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"Rather than submit to the slavery of the Germans, the whole French nation would perish." These words of General de Castelnau are no idle boast—the coloured eloquence of a General who wishes to hearten his troops: they are a simple statement of fact. France has left behind eloquence and embroidered phrases: her commerce, her agriculture, her arts are gone. She has only one business, that of fighting: her men are all mobilised. And behind them stand the old, the young, the women and children, waiting their turn, should that turn come. And if France ever lies under the German heel, at least of the French people there will be none left to weep. That is the spirit animating the army of Joffre, that army whose exploits must have impressed even the most unimpressionable by their continued splendour. Never was finer heroism displayed than theirs. And they recognised from the very first the desperate character of the enterprise. It was not a war of chivalry. There has been no incident as at Fontenoy when Lord Hay, addressing the French guards, invited them to fire first. The Germans carried no sentiment of any kind into the battlefield, where their sole endeavour was to overcome the adversary, and any means were considered legitimate. To them the doubtful honour of the most diabolical inventions for destroying life. This is not the atmosphere—the atmosphere of asphyxiating gas—where chivalry thrives, and the French character, legends, and traditions of fighting, are utterly opposed to such scientific barbarities. "These civilised savages inspire me with more horror than cannibals," said Flaubert. But far from being overcome and dismayed by German barbarism, the French showed an instant spirit of adaptation; the hideous conceptions of the Hun brain were hurled back to them across the trenches. And horror begets horror. Officers, from the most accomplished generals down to the subalterns, learned with astounding speed the new art of war—this terrible, unscrupulous, brutal combat which, after fearful carnage in the open, as at Verdun, constantly ran itself to earth, settling down into trench war of the most monstrous description.

Protracted trench warfare, it has been said a thousand times, is quite contrary to the French disposition, which is all dash and go and impulse. But to-day we shall have to revise our views, no doubt, and find that the French have mixed with their audacity, with their natural quickness of thought and action and their high receptivity, some of that resistance and tenacity which are characteristically British. Confirmed Anglophiles in France attribute this phenomenon to the moral influence of ourselves—a flattering and satisfying doctrine to our own self-esteem. But the appearance of this "new" virtue extended to all parts of the population, and was so universal that we cannot credit this grand attribute of the French in the hour of their great adversity to anything but their own innate qualities. It was exhibited by mayors of communes, even the most remote, who have been exposed to the brutalities of the invaders; by the clergy to a conspicuous degree—nothing was more touching and remarkable than their absolute devotion in the most nerve-racking conditions. It was shown, indeed, by the whole of the civil population, young and old, and especially by women. How splendid they were! They did their work with extreme quietude, with a positive genius for adaptability, and no illustrated paper published photographs of their uniforms—for they had none. On the first day of the mobilisation the French women turned into the fields to gather the harvest the men had left on the ground. They had no time to choose a suitable costume; no need of exhortations from the Board of Agriculture. They were left to do the work, and they did it without fuss and without parade. Such examples of determination, tenacity, sheer self-sacrifice, courage and abnegation existed in all directions, diffusing a golden light over the country, just as the coloured windows at the Invalides bathe the tomb of Napoleon in a splendid effulgence.

In the army itself the adaptability of its leaders is a thousand times exemplified by the manner in which erudite soldiers who have taught tactics and strategy in the War School, along certain lines, suddenly confronted with the problems of actual war, have seen that they were quite other than those laid down in the text-books, and thereafter have speedily adapted themselves to the new conditions. Some failed, and there arose the rumour of many enforced retirements from active command. But the inference to be drawn from this was not always correctly stated. The generals in most cases were not incompetent; they correctly applied the old war rules to the situations as they arose; but they were not sufficiently supple; they did not adapt themselves to the new conditions. The officers who proved the most successful were, for the most part, the colonels and majors, who in a few months obtained important commands.

The classic instance of this is General Pétain, who, when the war broke out, was a colonel, and rose with breathless rapidity to take supreme command of the armies at Verdun during that terrific fight which occupied many weeks of the Spring of 1916. Romantic as such a rise may seem to be, it is as well to remember that the new commander was eminently qualified by reason of his long preparation to occupy such a position. He possesses one of the finest brains in the army—which in France for long has been an intellectual profession—and had so trained it that he was able at once to take advantage of the new conditions of warfare which have so materially changed since the area of war was charted for the guidance of commanders.

When the war broke out, France was not ready. We in England have been often accused of our lack of foresight; but the fact that France, living under the shadow of war, at least since the Agadir incident, was unprepared seems to have been incredible folly. How is it to be explained? The explanation is politics, and the pleasant, but alas! entirely false, atmosphere created by the dreams of pacifists. Whilst Germany planned war and prepared for it in the most cold-blooded manner, France was dreaming of peace and behaving as if war were a thing of the past. All her preoccupations were pacific; to her purblind politicians, the real danger was either a struggle between Capital and Labour—and there were not wanting signs that this was probable—or else a largely imaginary conflict between the dispossessed Church and the State. And, again, there was a large party in the nation led by the persuasive eloquence of Jaurès which urged that universal peace was a practical reality. France herself did not want to fight, England showed no bellicosity; Germany, it was true, through her governing classes, displayed a disquieting tendency to bully, but the heart of the people—was not that pacific? Had not Socialism, and the doctrine of the brotherhood of man, taken firm root? The French Socialists were convinced that it had. And so they argued war was a practical impossibility; for, certainly, this great mass of German opinion, penetrated with Socialism and with the ultra-pacific doctrines which go with it, would never permit the nation to be drawn into war for the benefit of the fire-eaters and directors of the great war machine. The wish was father to the thought, and these misguided but well-meaning people were always seeing across the Vosges evidence of the same beneficent principles that manifested themselves at home. The French Socialists were, indeed, to a great extent anti-militarist: did it not take two to make a quarrel? Was it likely that they would be wantonly attacked when they had not the least intention of attacking anybody? Very naturally, I think, they argued in that strain—and the great fault was that the directors of opinion in France, as in England, made no effort to explore the dark waters of political probability. It was pleasant to walk ruminatingly along the banks and to dream that the good time would always continue. The bomb-shell of the invasion brought the awakening. In a certain sense English politicians were more to blame than the French, chiefly because no one of them with their hard practical Anglo-Saxon sense really believed in universal brotherhood—there was no Jaurès to capture the public imagination by the witchery of words. England realised clearly enough that war between France and Germany was, sooner or later, inevitable, and the high failure of these self-same politicians was that they did not bring home to the public conscience the no less inevitable intervention by England. "But we are not scaremongers! There was too much talk already about the sword and keeping one's powder dry," say the apologists. But it is precisely in a pacific interest that the so-called leaders of the nation ought to have spoken. Mathematics is the base of war—and of its prevention; and in this case the sum was easy: merely two and two make four. If England had displayed the precaution that she adopts in other affairs—the caution of the typical citizen safe-guarding his own personal interests—then Germany would have thought a long while before crossing the frontier and would still have been thinking about it. Knowing what we do of the Teuton temperament, revealed more particularly in the report of the camp at Wittenberg, we are convinced that Germany would have hesitated long had she not had the quasi conviction of an easy victory. Everything points to that: the rapid defeat of France, and then a swift turning upon Russia, whose mobilisation is proverbially slow and whose armament was known to be ludicrously inadequate. Undoubtedly a little plain speaking as well as definite and resolute preparations for eventualities would have done much to prevent war. Forces are blind and superior to man, but war was made by man, and man sets the current that renders it inevitable; then, the same human energy directed at the right time and right place could have prevented it.

Nor was there in England the same anti-militarism which prevailed in France amongst a large section hypnotised by the engaging doctrine of high-minded theorists. There was no anti-militarism, for the reason that there was no militarism; England was not a military power. And thoughtful Frenchmen have been immensely impressed by the speed with which she became one. The unchanging England had become changed out of all recognition. I remember that when Rodin went first to England, he was struck by the eighteenth-century aspect of the people and their institutions. In the houses and in the streets he met types such as Gainsborough and Lawrence painted. Their clothes even had not changed, for though English women nominally wear French fashions, they individualise them and adapt them to their own tastes. And this friendly observer was constantly meeting in the unchanging women evidences of the eternal England in their classic features and fresh complexions, their dignified carriage, splendid shoulders and fine open countenances. Even the clothes—the broad hat and the use of scarfs and trinkets for the adornment of the person—signified the same thing.

And in military matters this faithfulness to the past was every whit as pronounced. The English Army was unchanging in its traditions, habits and customs, in its equipment and even in its names. As M. Germain Bapst, the French battle historian, has pointed out, the names of commanders remained unaltered from the Peninsular War and Waterloo to the Crimea. Men purchased commissions in the British Army until after the Franco-German War, and only a quarter of a century has elapsed since soldiers were whipped. In 1894 there were forty-six sentences of this sort carried out. There was little or no change in the army from the Crimea to the Boer War. Lord Roberts and Lord Kitchener were the two magicians who awakened England from her lethargy.

And then consider the continuity of tradition in the English regiments: they bear on their standards the names of the old victories, and their history and achievements can be traced for hundreds of years. Not so with the French regiments. Their identity has been lost in the shifting sands of the Revolution. To quote one instance: the Regiment of Piedmont, which existed in the time of Henry VIII, became a departmental regiment, then the Third of the Line, and then the Seventh—it is impossible to keep pace with its changes. Practically the history of regiments in France stops at the Revolution. That was the moment of great changes when everything was swept away and new principles established. England the immutable, France the fluid, enthusiastic, passionate, artistic, wildly given over to new ideas what singular destiny has brought the two together as comrades and allies on the field of battle in a union much closer than in the Crimea, where, however, Canrobert came to the same conclusion as Foch, who repeated the eulogium, at an interval of sixty years, to General Delannes, a former chief of staff: "Once the British Army has agreed to do something, the thing is done." The unchanging spirit, then, the bull-dog tenacity, that tremendous grip that never lets go—these British qualities blend and render powerful the Latin temperament, with its quickness of comprehension and adaptability. Slow to see a new fact, still slower to excite himself, John Bull is the ideal character to play the waiting game, that game of exhaustion of the war. The more wonderful, then, in the eyes of the French that he should have made so prodigious a military effort.

Eminent French military critics have dealt with all the phases of the movement for raising men, first by the old traditional system of voluntaryism, then by graduated processes of compulsion. The result was an army whose peer the world had never seen, either for the high training of the men or the quality of the equipment. Already in the Spring of 1916 the English artillery was more numerous than the French, especially in heavy guns. It is true that the shooting of those pieces was not as good as that of our Allies, and that the French sent instructors to coach the English in their own methods; but one need not be surprised that we had not immediately acquired the full science of artillery usage upon which the French have specialised for many years. In the strict co-operation of two armies of differing nationalities working together in the field there must be necessarily certain difficulties and differences, and it is certain that the French did not always comprehend our methods of fighting. The English "stick it out" is often opposed to their own notion of a judicious retreat. For instance, the "marmites" are falling fast upon the front-line trench; there is a danger of the trench caving in and burying its occupants. Realising the situation, the French withdraw their men to the second line—perhaps three hundred yards behind the other. The British, however, will not countenance this strategic move; they remain; their own flank is exposed. Two rival principles are here in play. Say the British: "Better remain in the trench, because, on the morrow, you must win it back again by a counter-attack which is a wasteful process." "No," say the French, "retreat in time and save your men; you can get it back at a less cost than if you stayed and ran the risk of being decimated by the big shells."

You may see, no doubt, much of the same spirit in the question of guarding or abandoning sections of the line which are difficult to keep. For instance, the French probably would have given up long ago the salient at Ypres, which the English maintained at a considerable cost, mainly for sentimental, at least, for moral reasons, whereas the French would have urged that there was a line behind that would have given a better and easier frontier to defend. None, however, can estimate the moral value to the French of the mere presence at their side of their old rivals and antagonists; and the effect of contingents arriving in France from far-off Canada and Australia, New Zealand and the Cape, has been quite extraordinary. Almost inconceivable, also, has been the material help that Britain has extended to her Allies. To France alone we have advanced £500,000,000, a wonderful achievement in itself, and we have also supplied unending stores of coals, steel, boots, clothing—material of all sorts.

Of the "poilu," too, I shall often speak, but you will never realise how big he is—this sometimes unlikely-looking man, hung about with pots and pans and cumbered with all sorts of strange impedimenta. And he is often a poet as well as a hero. I wish you could read the letters from him I have been privileged to see, written under the hail of bullets and in the thunder of the big guns. His courage and undying spirit shine through these tender communications which lose so much in the translation, which are untranslatable, in fact—for one cannot translate a perfume or a colour, nor can you put upon cold paper the complexion of a kiss. The "poilu" is peculiarly French in the mood and manner of his life, in his apparent slackness, in the speed with which he braces up at the proper moment, his disgust and objection to mere unintelligent parade, his amused disdain of the "panache," his admiration for and whole-hearted devotion to a man capable of understanding and drawing him out, able to appeal to the particular form of his patriotism, and to fire him with a holy zeal for a holy cause—to a man, in fact, who combines a species of apostolic fervour, a winsomeness and appeal, with the sterling qualities of a real leader of men. Of such men I shall presently speak—men who inspire devotion like Mahomet over his followers, men who bring out the spirituality of war—if so be that one is allowed to speak of its spiritual side. For amidst the awful wreck of war—the sufferings it entails, its thousand miseries, the break-up of the home, the desolation of hearths, and the abominations practised upon civilians by the drunken or cynical soldiers of the Kaiser—there are incidents, as great and as sublime as ever immortalised the saints and martyrs dying for their religion, suffering nameless tortures that, in their quivering flesh, they might represent, for ever, the sustaining power of God. Of such heroism, of such priceless sacrifice this war is full—so full, that one knows not where to begin, and certainly would not know where to end, in a recital of deeds of valour and of splendour, irradiating poor human nature with a glow of glory whose beams will reach Eternity. Yet this war, despite its horror, despite the fact that it has filled the streets of every big town in France with a melancholy line of cripples, of men hopelessly maimed, who must go through the remainder of their existence on this earth with diminished vigour, has taught lessons and inculcated warnings which must continue through the years to bear their fruit and point the way to the right road as well as constituting a danger-signal to national shortcomings.

"Quit yourselves like men." The war will not have been in vain if this lesson is laid to heart. Let us have no more cant; no more false sentiment; no more idle dreams and castles built upon the foundations of a civilisation that does not exist. If, after nearly 2000 years of Christianity, we have not learnt to love one another, let us not, at least, pretend we do—until we are awakened by a Hymn of Hate. The Peace of the future is to the strong, to the country that is alive to the menace of war, to the nation constantly vigilant, to a people standing to arms. France, with her woman's soul, clung to a belief in civilisation that should make war unthinkable. But the nations that emerge from this war will have lost their illusions; they will have grown old and wise, and perhaps a little hard. Yet, at least, they will have learnt to face facts; they will not cry Peace when there is no peace. No, the policy of the nations will be directed by hard facts; the horrors of the camp of Wittenberg are seared into our souls. Dreams and idealism must have no place in our national affairs; such pleasant pastimes bring too rude an awakening.