lines of Treitschke, Houston Chamberlain, and
Bernhardi, with novels and romances to illustrate side-issues, and the
Press playing martial music. The students and intellectuals began to be
infected; the small traders and shopkeepers were moved; and the
war-fever gradually spread through the nation. As to the artisans, they
may, as I have said, have largely belonged to the Socialist party--with
its poll of four million votes in the last election--and in the words of
Herr Haase in the Reichstag just before the war, they may have wished to
hold themselves apart from "this cursed Imperialist policy"; but when
the war actually arrived, and the fever, and the threat of Russia, and
the fury of conscription, they perforce had to give way and join in. How
on earth could they do otherwise? And the peasants--even if they escaped
the fever--could not escape the compulsion of authority nor the old
blind tradition of obedience. They do not know, even to-day, why they
are fighting; and they hardly know whom they are fighting, but in their
ancient resignation they accept the inevitable and shout "Deutschland
ueber Alles" with the rest. And so a whole nation is swept off its feet
by a small section of it, and the insolence of a class becomes, as in
Louvain and Rheim's, the scandal of the world.[7]

And the people bleed; yes, it is always the people who bleed. The trains
arrive at the hospital bases, hundreds, positively hundreds of them,
full of wounded. Shattered human forms lie in thousands on straw inside
the trucks and wagons, or sit painfully reclined in the passenger
compartments, their faces grimed, their clothes ragged, their toes
protruding from their boots. Some have been stretched on the battlefield
for forty-eight hours, or even more, tormented by frost at night,
covered with flies by day, without so much as a drink of water. And
those that have not already become a mere lifeless heap of rags have
been jolted in country carts to some railway-station, and there, or at
successive junctions, have been shunted on sidings for endless hours.
And now, with their wounds still slowly bleeding or oozing, they are
picked out by tender hands, and the most crying cases are roughly,
dressed before consigning to a hospital. And some faces are shattered,
hardly recognizable, and some have limbs torn away; and there are
internal wounds unspeakable, and countenances deadly pallid, and
moanings which cannot be stifled, and silences worse than m