ngland and France with one hand and the Russian avalanche with the
other, and, cut off from oversea trade and living on rations almost,
yet, to take but one of the first examples, maintain the art of the
theatre at a level which makes that of New York or London in the most
spacious time of peace seem crude and infantile, one is confronted with
a fact which a reporter in his travels must record--a force which, as
the saying goes, "must be reckoned with."

So far as the special business of keeping the war going is concerned,
this vitality, after seven months of fighting, in spite of those lists
in Dorotheenstrasse, seems ample. Here in Berlin, which is an all day's
express journey from either front, you see thousands of fit young men
marching through the streets, singing and whistling; you are told of
millions ready and waiting to go. Every one seems confident that
Germany will win--indeed, with a unity and resolution which could
scarcely be more complete if they were defending their last foot of
territory, determined that Germany must win.

When I was in London in the autumn a man who had made a flying trip to
Berlin said that the German capital made him think of a man with his
feet on the table smoking a cigar and pretending to be unconcerned
although he knew all the time in his heart that he was doomed. I find
little to suggest such a picture. The thing that at once impresses the
stranger, along with the apparent reserve strength, is the moral
earnestness behind that strength, the passionate conviction that they
are fighting a defensive fight, that they are right. I shall not
attempt to explain this here, but merely record it as a fact. Possibly
all people in all great wars believe they are right--and that is why
there are great wars.

Crossing the frontier from Rotterdam, I stopped for a day or two at
Cologne. The proprietor of the hotel, a typical, big, hearty German of
the commercial class, such as you might expect to find running a brewery
at home or a bank or coffee plantation in South America, came out of his
office when he heard English spoken. There are no "loose Englishmen" in
Germany nowadays.

"I suppose you are surprised to see the Dom, yes?" he laughed, pointing
toward the cathedral towers in whose shadow we stood. And then--"What
do you think about the war?" I asked him what he thought.

"Well," he said, and with the air of brushing aside what was taken for
granted before considering more do