y mind there was left no shadow of a doubt that the Government
had to choose between war and revolution. On the 23d of May, 1915,
Italy declared war on Austria.

For ten months Italy, in the face of sneers and jeers, threats and
reproaches, had maintained her neutrality. Be it remembered, however,
that it was from the first a neutrality benevolent to the Allies. Even
those who consider themselves well informed have apparently failed to
recognize how decisive a factor that neutrality was. Italy's action in
promptly withdrawing her forces from the French border relieved
France's fears of an Italian invasion, and left her free to use the
half million troops which had been guarding her southern frontier to
oppose the German advance on Paris. It is not overstating the facts to
assert that, had Italy's attitude toward France been less frank and
honest, had the Republic not felt safe in stripping its southern
border of troops, von Kluck would have broken through to Paris--he
came perilously near to doing so as it was--and the whole course of
the war would have been changed. It is to be hoped that, when the
diplomatic history of the war comes to be written, the attitude of
Italy during those critical days will receive the recognition which it
deserves.

III

FIGHTING ON THE ROOF OF EUROPE

The sun had scarcely shown itself above the snowy rampart of the
Julian Alps when the hoarse throbbing of the big gray staff-car awoke
the echoes of the narrow street on which fronts the Hotel Croce di
Malta in Udine. Despite a leather coat, a fur-lined cap, and a great
fleecy muffler which swathed me to the eyes, I shivered in the damp
chill of the winter dawn. We adjusted our goggles and settled down
into the heavy rugs, the soldier-driver threw in his clutch, the
sergeant sitting beside him let out a vicious snarl from the horn, the
little group of curious onlookers scattered hastily, and the powerful
car leaped forward like a race-horse that feels the spur. With the
horn sounding its hoarse warning, we thundered through the narrow,
tortuous, cobble-paved streets, between rows of old, old houses
with faded frescoes on their plastered walls and with dim, echoing
arcades. And so into the Piazza Vittorio Emanuele--there is no more
charming little square in Italy--with its fountain and its two stone
giants and the pompous statue of an incredibly ugly King astride a
prancing horse and a monument to Peace set up by Napoleon to
comm