “Roth” I know little except
that according to advertisement “he is a remarkable man” (of which I
am entirely convinced), but of “Pelman” I have learned something at
first hand. I have learned, for instance, how it is that the spacious,
tremendous, profuse, and overpowering advertisements of this system of
brain-forcing flood every corner of the press, squeezing out by their
size and the space they occupy legitimate news of interest to the
public; of course, the first and chief reason is that they are paid
for. Everything in every line of business, pleasure or social position,
is paid for; even the clergyman who professes to show you the way to
heaven is paid for. Then surely it follows that Pelman or Poehlmann
must be a multi-millionaire? No! he need not be. As the controller of
the “flowing tide” he may make others pay, and so may command cash
without being personally wealthy. He no doubt realises the truth of
what a certain frank proprietor of pickles assured me--“If advertising
is done well and continuously it brings in double and treble the
money it costs.” And the channels in which the “flowing tide” is set
to run are cleverly prepared and delved out in the shifting sands of
British innocence and credulity--two admirable traits of our national
character. It is a touching thing to realise that the guileless
Briton should so simply confess himself to “Pelman” as mindless and
memory-less--and it is equally pathetic to discover in the “Census” of
“Pelmanists” there can be counted one barmaid, one bacon-curer, and
one “corporation official”! “Art and music and literature are being
re-born,” says Pelman--and no doubt the Pelmanists are already in
travail. It is all very clever and amusing; a little comedy in which
the guileless Briton is the bear that dances to the Pelman pipings.
I admire cleverness wherever I find it; it is a star in the general
murk of stupidity, and I am the last person in the world to depreciate
the brilliancy of its glitter. But it has interested me to study the
movements of this particular scheme, and chance or fortune placed one
or two threads in my hands which seemed to suggest a clue. Briefly
then, I was offered Fifty Guineas to “write up” Pelmanism. The offer
came through a very agreeable and enterprising journalist, employed,
I presume, to secure fresh supplies for the “flowing tide,” and he
added to his own personal and friendly entreaties a considerable
quantity of literary matter setting forth the miraculous improvement
in heretofore dull brains under the influence of Pelman or Poehlmann.
I made a careful study of these documents, and the first thing that
dawned on my own dim intelligence was that every would-be student of
the “course” would be called upon to pay six guineas, either in one
sum or by “easy instalments,” though one _can_ have a copy of the book
entitled _Mind and Memory_ (which tell “all about” Pelmanism but does
not instruct) _gratis_, and in that book are “particulars” showing how
one can obtain the “course” at a reduced fee. Thanks to my journalist
friend I had the _gratis_ book (in its forty-fourth edition, and for
this reason called “The World’s Most Widely Read Book”--well! with
all diffidence allow me to hint that this is incorrect, as I myself
am the author of one or two books in their fifty-first editions),
but the “Course” did not tempt me to disburse guineas, not even had
I accepted the Fifty offered. (I may say here that I never accept
“tips.”) But I could not, and cannot refrain from considering how,
if the scheme works successfully, as of course it must, the British
public are paying for these splendid advertisements! Paying so well
that it is easy to understand how the Pelman promoters can afford to
pay Fifty Guineas, more or less, to the obliging individuals who are
ready and willing to praise the “system.” Canon Hannay (“George A.
Birmingham”) for instance--does _he_ get Fifty Guineas? Or Mr. Spencer
Leigh Hughes, M.P.? Or dear George R. Sims? Or Mr. Gilbert Frankau? Or
do they send in their testimonials _gratis_? I feel that I cannot be
the _only_ “eminent” (to quote advertisement) person who has received
the munificent offer of Fifty Guineas, and _refused the same_! In the
Pelman “Census” I note there are 339 accountants, 8 actresses, 490
clergymen, and--one archbishop! Whereby it would seem that accountants
and clergymen need more brain-prodding than others. And if the “one
Archbishop” should consent to “write up” the advantages of the “course”
(like Mr. Will Owen, who declares that, artist though he professes
to be, he had “hardly begun the first lesson in Pelmanism before he
discovered something he had been drawing incorrectly all his life),
sure His Grace would merit a Hundred Guineas for his good work at the
very least? Anyhow his fee should be more than that of a “bacon-curer”
or a novelist! In openly confessing the offer to myself of Fifty
Guineas which I refused without a moment’s hesitation, I do so that I
may call the attention and admiration of the public to the clever way
certain people manage to make money through human gullability. The
brain-prodders and memory-pushers are almost as astute as Government
officials. The mass of people who never stop to think, still less to
calculate, are their happy hunting-ground. Personally I think Pelman
and Roth too “sharp” to be of the Anglo-Saxon race, though I do not
assert them to be Germans, naturalised or _de_-naturalised. But they
have the Teuton line of intelligence; that is, wherever they find a
good thick soil of stupidity, they plant seed therein, fertilise it and
make it grow. These special people who feed the coffers of journalism
by purchasing whole pages of space for their advertisements, are so
convinced of the thickness and richness of Anglo-American stupidity
that they boldly offer to transmute it, like alchemists, into the
gold of intellectual ability, and if this could be done ’twere a
worthy thing. But one must pause at the idea they put forward--“If
only we had 1,000,000 clever thinkers!” It is _too_ terrific! This
poor earth of ours could not survive! Its rolling ball like a bomb
would burst in space, overburdened by the sheer weight of brain! Be
merciful, therefore, O munificent Pelman! spare us, gentle Roth! Do
not instruct the bacon-curer or train the Archbishop beyond what we
have the strength to endure! Do not compel us to bow the knee to the
“barmaid” as another De Stael!--to the “corporation official” as a new
Admirable Crichton! It is the American philosopher Emerson who writes,
“Let the world beware when a Thinker comes into it!” But “1,000,000
thinkers!” The prospect is horrible--spare us, good Lord! We have much
to be thankful for in Carlyle’s famous assertion “most fools,” for if
our population were all wise, life would be dull indeed! Fools make the
gaiety of nations--they are the staple support of all governments--the
foundation of the press and the drama--the stock-in-trade of all
authors, philosophers, and wits whatsoever, and Heaven forbid we should
ever be deprived of their existence! We are always more or less in the
position of Shakespeare’s “melancholy Jacques” and ready to say, “A
fool, a fool, I met a fool i’ the forest! as I do live by food I met a
fool!” and when we chance on company with this simple friend of all men
should we “Pelmanise” or “Roth” him? Never! He is too valuable an asset
to the world!




TO SAVE LIFE OR DESTROY IT?

A CHALLENGE TO CERTAIN CLERGY

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


Does the Christian Church profess to follow the teaching of Christ? Or
the Law of Moses? That is to say: Is it Christian or Jewish? If Jewish,
its “sabbath” should be kept on Saturday, in conformance with the rest
of the Jewish world; if Christian, then, according to Christ, we may,
if necessity compels, do imperative work on Sunday. But a section of
our clergy are up in arms at the idea of “profaning the Lord’s Day” by
allowing labour of tillage and planting the land on Sundays, for the
necessities of the nation’s food. Where do these contentious persons
get their authority? Not from their divine Master! Their spirit is that
of the Scribes and Pharisees who “watched” Our Lord--“whether he would
heal on the sabbath day, that they might find an accusation against
Him.” The world has not outgrown that contemptible spirit. “That
they might find an accusation” is often everybody’s aim and clearest
business! “Then said Jesus unto them--I will ask you one thing: Is it
lawful on the sabbath days to do good or to do evil?--to save life
or destroy it?” And when the hypocrites could not answer Him, He
healed the afflicted man who had sought His aid, whereat those who had
“watched” Him, so says the Gospel narrative, “were filled with madness
and communed one with another what they might do to Him.” But, despite
His scorn of their narrow sectarianism, “He went out into a mountain to
pray, and continued all night in prayer to God.”

No true servant of Christ can find the least excuse in any one of the
Divine Teacher’s commands for a rigidly sectarian observance of Sunday.
A seventh day’s rest was wisely and rightly instituted by Moses for the
relief of the Israelites when they had been worked as slaves by their
Egyptian taskmasters; but Christ never incorporated its observance as
any part of the instructions He gave to His disciples. “What man shall
there be among you,” He said, “that shall have one sheep, and if it
fall into a pit on the sabbath day, will he not lay hold on it and lift
it out? How much, then, is a man better than a sheep? Wherefore, it is
lawful to do well on the sabbath days.”

Mark those last words! They were spoken by One “in whom there was no
guile.” It is lawful to do well on the sabbath days. And yet, Oh!
narrow and rigid men who “profess” Christ, you, who see and know that
on the feeding of our population depends their health, their strength,
and their ultimate victory over a barbarous foe, you would discourage
the willing hearts and hinder the ready hands from virtuous and
unselfish labour on Sundays in a time of unexampled national necessity!
Shame! For the blessing of God must be on all such honest workers whose
toil is for the help and honour of their country. Christ told us there
were but two commandments, not ten--the first: “Thou shalt love the
Lord thy God with all thy soul and with all thy mind and with all thy
strength”--and the second: “Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself.
There is none other commandment greater than these.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Now what do the dogmatists make of this? If we truly love God, we
surely know His “work” never ceases. We could not live a second
without His sustaining principle. Every moment of every hour some
active propulsion of creative force labours to produce a result which
is perfect of its kind. On whatever day we sow our wheat we cannot
stop its growing on Sundays. The energies of Divine beneficence never
slacken. If they did, existence itself would be at an end. Our “love”
of God must therefore include our consciousness of His unresting “work”
for His creation. Then, if we are to love our neighbour as ourselves,
it follows that we must care for his sustenance as well as our own. In
times like the present we must help him to produce food for himself and
his family, even if we till the land on Sundays, which, so employed,
may be considered truly “holy” days. For “it is lawful to do well on
the sabbath days,” and it is better to benefit a neighbour than listen
to a sermon. That is, if we accept the teaching of Christ and assume
to be Christians. The times are pressing; the necessity for food
production urgent; and men owe it as a duty to the land God gives them
that it should yield sufficient to keep the population in health and
safety. Therefore, if this needful, noble work has to be done quickly,
there is no sin, but rather great virtue and self-sacrifice, in working
on Sundays as well as weekdays during a time of war and stress. If any
of the clergy can quote a single one of Christ’s own words forbidding
necessary work on Sundays, let them do so. Christ’s own words,
remember! They are generally ignored by all Churches. Had they ever
been obeyed, the purity and strength of a perfect Faith would, long
ere this, have exterminated War. Now, all good “Christian” clergy, who
object to necessary national work on Sundays, produce your Master’s
warrant for such action--if you can! I say you cannot!




THE WAR LOAN

HOW IT MIGHT BE INCREASED

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


We are all bound for victory. Every nerve and sinew of every man and
woman in Imperial Britain is bent on the task of winning it, not only
for ourselves, but for the whole civilised world. America knows, and
the intimidated and secretly tampered with neutrals also know, as well
as we do, that the full triumph of the Allies means their great peace
as well as ours--their advantage, their progress, their commerce, as
well as ours. That brave and straight-speaking hero of science, Thomas
Edison, recently said: “The people of the world have willed that they
shall be their own masters, and what the people will is sure to come to
pass.” True enough, it is the people only who can realise every aim,
every ideal, every conquest; and in this matter of the War Loan they
can raise a veritable mountain of gold if they so determine. But--there
is a “but” in their willingness: an obstacle in the race--they will
not give as much as they would if they have to realise that some of it
or any of it may be used to pay wages and provide food for German foes
dwelling in our very midst.

       *       *       *       *       *

Think of it! Is it reasonable, is it just, to ask this patient, docile,
strong, and law-abiding people of Britain to give their lives, their
homes, their children, their time, with all their service and money,
towards the vigorous and incessant prosecution of the war, when they
know that there are more than 20,000 German foes kept at large in
this realm, free to do as they will? Twenty thousand, who go about
in all towns and villages unchallenged, listening, spying, noting
every coign and circumstance of vantage, and often (assuming to be
English themselves) using persuasion to prejudice the Loan among the
uninstructed classes.

Twenty thousand enemies, prepared and ready to work devastation at the
first opportunity, while we “hush up” all that may seem unchivalrous
or to the dear creatures’ detriment! Is it right that these same
Germans should have their own meeting places and restaurants in London
as freely as if they were in Berlin? And, to add insult to the injury
of the whole position, is it even sane that our authorities should
actually permit Germans to work in our munition factories? Germans
who, when they leave the works and go to their eating houses, take off
their munition badges and spit on them in token of their contempt for
Britain, even while they are accepting British pay and eating British
food!

       *       *       *       *       *

What does it mean, this employment of Germans in British munition
factories? Death-dealing explosions, of course! What else can any one,
not entirely a drivelling idiot, expect? Is it likely that a German
will make shells absolutely as they should be made for the destruction
of his own countrymen? No; he would rather burn down the whole
factory!--and he does if he gets the chance. Nor can he be blamed;
it is the authorities who are to blame for putting him in the way of
temptation to murder. There is something so “dumb-driven, cattle-like”
in the sheer stupidity of two or three of our Governmental Departments
that one is fain to compassionate them as one might compassionate sheep
bumping their heads against a stone wall and expecting to get through.

       *       *       *       *       *

If a house is threatened with burglary, is it reasonable to ask the
burglar in on a “dine and sleep” visit? Yet that is what is being done
with the Germans in our country to-day. And it is not possible that our
people can or will rise to their full strength, either in service or
in money, as long as they are affronted by the presence of the enemy
in the centres of their business and social life. The extraordinary
indulgence shown to the Huns in London is a perpetual worry to our
French friends, who cannot understand it. They discuss it and deplore
it as a sign of weakness. But whatever it is, we may be sure it will
not be allowed to last. Once the people take the law into their own
hands nothing will stop them. _Après ça le deluge!_

No spitting on British munition badges then! No extra allowances of
food to German prisoners while British folk are ordered to measure
their rations! No “official” posts for men with German wives! Taken
as a whole, the position is more than scandalous. The British people
have every right to demand that their own land shall be cleansed of
all the associates of the pirates and murderers who slay their men,
women, and children without mercy, and who yet remain here, living
at the nation’s expense. Every German at large in these islands is a
walking “wireless” of swift and useful information to headquarters.
Each new device of Britain for worsting the foe is at once conveyed to
those most interested, and our newspapers, frequently more zealous than
discreet, lend their aid by giving details, and often illustrations, of
the latest of our scientific inventions for warfare.

       *       *       *       *       *

It is time this matter was handled boldly, with “gloves off,” as Queen
Elizabeth would have handled it. She would have sent all Germans out
of the country at the very declaration of war, and so would have saved
an infinite number of treasons against the State. Late in the day as
it is, why not send them now? Send them all, in comfort and luxury if
you will, with “rations” of first-class food, on British ships flying
the British flag, and let them take their chance of the kindness and
humanity of their own countrymen. They will be useful additions to the
“national service” of their Vaterland--we do not want them here. Our
own men and women will suffice us for our own labor, and work will be
done more readily, while money will flow in more plentifully, when we
are sure that our own land is purged of the Hun, and that we are not,
like fools, paying to keep and feed plotters against the peace of the
realm.




FOOD PRODUCTION

A PLEA FOR COMMON SENSE

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


Talk of “National Service!” Where is the man, woman, or child that
refuses to do any really necessary or useful work for the country? Such
cannot be found! There is an eager and splendid willingness in every
one to give his or her best; but without proper organisation the fine
forces of this fine, patient, and enduring people are scattered and
disunited. From all that the bewildered mind can gather through the
roaring megaphone of an apparently semi-crazed and ruinously expensive
system of advertisement, the National Service most demanded is “food
production.” So says Mr. Prothero. Very well. Then why not set about
it in an orderly practical manner, without screaming our shortcomings
aloud for the amusement of the Germans? There is no difficulty whatever
in sufficient food production if some sort of method be brought into
the present chaos. Take this for an example:--

With the help of an old soldier with a wooden leg and an old man of
seventy, a pig farmer and market gardener was able to put on the market
in six months £1487 worth of pork and £174 of garden produce.

In the next three months he anticipates an addition to his stock of
about 240 pigs from his twenty-five breeding sows.

Already he has 211 pigs on the place, apart from the breeding animals.

What can be done in one place can be done in another, and if every
rural town and village were encouraged to work its own allotments, if
every cottager were persuaded to grow his or her own garden produce,
and keep pigs and poultry, half the food problem would be solved. Why
not organise such a plan and concentrate scattered forces? It would
be a mistake to confide the management of such a scheme to “local”
magnates, whether mayors or members of corporations, for those who
have any experience of such “bodies” know well enough what hindrances
they are in the way of active progress, having always their own axes
to grind. But an impartial, unprejudiced, friendly director of each
agricultural centre, a man or woman of helpful, sympathetic and
practical knowledge, who would encourage the workers and spare them
any of that “superior” tone of insolence so hurtfully employed by some
of the temporary jacks-in-office on our military tribunals, could
very easily energise the whole business. Suppose, too, that instead
of a daily patter about potatoes and “shortage,” the Government were
to offer prizes from ten to a hundred pounds for the cottagers and
holders of allotments who, in six months, should produce most food
for their own families and neighbours, would it not cost less money
than the printing of millions of “food tickets”? Certainly, it would
hearten, not dishearten, the workers, and give them an extra zest for
“production.”

Moreover, it is high time our rulers and Ministers left off talking
about “shortage of food” altogether, if the following is true:--

A statement made in the House of Commons recently emphasises the fact
that German agents are still active in this country. In refusing
to supply a member with certain information about the supply of
aeroplanes, he said: “Any answer we give in this House is at once sent
to Germany.”

Printed or written information can always be stopped by the censor. The
question remains: How is the information conveyed?

How, indeed? Why should we give the Huns the satisfaction of supposing
we need food? Or allowing them to think their U-boats are “blockading”
us into famine? Let the public keep its “weather eye” open, and
consider recent events in Russia! There, part of the German scheme was
“to create an artificial scarcity of food, so as to precipitate food
riots and compel a separate peace.”

Beware of the dog! How about Great Britain? Who can swear that the same
“influence” is not at work here, “to create an artificial scarcity of
food”? And if it should be so, why do our politicians fall sheer into
the trap and spread the mischief which the foe may have started? Food
was poured into Petrograd as soon as the German “unseen hand” was cut
off. It is a significant fact worth remembering!

       *       *       *       *       *

Again, let it be emphasised that there is no difficulty about food
production in these islands if the work be properly organised. Food is
not grown on emotional impulse, such as that displayed by a charming
lady I lately met, who told me with sweet resignation: “I will not
have flowers in my window boxes this summer. I shall plant potatoes
in them instead!” Dear soul! She evidently thought it worth while!
Just as some folks think it worth while to dig up and disfigure the
parks of London with potato growing when there is any amount of waste
land around which needs cultivation! One deplores “the falsehood of
extremes.”

       *       *       *       *       *

If we are to accept Mr. Prothero’s statement, the most important line
of “national service” is this food production. Then, let him take
action and not listen to hearsay or report. Let him see for himself
the thousands of acres in this country waiting to be cultivated and to
produce richly and royally all that is needed for the population. Let
there be common sense organisation in each district--not “compulsion”;
the people are too cheerfully brave and willing to be “compelled.”
But no one cares to work in the dark without a plan, and without any
encouragement. They are told to “produce food,” but are denied labour
to produce it. The capable field-worker is taken, and inefficient
substitutes sent instead--men who do not know how to plant a root or
sow a seed, with the obvious result that plants and seeds represent so
much money thrown away. But, once more to emphasise the need of common
sense, let us hold fast the fact that no lack of food is possible to
this country if things are properly organised. And as we see by report
that, despite U-boats, ships laden with useful cargoes are constantly
arriving in our ports, let us not forget the possibility of “the
creation of that artificial scarcity” which stirred the blood and
roused the devil in Russia!




OUR FORTUNATE “RESTRICTIONS”

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


The Germans are reported to be in ecstasy over what they call the
“despairing appeal” of the Prime Minister’s great “restrictions”
speech. But, however great their “ecstasy” may be, it can hardly equal
ours! For we have sufficient sense to see what hope and strength for
our Empire springs, like a bright rainbow, from what the Boche obtusely
imagines is a cloud. Our “lead” is towards increasing prosperity and
happiness for all. We are invited to look forward to a self-supporting
country; we are given fresh chances of barring the ungrateful Teuton
from our trades by showing him that we can do all our own work
ourselves. We are promised another “Merrie England” of the spacious
days of yore, when foreign supplies were rare and costly, and when all
the fields were thick with golden grain and all the orchards glowed
with many-coloured fruits and the agricultural population were given
the chance to reap what they had sown.

       *       *       *       *       *

Now, in our lovely rural villages we may perhaps hope to see the last
of many frowsy, idle sluts who for years have preferred to gossip
away their time rather than do any useful work; and in their stead we
may look for healthy, active girls and women who are proud of their
dairies and poultry farms, and glad to show interested customers the
great bowls of milk, the churning of butter, the making of cheese, and
all the endless charms of “country” work well done. If the submarine
menace teaches us to produce all the food that can be produced in these
islands, it will be a blessing in disguise, a helper and saviour of
the grit, stability, and fine reasonableness of the British race. Talk
of potatoes! There are many hundred of acres of waste land in South
Cornwall alone, notably wide, treeless fields running into sand dunes
by the sea, where the potato would flourish as well as it does in
similar Dutch soil, and all this precious land is empty and untilled.
To urge the digging up of parks and public recreation grounds, where it
is doubtful whether potatoes would grow at all, when there is all this
acreage available, is sheer nonsense. I would that I had even a hundred
acres of that Cornish sandy soil by the sea just now. With a few
skilled labourers (for one must know _how_ to plant potatoes) it should
yield gold! At Newquay, by the way, there is a golfing ground reserved
for the amusement of a dozen or so of privileged selfish persons; it
would grow tons of potatoes and other good edibles with very little
trouble.

       *       *       *       *       *

Nothing has ever been a greater source of wonder to me than the
improvidence of such British folk as prefer to buy their vegetables
and fruit food rather than grow it. Nowhere are allotments so untidily
kept or so altogether neglected as in certain parts of England; nowhere
is so little grown in them. Surely it stands to sense that if each
cottager grew his own vegetable and fruit food there would be less need
for foreign supplies. And if every waste field were made to produce
_something_ in the way of foods a submarine blockade must needs prove
futile in any attempt to starve the population. We may, if we will,
foresee the vision of a happier, grander Britain than ever, when the
people of these fruitful islands are given _their own_, and no longer
have need to sever their lives from the homes of their kindred because
there is no work for them here owing to the intrusion of German
influence and German labour. We might also consider with belated sorrow
the depopulation of the Scottish Highlands, and the preservation of
vast tracts of moor and forest for mere “sport,” which has for years
been a scandal and a disgrace to the nation. Let us have the people
back on the land, and let the deer and the grouse take their own wild
chances of existence. The submarine menace has come to teach us what we
ought to have learned long ago--namely, that what we want on our own
land are our own men, as skilled farmers and workers in every useful
and profitable department, and that it ought never to be possible to
see, as I once saw posted up on a large factory in London itself: “No
English Need Apply.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Look at the thing squarely. With each householder, in rural districts
at least, growing his own vegetable and fruit supply, and the farmers
growing for the community in general, what lack should there be of
the necessities of life? The Prime Minister has restricted nothing
that we cannot well do without. Somebody has grumbled about apples.
Where will you beat homegrown apples? Plant orchards of them without
stint; they will repay the trouble. Somebody else grumbles--yes, we
know somebody always grumbles! This time it is about “Paris hats.”
They are “forbidden.” O wise judge! O learned judge! No more (for a
time, at least) shall we be pestered by receiving elaborate circulars
printed in gold stating that Monsieur Satanique “presents” his latest
“creations,” as if the good Satanique were a sort of deity. Nor will
he, with all his persuasive charm, be able to entice the foolish among
women to pay him six or eight guineas for a bit of wire, a scrap of
lace, a feather, and a ribbon. O bold “restriction”! No more “Paris
hats”--but, let us hope, a great deal more common sense!




“HIS PAINFUL DUTY”

THE SORROWS OF THE HOME SECRETARY

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


We grieve for Sir George Cave. He suffers as a martyr suffers in the
cause of his country. Martyrs are not so common as heroes nowadays,
but Sir George puts in no claim to heroism. He leaves that to “Tommy.”
“Tommy” makes short work of the Huns wherever and however he meets
them, but Sir George is almost on the verge of tears because he
is unable to make their stay on in this country as agreeable and
profitable as he would wish.

       *       *       *       *       *

In the House of Commons he said: “Only the other day it was his
_painful duty_ to order the internment of sixteen members of one alien
club alone!” Alas, alas! “Sixteen” out of twenty thousand wandering
spies! “One club alone,” out of hundreds of enemy information centres!
Poor Sir George! How his heart must have been torn! how it must, even
now, be lacerated and sore! “Had this club been in existence during
the whole war?” asked Sir Henry Dalziel pointedly. And surely Sir
George must have fetched a sigh from the bottom of his soul as he was
compelled to answer “Yes!” Mr. Herbert Samuel, the late Home Secretary,
was also apparently in sad plight, for he “seemed very anxious about
the thousands of friendly aliens” in the East End of London and other
large towns. He may well be “very anxious.” For these “thousands of
friendly aliens” are _not_ “friendly,” and in nine cases out of ten
“show,” as Mr. Samuel gravely observed, “that their hearts are not with
this country.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Is Mr. Samuel really so ingenuous, so simple, so altogether infantile
in experience as to suppose their hearts _could_ be “with this
country”? Are the hearts of Britishers interned in Germany “_with_”
Germany? The Germans have turned English and Americans out of Berlin;
why is not the same course pursued by us with Germans in London?
Every German in the British Isles hopes for their “invasion” by his
countrymen, and with invasion the signal to mobilise. With 30,000
interned and 20,000 at liberty, 50,000 foes are in our midst, ready
to turn upon us at short notice. Why should this matter be dealt with
in such a spineless, semi-paralytic way? What are the British public
to think of the Ministers who put them on “rations” of four pounds
of bread a week, while the German prisoner is allowed ten? Two and a
half pounds of meat to the German’s three and a half? And everything
on the same scale, so that, summing up the total, the honest British
worker gets seven pounds four ounces of food to his enemy prisoners’
_fourteen pounds fourteen ounces_! Can any Controller of any department
be so blind as to think the British people will stand such injustice?
Many of us know all about Donnington Hall, though an honest attempt
to clear up that scandal was nipped in the bud by some “Unseen Hand.”
But what of the life of ease led by the German prisoners interned in
the Isle of Man? There, in the great internment camp, officers are
“at home,” and are permitted to buy whatever quantity of food they
like to pay for--food which the native population cannot get! Just as
the enemy officers at Donnington Hall can order all they like “without
restriction,” while British prisoners in Germany are given hardly
enough to keep them from starving!

       *       *       *       *       *

Sir George Cave, in his extreme solicitude for “enemy aliens,” has
committed himself to one utterance which he may live to regret. It
is this: “Enemy aliens freed from internment ought certainly to be
employed on _useful work of national importance_.”

Ought they, indeed! The employment of enemy aliens on “work of national
importance” would be little short of a criminal act. For human nature
is the same as it ever was, and no “enemy alien” is likely to do “work
of national importance” for his jailer or conqueror without at least
_trying_ to do it in such a manner that it shall never be done, or else
done so badly that it shall not serve its purpose. What sane Englishman
imagines that an “enemy” born of a ruthless race, which has proved
itself murderous and treacherous, will serve _him_ in “work of national
importance” without a good effort to blow him and his “work” to the
four winds of heaven? The guileless simplicity of Sir George Cave
reminds one of the nursery’s “little lamb”:--

   “Whichever way the German went,
    The Lamb was sure to go!”

Down in the country, where we are commanded, with a sort of megaphone
shouting through the Press, to “Grow food,” when we have no skilled
labour to grow it, we are told that we can employ “enemy prisoners”
on the land. A friend, anxious to get waste land under cultivation,
asked what would be the rate of pay. The reply was: “One guinea a week;
fifteen shillings if you feed him.” Compare this with the pay given to
our British prisoners who work in Germany--“one penny a day,” _i.e._,
sixpence a week! My friend decided to put guineas in the War Loan
rather than spend them on a German prisoner who, if he worked on the
land, would be sure to work “against the grain.” And one asks again:
Why so much indulgence and care for the men of a dishonourable race
who have plunged Europe into blood and tears, and who have murdered
innocent women and children, and who, far from repenting their crimes,
add to them the awful blasphemy of calling God to witness their
“humanity”? Surely it is time this weak and nerveless inaction on the
part of the authorities concerned should cease, and that they should,
in the words of Shakespeare,--

              “Take our cause
    Out of the gripes of cruel men.”




THE POTATO “SCREAM”

A PROTEST AGAINST A STUPID PANIC

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


No potatoes! Dear, dear; whatever shall we do? Some of the clever boys
who write the “purple patches” for the sensational Press say that the
present shortage is “nothing compared to the grim possibilities of
the near future.” “Grim possibilities” is good--a phrase that will
delight the Huns! But, quite dispassionately, may it not be asked how
Britain got on without potatoes in her historic past? Henry VIII. was
a goodly King; he ate greedily, drank heavily, and married profusely,
but never a potato adorned his groaning banquet board. He “fared
sumptuously every day,” and his subjects were not starved. Strong
armies, victorious navies, existed without potatoes. Crècy, poitiers,
Agincourt were fought on other food. People lived in those days even
more hazardously than they live now, and did not worry about “grim
possibilities.” They grew their own food produce, and had no chance of
Overseas supplies. And they never knew the potato!

       *       *       *       *       *

The history of the potato is quite modern, proving that it is by no
means a necessity of life. According to some historians, it is a native
of Chili and Peru, and was introduced from Santa Fé, in America, by Sir
John Hawkins in 1563--one year before the birth of Shakespeare. So, as
it was a new product and uncommon, it is possible that the Poet of the
World struggled up to manhood without so much as one potato scream! The
soliloquy in _Hamlet_ owes nothing to the potato--the famous adjuration
in _Henry V._:--

    “Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;
     Or close the walls up with our English dead”--

has nothing of the “mealy”-mouthed about it! Other authorities say
it was brought over by Sir Francis Drake in 1586, but not generally
introduced till 1592, and that Sir Walter Raleigh cultivated it first
in Ireland on his estates in the county of Cork. It apparently was
not known in Flanders (according to its biographers) till 1620. Well,
then, how on earth did we get on without it? And if we _did_ get on
without it, why cannot we get on without it again? I imagine that it
is very much the fault of our gifted melodramatic actors on the stage
of the Press that we are startled and “shivered” by the thrilling
exits and entrances of the potato at stated intervals. One Bathurst is
responsible for an actual “potato boom,” he having made it appear that
this particular edible is a main prop of existence, when it is nothing
of the kind. He has frightened a number of unreasoning women into “long
queues” that “besiege” the potato dealers. If these women would only
stay at home and decide to do without potatoes at all, the “shortage”
and the dealers would soon display an altered aspect! One does not like
to be rude about any portion of the human anatomy, but surely people
who know Ireland have heard of the “potato _abdomen_” (the actual word
is too Scriptural for polite usage). There _is_ such a thing; and it
is not at all a desirable ornament. Women who wish to keep graceful,
_svelte_ figures never eat potatoes. In all dietetic rules for the fat,
“grave” warnings are uttered against potatoes, and “grim possibilities”
are in store for any obstinately large man or woman who continues to
eat them!

       *       *       *       *       *

Why should the restless Bathurst seek to create a sort of South Sea
Bubble in potatoes? The frenzy need not spread, if reasonable folk
will collect their wits (some of which have gone a wool gathering) and
realise that the potato, though an excellent vegetable when properly
cooked (which it seldom is) is not a necessity of life. If it were,
the brilliant history of Britain from the beginning up to Tudor times
would be a mere record of famines. Pessimist Bathurst “gravely” states
that “there will be no potatoes for any one in about six weeks.” Well,
all who have vegetable gardens know that there is always a scarcity of
potatoes every year, when the old ones are practically finished and
we are waiting for the new; and owing to the general “sensationalism”
the scarcity this year is likely to be more pronounced. But it need
not disturb any one’s equanimity. Potatoes are no more necessary to
life and health than the “hot roll,” of which the following amazing
report appears in the Press: “The passing of the hot roll is the chief
sacrifice.” (Think of these noble words! “The chief sacrifice!” One
would imagine it was the life of a hero!) “Tens of thousands of people
will lament the loss of a breakfast luxury!” “Lament the loss?” Oh, oh!
Tens of thousands of people lamenting a hot breakfast roll! Ye Gods! “A
roll,” continued the Press-interviewed baker, “alters its character
when stale.” True, deplorably true! But if those tens of thousands
of lamenting people do not alter _their_ character and “lament” to
better purpose than for the daily indigestion provided for them in “hot
roll” at breakfast, it is time they felt the pinch, not only of “no
potatoes,” but “no food” at all for a wholesome period of fasting, with
shame and penitence!




“HISTORY REPEATS ITSELF”

A STUDY IN WAR BREAD

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


Complaints are rife and bitter concerning the tough, indigestible,
and injurious mixture permitted to the taxpaying public as “war
bread.” General condemnation of Government flour has been expressed
at a meeting of the London Master Bakers’ Protection Society, where a
resolution was passed asking for an interview with the Prime Minister
to point out the “ineptitude” of the Ministry of Food. Thousands of us
are of the same mind with the Master Bakers! Thousands of us affirm
the “ineptitude” of which they speak. Thousands of us know that a more
lamentable display of ignorance concerning the “things that matter”
could hardly be seen between now and the next world. Furthermore, the
Master Bakers (God bless them!) have actually declared that if the
Bread Order is not revoked or amended they, to safeguard the health
of consumers, will be compelled to take “drastic action.” Well done,
Master Bakers! The sooner this drastic action is effected the better
for many ailing, suffering human creatures. The faddists and health
specialists may talk as they will, nothing can satisfy the appetite or
suit the palate of the average man and woman so well and so safely as
bread made with _pure white flour_. The raw germ of wheat, though in a
sense nutritious, exercises a “very deleterious effect,” so say the
bakers, on the colour and keeping qualities of the loaf. In many cases
“war bread” causes internal hæmorrhage, to say nothing of fermentative
dyspepsia and severe inflammation of the delicate coating of one’s
interior mechanism, and it would be easy to compile a volume of
statistics proving the poisonous effect produced by this coarse stuff
on our soldiers in hospital who are slowly recovering from gunshot
wounds or shell shock, and who are peculiarly sensitive to the quality
of their food. The distinguished muddlers who are muddling with the
grain and the “milling” thereof, seem to judge the fine and complex
human organism as somewhat tougher than shoe-leather and less liable to
injury than pig-iron. But they are not the first of their class by any
means! There were muddlers before them, as senseless, as callous, and
as deaf to reason as they--men who, like themselves, were “dressed in
a little brief authority” during that terrific upheaval of which the
very name is ominous--the great French Revolution. Here is what Carlyle
writes of the bread trouble in those days:--

“Complaints there are that the food is spoiled and produces an effect
on the intestines, as well as ‘a smarting in the thoat and palate,’
which a municipal proclamation warns you to disregard or even to
consider as drastic--beneficial! But ... the Mayor of Saint Denis, so
black was his bread, has, by a dyspeptic populace, been hanged on ‘La
Lanterne’ there!”

“La Lanterne” is not a pleasant theme to dwell upon, and we may
be deeply thankful that we have something nowadays less ferocious
than such a form of settling disputes between the people and their
rulers--the great trade unions and protection societies, consolidated
bodies of reasoning and reasonable men, who can, when necessity calls,
take concerted action against Sentimental Cant and wilful Ignorance.
For, to quote Carlyle again, “Is not Cant the _materia prima_ of the
Devil, from which all falsehoods, imbecilities, and abnominations body
themselves, from which no true thing _can_ come?” And are not the
Master Bakers, as well as the Seamen’s and Firemen’s Union, conscious
of this Cant somewhere? Whether in pacifism or food-controlling,
matters little, so long as they can put an exterminating finger on the
spot!

Ours is a land of cranks; we produce cranks as quickly as untended
grass grows plantains. We have peace cranks, food cranks, health
cranks; and, without doubt, plenty of these will dash wildly into the
open with hysterical hymns of praise for the utterly detestable “war
bread,” more vigorously possibly when they think their fellow-creatures
are being made ill by it. But “let ’em gnash as can,” as the toothless
old dame blandly observed after hearing a sermon on hell where “there
shall be weeping and gnashing of teeth.” Happily deprived of all
ability to “gnash,” hell offered no alarms for her. Similarly, those
whose powers of digestion cannot tolerate “war bread” will support
the screams of whole-meal faddists with equanimity, saying, “Let ’em
masticate as can.” If “whole-meal” gives strength and sustenance with
hæmorrhage, most of us will prefer to be a little less strong and
well-nourished, without internal bleedings. The complaints of the
bread sold in Paris during the fateful months preceding the French
Revolution are precisely the same as now; but, whatever the rising
tide of discontent may be, we have bulwarks against it in our own
people’s organisations, which bind the members of every trade together
against any possible injustice or tyranny. This Empire has cause to be
thankful for its vast network of trade unions; they are in very truth
a governing body whose weight and importance cannot be over-estimated.
And so it may be that the Master Bakers will be the saviours of
the country’s health, despite Food Controllers and their ideas of
“milling.” We are losing enough life, Heaven knows, on the fields of
battle; we do not want illness and the spread of disease at home.
We can be sparing and careful of grain and precious with our “white
flour,” but we need not debilitate or poison our people with food which
they cannot digest or which in any way proves injurious to women and
children. Waste is encouraged by the making of bread which the people
dislike. They would rather throw it away than suffer illness--which is
very natural. The Food Controller is safe from “La Lanterne” in these
days; but everybody will be glad if the London Master Bakers’ Society
will take the matter well in hand and see to it that we need not “live
on the husks which the swine did eat.” The country will not starve
because we prefer to be well on white flour rather than dyspeptic on
brown!




“SHODDY CHIVALRY”

A NAVAL CHADBAND

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


So now we know! No longer need we denounce the “submarine menace”; no
longer need we (as the German Press suggests) “grow pallid with fear,”
for we are in “brave and gallant hands!” “Brave and gallant” are the
noble creatures who sink hospital ships; “brave and gallant” are the
sharers of dividends in the corpse-fat factory; “brave and gallant” are
the raiders who sought to intercept the Prime Minister on his way back
from France across Channel in order to make short work of him and his
escort--“brave and gallant” are they all! Our own Vice-Admiral at Dover
implied as much when, with all the unctuousness of Dickens’s immortal
Mr. Chadband, he laid a wreath of flowers on the coffin of one of the
Hun raiders with the inscription: “To a brave and gallant enemy!” He
spared no wreath and offered no tribute to any of the dead among our
own bluejackets, whose “brave and gallant” conduct had succeeded in
beating off and sinking the enemy’s ships; they were “only” British
sailors. But for the dead Huns, this British Vice-Admiral publicly
displayed the tenderness of a twin brother. One wonders what Nelson
would have said to such an action? How does it accord with the
Defence of the Realm? One can imagine the noble dust of the victor of
Trafalgar stirring for very shame at such a lack of dignity at the
very time when British ships are being wickedly sunk and British lives
wickedly lost by the nefarious “brave and gallant” brutality of an
enemy with whom honour is a mere straw. It may perhaps be easier now to
understand the rumours that these “brave and gallant” Huns are allowed
to work with our men in British docks, where they watch our ships
loaded with millions of munitions, and count up our troops leaving for
the front, and then, without doubt, communicate with their kinsmen of
the submarines, letting them know the hour and moment of departure! No
wonder that our ships are sunk! Such methods prepare the way for their
sinking. No action is taken by the authorities to put a stop to the
inroad of German labour in the docks alongside of the British--a state
of things which, on the face of it, invites and encourages spying and
treachery. Such scandals are “an offence that’s rank, And smells to
Heaven”; and the powers in office who allow them to go on without check
are nearly as guilty of the loss of torpedoed ships and lives as the
Huns themselves. And when a British Vice-Admiral sets the hall-mark of
“brave and gallant” on even a dead specimen of the most treacherous,
inhuman, and barbaric foe his country has ever had to contend with, we
can hardly wonder at anything except the amazing excess of patience,
wellnigh lethargy, with which the British people tolerate such an
exhibition of Chadbandism in the Navy. One is thankful for the plain
speaking of Admiral Lord Charles Beresford, who, in the House of
Lords, designated this action as one of “maudlin sentimentality and
shoddy chivalry.” There spoke the sturdy seaman and loyal Britisher,
untainted by the pro-German measles, which infect only the degenerates
of our race. The Vice-Admiral at Dover, by his openly displayed
admiration for the Hun, would seem to wish us to understand that he is
something neither British nor of the sea--“neither fish, flesh, fowl,
nor good red herring.” We can almost hear him soliloquising over the
flower-strewn coffin of the “brave and gallant” Hun: “My friend, you
are to me a pearl, you are to me a diamond, you are to me a gem, you
are to me a jewel! And why, my friend? Are you a beast of the field?
No. A bird of the air? No. A fish of the sea or river? No. You are a
Hun, my friend! You are much worse than any beast of the field; more
voracious than any bird of the air; more slippery than any fish of
the sea or river! Oh, how glorious to be a Hun! And if I went forth
as far as the Southampton Docks and there saw a ‘brave and gallant’
fellow-countryman of yours taking stock of troops and munitions, and I
was to come back and call unto me Sir Edward Carson and say unto him,
‘Lo the docks are barred against Huns,’ would that be terewth?”

No; it would not be “terewth”--unless, as the original Chadband
propounded, such terewth, or truth, were another form of deception.
Until we have loyal men “above suspicion” in authority at home we shall
never satisfy our Allies abroad. America will be unable to understand
a British Vice-Admiral laying flowers on the coffin of an enemy whose
intent was, without doubt, to sink and slay a valuable life on which
much of Britain’s welfare depends, any more than she will understand
the collection of a large sum of money for the assistance of Germans
in England (more than £17,000) to which liberal subscriptions have been
made by two German members of the Privy Council. As Mark Twain observed
during his tour in Palestine, “Blessed if I believe a turtle can sing!”




“HINDENBURG’S EYE!”

THE BABIES’ BOGEY

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


There are several objections raised to the merry-go-round “National
Service” whirl devised by Mr. Neville Chamberlain. “Uneasy lies the
head that wears a crown” nowadays, even if it only be the crown of
a temporary Director of Service or of Food Production. Even Lord
Devonport comes in for his share of contumely, especially since
he assumed that a 5-oz. chop was sufficient for a busy City man’s
luncheon. Lord Devonport has evidently never tried his hand at cooking,
and is blissfully unaware how soon 5 oz. may be reduced to 3 oz. on
the fiery grill! The public resent this ignorance; but nothing excites
their indignation more than the blatant, vulgar, and positively
offensive advertisements which have been spread broadcast to call them
forth to voluntary enrolment. Whoever it may be that is the inventor,
designer, or word-weaver of these newspaper roarers, he serves his
country ill, and is guilty of the worst possible taste. Instead of a
dignified, effective appeal to Labour, these wretched advertisements
are mere gibes and insults flung in the face of a brave, patiently
enduring people, whose homes have, in many thousands of cases, been
invaded by Death, and whose hearts are wrung by sudden and bitter
bereavements, none the less hard to bear because borne with such noble
and uncomplaining fortitude.

“Are You Fiddling While Rome Burns?” asks one of these idiotic
newspaper Fat Letters, a question met with the silent scorn of many
tired eyes grown dim with weeping, or strained and anxious with
watching and waiting for the beloved ones who may never return. Is it
impossible to expect from these Government Press agents (if they are
Government Press agents) a little thought for the people they seek to
attract, a little decency and respect? At present their loud, even
coarse, advertisements represent--

   “The insolence of office, and the spurns
    That patient merit of the unworthy takes.”

The last form of their coster-like shouting is perhaps the worst.

  “HINDENBURG’S EYE IS UPON YOU!”

Now, what in the name of all that is British, do we care about
“Hindenburg’s Eye”? Are we a whimpering troop of babies to be frighted
with the eye of a Hun? or to be told “Hush-oh! Mind its little P’s and
Q’s! Go and do its little National Service properly, or ‘Hindenburg’s
eye’ will be on you!” Was ever such arrant, open, disgraceful nonsense!
What have we to do with “Hindenburg’s eye,” except bomb it out if we
can? What terrors can it have for us? Does it roll or squint, blink or
wink? Nobody cares, but if it is to be “on” anywhere, it had better be
fixed to Berlin! It’s an old eye and a filmy one--probably, as Hamlet
pointedly remarked, “purging thick amber and plumtree gum”--it’s a
false eye and a brutal one, but just now it has enough to do to see
its own surroundings without dropping out of its socket. The tactless,
witless individual who dares to write and circulate would-be “scare”
lines about this bloodthirsty old eye being “on” the brave men and
women of Britain, watching (as if such a brute had authority to watch!)
to see how many of them work (and weep!) willingly enough in their
country’s service, should be at once convinced of his unfortunate lack
of intelligence and discernment. Any one with the smallest spark of
imagination must almost see and hear the loud German guffaw of mockery
and delight at this fool’s placard for the British:--

  “HINDENBURG HAS HIS EYE UPON YOU!”

“Ha, ha! Dot is goot!” says Hans to Fritz. “Unser Hindenburg! Dot is
fright for Gott strafe England!--and de English _demselves_ say it!”

Weird inventor of megaphone press-roarings, whoever you are, don’t do
it! You may be a Bernard Shaw in the bud for all we know, but we have
enough already of the perfect flower. National Service demands your
brilliancy elsewhere. Offer yourself as a substitute for the bootblack
who may be glad to go “on the land.” The Cause is injured by these
unwarrantable music-hall methods. Call up the people with a friend’s
cheerful and inspiring voice--a silver trumpet-blast if you will--but
not with a donkey’s bray!

  (_The above little article had the fortunate effect of causing
  several of these placards, so offensive to the British spirit, to
  be removed._)




“HOARDING”

A MODERN SETTING OF AN OLD PLAY AND A LITTLE STORY OF THE Y.M.C.A.

               “_Man, proud man,
    Dress’d in a little brief authority,
    Most ignorant of what he’s most assured,
    His ghostly essence like an angry ape,
    Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven
      As make the angels weep!_”
                                  _Measure for Measure._


Nothing in all the various confused and contradictory orders issued by
the capricious and neurotic “Dora” gave such unalloyed festive delight
as the edict against “hoarding.” It opened the door to all the little
spies and scandal-mongers of every neighbourhood, especially to the
provincial types of these gentry, who are always of a more inquisitive
and slanderous disposition than the same class found in large cities,
for the reason that they have little other excitement beyond the
gratifying stimulus of inquiring into their neighbours’ affairs and
meddling with them if they can. The “Hoarding” order suited them down
to the ground and set them all on the alert, peering into windows and
peeping through open doors--following their “dear friends” into shops
and taking eager notes of their purchases, till every eye grew hard
and sharp as a gimlet, and every nose as pointed as the beak of a
crow. It was astonishing and amusing to watch the alteration for the
worse in the looks of men and women during this period; the theory
of “psycho-suggestion” was amply verified in the visible fact that
people who were previously open-faced and good-natured were almost
unrecognisable in the sudden “squeezing-in” of their features to the
ugly furrows of suspicion and meanness.

“Some achieve greatness and some have greatness thrust upon them,” says
the sapient Malvolio; and I frankly admit that I felt myself to be
entirely in the latter category when I became a sort of modern heroine
in a new version of _Much Ado About Nothing_, in the precincts of
Stratford-on-Avon itself, under the sacred ægis of the Immortal Bard.
A real stage was set for me, with the real “city officers Dogberry and
Verges”--in fact “the whole dissembly appeared.” I was summoned for
“hoarding” sugar. In plain truth I have never “hoarded” anything--not
even money, as the town of Stratford-on-Avon has sufficient reason
to know. I have never even had the careful housekeeper’s habit
of a “store-cupboard”--my house being destitute of such lock-up
conveniences, wherefore we have found it best always to order what
is wanted from week to week, paying for it likewise from week to
week and incurring no debts. In the affair of the sugar I could not
procure enough to obey the commands set upon me by the Food Production
and other Government Departments. Correspondence with Mr. Prothero
had impressed upon me that there was a shortage of all foodstuffs,
especially butter, and it was represented to me that every householder
growing their own fruit should make as much jam as possible to replace
the butter. That year (1917) was a wonderful fruit year; in my own
garden, not an “orchard” by any means or abundantly stocked, there was
gathered nearly a thousand pounds dead-weight of fruit. Some of it
we sold--much of it we gave away--the rest had either to be wasted or
preserved. “Shortage of foodstuffs” necessitated its preservation. Our
local surveyor, though obliging, could not supply his customers with
enough sugar to go round. The “Hoarding Act” distinctly stated that the
order did not apply itself to “sugar obtained for the preservation of
homegrown produce”--so I appealed to my old friend, Sir Thomas Lipton,
not only because he was a friend, but because he was a grocer, and as
such, would be sure to know what quantity of sugar he might or might
not sell to any customer. But----! Here comes in another story!

A short time previous to the Sugar-Comedy of “Much Ado,” I had been
approached by two gentlemen from Birmingham on behalf of the Y.M.C.A.
and Sir Arthur Yapp (then Director of Food Economy) to help the Society
by a subscription. I gave a hundred pounds; and a generous friend of
mine, on hearing what I had subscribed, gave another hundred. In the
warmth of this success I wrote to Sir Thomas Lipton and asked him
boldly for another hundred. I received a truly heart-rending reply to
the effect that he was a “poor man,” and “could not afford so large a
sum,” but that if I had asked him for ten or fifteen pounds he would
have gladly subscribed. I at once seized the opportunity and begged
him to send the fifteen. He did so, and I wrote my acknowledgments,
assuring him that when he went to heaven that Fifteen Pounds given to
the Y.M.C.A. would be an extra feather in his Angel-Wing! (I do hope
he will one day show that letter to Sir Arthur Yapp!) Then, feeling
I had not yet done enough for the Y.M.C.A. Huts, I agreed that the
Cinema company, then running some stories of mine on the “film,” should
give a few “shows” of them in Stratford for the sole benefit of the
Y.M.C.A., and I am glad to say that they drew packed houses and brought
a substantial result. For this and such assistance as I had freely
given to help on the good cause I had a note from Sir Arthur Yapp
expressing his “most grateful thanks.” And now we can _revenons à nos
moutons_--that is to say, I can return to the Sugar version of “Much
Ado”--but I would earnestly request my readers to “mark, learn, and
inwardly digest” what we may call “The Y.M.C.A.-Yapp Interlude.”

As I have already stated, I could not get sufficient sugar from the
local grocer to preserve the fruit in hand, and as fruit is perishable,
and there was no time to be lost, I rang up Sir Thomas Lipton on the
telephone and asked him what he could do for me. The familiar “Glasgie”
accent came harmoniously along the wire--“Ye’ll never want for sugar so
long as Tom Lipton’s on the ‘phone!”

So it was settled. I and my friend (a lady who has been my companion
throughout my life since my childhood, and who has generously and
kindly undertaken all my household cares) set happily to work to
preserve our fruit; whole in jars where we could do so, but made into
jam for the most part. I would here remark, with all diffidence, that
I do not revel in jam myself; but I like having it for others--such as
schoolboys, for instance, before whom whole pots vanish like snow in
the sun when they come to tea with me, bless their frank appetites!
We had nearly completed our labours, all except the transmutation of
apples into jelly and “apple cheese” (the best possible substitute
for butter), when one afternoon, while I was out, a police constable
called and said he must search the house for “hoards.” He brought
no authority, but stated that if he were refused he would procure a
search warrant. My friend, who received the intruder, was naturally
rather surprised, but having nothing to hide she cordially invited
the official to go all over the house wherever he would. Accordingly
he tramped into the dining-room, opened cupboards and drawers, even
peering into an unobtrusive little tea-caddy, and went down into
the cellar and inspected the larder. He found nothing but a large
flour-bin, into which for convenience had been put fifteen pounds of
sugar (duly weighed) left for use with the apples yet to be preserved.
While he was still on the prowl, I returned home, and though I am never
much taken aback at anything Stratford-on-Avon “authorities” do, I
was, I think, justifiably annoyed at having my private rooms searched
on such a ridiculous charge of which I was absolutely guiltless.
Moreover, the “hofficer” who had thus broken into my house without
warning, was a man who had often had supper in our kitchen with beer
_galore_, which he had greatly relished--while another detail of the
matter was that for some years, since the intrusion of an unhappy
lunatic-tramp into my garden, the police had been given by myself a
private key to the premises, so that they could enter at any time.
Therefore, if they had sought to keep me under “observation” there was
nothing to hinder their surveillance, which indeed I had personally
requested and was grateful for. But--as the official informed me the
“hoarding” accusation came “from London”--“on account of Sir Thomas
Lipton.” This rather amazed me, and for a moment I thought it must be
that “feather in the Angel-Wing”! My doubts were soon set at rest by
a visit from my solicitor who told me Sir Thomas was “much distressed
and could not sleep” for thinking about the threatened trouble. Some
one at certain Stratford-on-Avon Stores had noted the arrival at the
railway station of the Lipton supplies of sugar--quite openly sent,
and openly marked “Sugar,” for we were under the impression that all
was in due observance of the Food Production rules, and that there was
nothing to hide or to “hoard.” Naturally I wrote at once to the Lipton
office requesting these supplies to be stopped, without, however, at
once succeeding, as, notwithstanding my expressed desire, a fresh
package was transmitted, which I promptly returned. I then wrote to
Sir Arthur Yapp, feeling quite sure that his recent experience of my
conduct in respect to the Y.M.C.A. would convince him that there was
some “official blundering” (to quote a press term) in the absurd notion
that I, whose work throughout the war had been to help, not to hinder
all patriotic aims, could possibly sink to the “hoarding” level. I
had written to him long before, pleading that the poor working women
should not be compelled to stand in “queues,” waiting to get food
for themselves and their children, on which subject he wrote me the
following letter:--

                                        “December 17, 1917.

  “DEAR MISS CORELLI,--Thank you very much indeed for your further
  letter and enclosure, and I hope to be able to arrange for the
  workers to get things for their children. All the points you
  mention shall receive careful attention and I am consulting some
  of my colleagues forthwith. Again thanking you,

                              “Yours faithfully,
                                        “A. K. YAPP,
                              “_Director of Food Economy_.”

This does not look as if I had sought to “rob the poor by hoarding,”
as one accuser in the “gutter” press made out later on! When I wrote,
explaining the position which had so wrongfully arisen, Sir Arthur
wrote regretting it and saying: “I will make all inquiries and am more
than sorry you should be worried.”

However, the “case” instigated “from London,” went on remorselessly and
I asserted my innocence in vain. A second appeal to Sir Arthur Yapp,
strengthened by a personal visit to him from my solicitor who urgently
pointed out the absurdity of the “hoarding” charge in my regard,
brought the following:--

                      “NATIONAL COUNCIL, Y.M.C.A.
                                        December 26, 1917.

  “DEAR MISS CORELLI,--Thanks for your letters. I was glad to see
  your solicitor, but am not sure that I can help you. I will gladly
  do so if I can. Unfortunately all the people are away for a few
  days. I will try to get in touch with the Chairman of the Sugar
  Commission to-morrow, Friday or Saturday. I will write again. I am
  so sorry you are having this worry. In haste,

                              “Yours sincerely,
                                    ”A. K. YAPP.”

Nevertheless, with all this amiable “Yapp-ing” he did _not_ “get in
touch” with the Chairman of the Sugar Commission, then Sir Charles
Bathurst, who wrote himself and told me he had never heard a word of
the affair till he saw it in the newspapers. On this point my solicitor
wrote as follows: “I am glad to hear that you have a letter from Sir
Charles Bathurst, expressing sympathy. I cannot, however, overlook
the fact that whereas Sir Arthur Yapp had no power apart from Sir
Charles to take cognisance of facts which I brought to his notice with
a view to stopping an unjustifiable prosecution calculated to do you
an injury, Sir Charles Bathurst had ample power and did not exercise
it, although approached by Sir Arthur Yapp. I do not think the Food
Control Department even troubled to send the case to their counsel, but
merely seized the opportunity to accept a statement which was not in
conformity with the evidence, was a violation of the highest principles
of justice, and a slur upon the summary jurisdiction of the land.”

And so the case went on. Yapp meantime addressed a crowd on Tower
Hill and assured them “Marie Corelli’s sugar had been taken from
her”--which was a flaring fiction as there was no excess of sugar to
take. He failed to mention that the victim he thus pilloried had given
far more than the sugar’s worth to the Y.M.C.A., of which he posed
as the pious and conscientious Head! But “that’s another story”! He
felt perfectly justified, however, in handing over my personal letters
to him (marked “Private”) to a Mr. Wise, his secretary, I believe,
whom my solicitor found reading them to his lady clerks by way of a
little entertainment--and so altogether I rank Sir Arthur Yapp with
Shakespeare’s Brutus, and here express my profound acknowledgments.

On the 2nd of January, 1918, the case for my “hoarding” was tried
by the eminent “bench” of Stratford-on-Avon. My servants were
subpœnaed--they sat patiently in court, but nobody asked them a
single question! A legal representative of Sir Thomas Lipton’s, glib
as Sergeant Buzfuz, managed things for his principal in such a way
as to leave Sir Thomas scot-free, though in other similar cases the
supplier was fined in the same sum as the supplied. I was not in court.
My friend, who has all the responsibility of housekeeping, went into
the witness-box and answered all questions plainly and honestly--but
plainness and honesty do not count for much in law. The point which
Dogberry and Verges adhered to was that they did not believe we had
used the sugar for jam! Was ever anything more absurdly humorous! We
were ready and willing to make public exhibition of the jam; we offered
those amazing “city officers” free permission to inspect it--but _they
would not_! They preferred to doubt the word of a lady through whose
hands many hundreds of pounds had been spent in the town and whose
well-known straightforward character makes her incapable of truckling
to falsehood or hypocrisy. I must not forget to mention that the
worthy Dogberrys had been much bamboozled by the constant delivery of
large wooden boxes at my house labelled “Maypole Tea,” “Tate’s Sugar,”
“Nestle’s Milk,” etc., etc.; it looked very like “hoarding,” surely?
A constable followed the packages up through an open passage leading
to out-houses, and there to his immense chagrin discovered that these
cases contained nothing but material for electric-wiring and lighting,
sent by Messrs. Tredegars of Brook Street, who had undertaken the
installation of the electric light in my house. They were compelled
to pack their goods in any boxes they could secure, there being a
“shortage” in packing-cases as in everything else, and when the
“hoarding” trial came on, the director of the firm offered most kindly
and courteously to attend the court and explain the share his boxes
had in the silly accusation. But there was no need; Dogberry and
Verges had already made up their minds. My chief assailants were the
Superintendent of Police in Stratford and the Town Clerk--and after the
case was over and they had “convicted” me of what I had never committed
(though the “bench” disagreed among themselves), all the clues were
placed in my hands in such a remarkable way as would remind one of
Sherlock Holmes if there were time or space to tell it! Perhaps the
following sentence from a legal document may put the matter clearly:--

“The root of the whole evil is your local bench, and bias is
self-evident by the action of the Acting Clerk, _when he withheld
information from us as to the findings of the Justices until after the
time to appeal to Quarter Sessions had elapsed_.”

I have often wondered why this malignity? Why, too, on the part
of the “Acting Clerk,” whom I have always beheld with respectful
admiration in his curly white wig marching in the Shakespeare Sunday
or Mayoral processions to Church? He is my beau-ideal of a cultured
Dogberry--his very look and movement express--“I am a wise fellow;
and which is more an officer; and which is more a householder; and
which is more as pretty a piece of flesh as any in Messina (Stratford)
and one that knows the law, go to; and a rich fellow enough, go to;
and a fellow that hath had losses; and one that hath two gowns and
everything handsome about him! O that I had been writ down----” No--I
will not finish the quotation; suffice it to say that I have never
intentionally or to my knowledge caused offence to this excellent man.
But both Church and State were in the persecution of my quite innocent
personality; two dismissed outdoor employés of my own first started
the mischief, and as one had found a temporary job on the local “food
control,” it was easy to trace the work of hands guided by personal
spite and desire to give me trouble. Afraid to start the accusation
in Stratford itself, they quite ingenuously managed to transfer it
through a mutual friend to London, from whence the “summons” was
“arranged” to come--and since then, having found out the whole petty
plot, I have been full of amused compassion for the miserable plotters.
They must surely feel that the game was hardly worth the candle! Of
course, press-reporters rushed down like hounds in full cry directly
they scented possible injury to me--they would never have troubled
themselves to note anything I did of good--but anything that savoured
of meanness and disloyalty on my part was “nuts” to them! As they never
saw me, and I made no appearance in court, these poor untidy pressmen
were reduced to their usual fictions, and wired all over the world that
I had “made a scene in court,” “attacked Lloyd George,” etc., etc.!
(And yet, just before this comedy started, and â propos of sugar, I had
sent Miss Megan Lloyd George some chocolate “eclairs” made at home,
with which this charming little friend of mine was much delighted!)
Yes--these chivalrous press-men labelled me from England to furthest
Ind as a hoarder and hypocrite and I was left without remedy. I was
assailed by the lowest anonymous letters and post cards; of course one
knows how to take such off-scourings of depraved human minds, as no
one but a villain, male or female, would write an anonymous letter.
But with all the pain I felt at the misjudgment, amounting almost to
cruelty, of the press, which deliberately did its best to injure me
with my reading public, I had my compensations. I had hundreds of
letters from our men at the front indignantly protesting against the
wrong done to me--and a wonderful document signed by the officers and
men of the Overseas Military Forces of Canada came to hearten me up by
its generous testimony as follows:--

  “We, the undersigned Officers, Non-Commissioned Officers, and Men
  of the Overseas Military Forces of Canada desire to take this
  opportunity of expressing to you our gratitude for the many acts of
  kindness and hospitality that you have shown to the members of the
  Canadian Forces since they arrived in this country.

  “We also wish to express to you our sympathies in the recent cruel
  and unjust charge of ‘hoarding’ which was brought against you, and
  we feel sure that when the true facts are brought to the knowledge
  of the public they will realise that the spirit of patriotism you
  have shown throughout the war, and the generosity with which you
  have contributed articles to the various periodicals published for
  the benefit of the troops do not coincide with the possibility of
  any contravention of war measures.

  “We also wish to add the expression of our admiration for the
  pre-eminent position you have attained in the world of literature
  and art, and to assure you that none appreciate your works more
  than the people of Canada.

  “We trust that this assurance of our admiration for your genius,
  and our sympathy in the worry to which you have been so unjustly
  subjected, will prove to you that we are not unmindful of the
  kindness and warm interest you have invariably shown towards
  Canadian soldiers.

                      “We beg to remain,
                              ”Sincerely yours,”

Here followed a long list of officers’ and men’s names; the kind and
generous testimonial of their friendship was dated from Bramshott Camp,
Hants, April 16th, 1918.

I make no comment on this most valued “vote of confidence” voluntarily
given by brave and chivalrous men. I publish it just as it is--one of
my most precious possessions. I can endure even dear Dogberry’s malice
with such a battalion of fighting friends!

One other thing may be mentioned as showing the curious cross-purposes
of the Stratford-on-Avon “justices” in the prosecution against me, and
that is the letter written to me by the Deputy-Mayor on the eve of the
trial--thus:--

                                        “December 31, 1917.

  “DEAR MISS CORELLI,--Allow me to offer you my sincere wishes
  that the year 1918 may prove to you and yours one of unalloyed
  happiness. In these days such a wish may seem impossible of
  achievement. Amidst the strife of nations and the world-wide clash
  of arms there must be anxiety and care for all who love their
  country, and the ‘petty pin-pricks’ which come to all who try to
  do their duty will no doubt try the temper and patience; but amidst
  all life’s worries the consciousness of duty done, of love for
  others, and the desire to do always what is right will bring _you_
  that real peace and happiness which the world cannot give. That you
  may have this in 1918 and the years to follow is my earnest wish.
  With kind regards,

                     “Yours sincerely,
                              “FRED WINTER.”

So was the “Winter of my discontent” moved to try making a bit of
“glorious summer” on the eve of the “Hoarding” case! I was grateful,
of course--and I did not allow myself to dwell on the thought that
perhaps, only perhaps, he was thus moved because long before the
“hoarding” case, my “hoarding” tendencies had prominently displayed
themselves in agreeing to pay £60 towards the restoration of his
ancient house in the High Street, a sum which no one else volunteered!
I did it for love and honour of the town’s antique beauty--not for any
self-laudation or advantage; and I am glad to have been of some use in
this direction. It is a quaint coincidence that this same Deputy-Mayor,
when I previously aided the restoration of the now famous “Tudor”
House opposite the Town Hall, accused me in the local press of doing
it for “self-advertisement.” I am sure he must regret this temporary
misjudgment now that his own house shows its Henry VIIth timbers to the
light of day.

Briefly to sum up, I am and always have been absolutely guiltless of
“hoarding” anything. I would rather give than receive, and am quite
an adept at “doing without.” And if I may presume to quote finally
from the original _Much Ado About Nothing_ I can say that while I am
perfectly aware of the local “Conrade” and “Borachio” who vented their
spite against me, I think there are many now in Stratford-on-Avon
itself who would say with the original Dogberry:--

“Marry, sir, they have committed false report; moreover, they have
spoken untruths; secondarily they are slanderers; sixth and lastly they
have belied a lady; thirdly they have verified unjust things.”

As for the excellent Sir Thomas Lipton, who was much more troubled
in his mind about this little affair than I was, and who, though he
supplied the contested sugar, escaped all fine and also escaped the
contumely of the press which was heaped upon me like a cartload of
bricks, without rhyme or reason, without honesty or justice, and
without a single word of truth in the various reports cabled all over
the world to do me as much injury as possible; he was so relieved and
happy to think nothing was said about his own share in the matter
that he was more genial and delightsome than ever. And I have reason
to believe that he is “flattered to death,” as our American cousins
sometimes say, by the parody I wrote for him “after Robert Burns,”
which I call--

  A New Version of
  “A MAN’S A MAN FOR A’ THAT”

  _Cordially Inscribed to Sir Thomas Lipton_

    Fair fa’ our bouncin’ braggart Tam,
      Wha perks his heid an’ a’ that,
    The Prince o’ Pickles and o’ Jam,
      Wha daurs be rich on a’ that!
        For a’ that an’ a’ that,
    His Butter, Tea, an’ a’ that,
    He’s found his Bank the way to rank,
        An’ Tam is Tam for a’ that!

    What though wi’ Royalty he’ll dine,
      ’Mid sleekit Jews an’ a’ that,
    Tam disna drink their best o’ wine,
      He’s wide awake an’ a’ that!
        For a’ that an’ a’ that,
     Their duds an’ shows an’ a’ that,
    The “Lipton Shares” are worth them a’
        An’ Tam is Tam for a’ that!

    Ye see yon birkie ca’d a lord,
      Wha struts an’ stares an’ a’ that,
    When tradesmen winna tak’ his word,
      Tam rules his roast an’ a’ that!
        For a’ that an’ a’ that,
      His ribbon, stars an’ a’ that,
    Tam kens his man baith oot an’ in,
        An’ looks an’ laughs at a’ that.

    The Premier maks a belted knight,
      A duke, an earl an’ a’ that,
    But a “Lipton’s Stores” aboon his might,
      Gude faith! he maunna fa’ that!
        For a’ that an’ a’ that,
      Their pride o’ place an’ a’ that,
    Monopolies o’ Ham and Tea
        Mak’ louder fame than a’ that!

    An’ Tam has gi’en Y.M.C.A.
      A muckle cheque an’ a’ that,
    An’ angels waft him on his way
      To Paradise an’ a’ that!
        For a’ that an’ a’ that,
      For that’s the end o’ a’ that;
    His lavish hand’s its own reward,
        An’ Tam is Tam for a’ that!




THREE HUNDRED YEARS OF FAME

AVE SHAKESPEARE!


Three hundred years ago, on April 23, 1616, William Shakespeare,
of whom Carlyle wrote as “the pink and flower of remembered
Englishmen--the greatest thing we have yet done and managed to produce
in this world,” drew his last breath at “New Place,” the home he had
earned for himself in his native town of Stratford-on-Avon. The great
bell of the Guild Chapel facing the garden side of his “pretty house of
brick and timber” tolled for his passing; but the great voice of the
world which acclaims him so loudly to-day was dumb.

In those Puritan times he was but little considered; and no hint or
whisper of his coming renown stirred the sleepy quietude of the little
country place where he was born and where he died. His fellow-townsmen
of that period kept no particular record of him, nor did they dream of
him as the future King of English Literature. He was laid to rest in
the chancel of the Parish Church--an honoured place allowed to him, not
because of his genius as a Poet, for this was as indifferent a matter
then to the good bucolic folk of Stratford-on-Avon as it is now, but
because he had, by purchase, become part owner of the tithes and as a
lay-rector had right of interment there.

In his lifetime he assumed to be nothing but a simple industrious
man of business who “adapted” and rearranged old plays to suit the
requirements of the Globe Theatre; and he flung out the splendid rays
of his dazzling poetic genius over these dry bones of romance and
history as freely and with as grand an absence of self-consciousness as
the sun which shines alike on the just and the unjust.

Nothing probably would have surprised him more or moved him to such
incredulous smiling as to have been told that in three hundred years
his fame would surpass that of any other Englishman ever born! He would
have put aside the prophecy with good-humoured laughter and would never
have given it another thought. For his wordly aims were perfectly
straightforward and simple; they were, plainly--to earn a sufficient
competence and to stand on an independent footing with his fellows,
to live with his family in ease and comfort, and to end his days in
peace in the town where he was born. No ideal could be more free from
arrogance. His whole career is an object lesson of infinite Greatness
to the infinitely Little!

The vital centre of Shakespeare’s marvellous power is surely his
impersonality. His creative spirit moved behind the passing show of
kings and queens and historic events, moulding them to his mood, but
never displaying itself. Like light it shed colour on whatsoever it
illumined. So little may we guess of Shakespeare’s personality from
his writings that he has made of himself an Enigma. We cannot even
tell what form of creed he professed, though we know and feel that the
devout worship of an invisible and intelligent Force behind Nature
filled him with highest faith and purest service towards God. We cannot
find out his special likes or dislikes, save in slight indications
here and there, such as his plainly indicated abhorrence of Jews--and
Germans! Great as is the professed admiration of the Teuton for our
English Master-Mind, we wonder how he can get over such lines as
these:--

    “A German from the waist downward, all slops!”
                                  _Much Ado About Nothing._

    “Like a full-acorn’d boar, a German one.”--_Cymbeline._

    “Three German devils, three Doctor Faustuses.”
                                  _Merry Wives of Windsor._

   “Holding in disdain the German women
    For some dishonest manners.”
                                  _Henry V._

   “Like a German clock,
    Still a’repairing, ever out of frame.”
                                  _Love’s Labour’s Lost_.

While the discussion between Portia and Nerissa in the _Merchant of
Venice_ caps all:--

  NERISSA: How like you the young German, the Duke of Saxony’s nephew?

  PORTIA: Very vilely in the morning when he is sober, and most
  vilely in the afternoon when he is drunk; when he is best, he is a
  little worse than a man; and when he is worst, he is little better
  than a beast.

One other thing we may perceive, and that is our Poet’s scorn of
pettiness and treachery. Individual deceit--public or private
hypocrisy--these seem to Shakespeare’s mind unforgivable. The
“black-handed” hit--the cruel slander--the malicious lie--against these
he delivers his most trenchant blows; but farther than this we are
unable to penetrate into the kingdom of his heart or sentiment.

To woman he assigns the highest place as inspirer and saviour of
man; when he shows her other than this, as in Lady Macbeth, he makes
remorse half condone her sins and death conclude them. He seemed to
be absolutely unconscious of any superiority in himself to others of
his own calling. His poetic gift was like song to a nightingale that
warbles for sheer delight and amorousness, in delicious ignorance of
the entrancing beauty of its melody.

What affects, or _should_ affect, us most deeply to-day is the
deplorable fact that for three hundred years we have had no poet, no
dramatist, to approach Shakespeare in any sense--neither in beauty of
language, loftiness of thought, nor simple naturalness of expression.
He towers among us as a veritable giant among pigmies--for the men of
letters in all parts of the world at this epoch, men who are scrambling
and pushing themselves forward to offer a very poor and inadequate
“homage” to this mightiest genius of all time, are of such microscopic
attainment when compared with him that one needs a mental lens to
perceive them at all.

These are they for whom Self is not only the keynote, but the whole
tune. Some of them take pride in their “style”; whereas Shakespeare had
no “style” save his own, which has become a living part of the English
language. He defied laws and conventions and dramatic “unities”; he
dared to be his own master; and fortunately there were no newspapers
in his day to publish venomous criticisms which might have daunted or
discouraged his efforts.

The earliest newspaper, or _News Packet_, as it was called, was
issued in 1619, three years after Shakespeare’s death. Shakespeare’s
critics were the public--in fact, the “gallery.” He “played to the
gallery,” and played “up”--never “down.” Moreover, he was apparently
so indifferent to his own literary reputation that he made no
effort to publish any of his works, and allowed them to be pirated
wholesale. Only in the case of the two poems dedicated to the Earl of
Southampton--“Venus and Adonis” and “The Rape of Lucrece”--does he seem
to have taken any personal interest in his own productions.

One may perhaps venture to suggest that probably he attached no
importance to what he knew were “adaptations” of old plays, and thought
nothing of the rich poesy wherewith he had endowed them. The most of
his work was this of industrious “adaptation”; so that he might have
modestly considered it to be scarcely his own and that the magnificent
speeches he put in the mouths of his stage puppets were only a part of
what is called “business.” The superb indifference he thus displayed to
his own place in the estimation of others was a striking proof of his
sub-conscious power. That his contemporaries mentioned him but little
would not have troubled a mind like Shakespeare’s and Robert Green’s
jealous attack upon him as “an upstart Crow, beautified with our
feathers, with his Tyger’s heart wrapt in a Player’s hide,” would but
have moved him to a compassionate smile at such an outburst of malice
and envy.

The chief lesson we may learn from Shakespeare’s unapproachable fame is
of that greatness which is “impersonal.” The literary men of our day
are all painfully personal and are seldom satisfied unless they are
elbowing each other out of the way or scrambling over each other to the
front; and some of them are never happier than when they can fasten
themselves, like barnacles, to the splendid ship of Shakespeare’s
immortal genius, which sails serenely onward over the seas of the
infinite. _As_ barnacles they do no particular harm; for, cling as they
will, the great waves of time generally sweep them off in the progress
of the voyage, while the great Ship goes on, carrying its messages of
truth, honour, and strong patriotism to all the world! And it will
still sail on, till the English language shall be no more. For if, in
centuries to come, nothing should be left of England but Shakespeare,
his name would be sufficient to prove that England once had lived!




SHAKESPEARE’S WAR BIRTHDAY IN 1917

NEGLECTED HONOURS


Many of our newspapers devoted columns of matter to “St. George’s Day”;
and the writers of the various articles on this subject “gushed” in
special and particular fashion over a purely mythical knight, whom
legendary lore supposes to have killed a purely mythical dragon. But a
very general omission was made of a real and a far greater personage
than St. George, whose day of birth and death coincides with that of
the dragon-slayer, namely, William Shakespeare, “the beautifullest
English soul this England confesses to have made, the pink and flower
of remembered Englishmen, the greatest thing, it appears, that we
have yet done and managed to produce in this world,” according to
right-thinking Thomas Carlyle. America, too, bears witness to the same
truth through the golden voice of her noble teacher Emerson, who thus
writes: “All the sweets and all the terrors of human lot lay in his
mind as truly, but as softly, as the landscape lies on the eye.” He
was, and is, our greatest Englishman--our finest patriot--and, when all
is said and done, he will be our chief claim to remembrance in history.
Very strange has it seemed to thousands of us, especially Americans,
that during the present crisis and stress of war the Press of Great
Britain should have apparently forgotten to mention the name of perhaps
the greatest Maker of England on his natal day. Some one tells us, “It
has never occurred before.” Then why has it occurred now?

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.