e next great flash as of lightning whereby we saw the drama
of the past 365 days was that which revealed at its sublimest moment
the part played by France. In those evil days of July 1914, when German
diplomacy was carrying on the indecent pretence of quarrelling with
France about Austria's right to punish Serbia for the assassination of
the Archduke Ferdinand, there were Frenchmen still living who had vivid
memories of three bloody campaigns. Some could remember the Crimean War.
More could recall the Italian War of 1859, which brought the delirious
news of the victory of Magenta, and closed with Solferino, and the
triumphant march home through the Place de la Bastille, and down the Rue
de la Paix. And vast numbers were still alive who could remember 1870,
when the Emperor was defeated at Worth and conquered at Sedan; when
Paris was surrounded by a Prussian army, when the booming of cannon
could be heard on the boulevards; when tenderly nurtured women, who had
never thought to beg their bread, had been forced by the hunger of their
children to stand in long queues at the doors of the bakers' shops; when
the city was at length starved into submission, and the proud French
people, with their immemorial heritage of fame, were compelled to permit
the glittering Prussian helmets to go shining down their streets.

A new generation had been born to France since even the last of these
events, but was it with a light heart that she took up the gage which
Germany so haughtily threw down? Indeed, no! Never had France, the
bright, the brilliant, the cheerful-hearted, shown the world a graver
face.

A few students across the Seine might shout "A Berlin! A Berlin!" just
as our boys in khaki chalked up the same address on their gun carriages.
Idlers in blouses along the quays might scream the "Marseillaise." Gangs
of ruffians in back streets might break the windows of the shops of
German tradespeople. Some bitter old campaigners might talk about
revenge. But when the drums beat for the French regiments to start away
for Alsace and the Belgian frontier, the heart of France was calm and
steadfast.

"This is a fight for the right, for France, and for the freedom of our
souls!"

THE SOUL OF FRANCE

Then when the men had gone there came that anxious silence in which
every ear was strained to catch the first cry from the army. Would it
be victory or defeat? In the strength of her new-born spirit France was
ready for either fate.