ities of my own race, with something like a foreigner's eyes, and
realized the strength of our racial character. It was good to see the
physique of these men, with their clear-cut English faces, and their
fine easy swagger, utterly unconscious and unaffected, due to having
played all manner of games since early boyhood, so that their athletic
build was not spoilt by deliberate development.

And I gave homage to them because of the perfect cut and
equipment of their uniforms, so neat and simple, and workmanlike for
the job of war. Only Englishmen could look so well in these clothes.
And even in these French towns I saw the influence of English school
life and of all our social traditions standing clear-cut against the
temperament of another nation with different habits and ideals. They
were confident without any demonstrative sign that they were
superior beings destined by God, or the force of fate, to hold the
fullest meaning of civilization. They were splendidly secure in this
faith, not making a brag of it, not alluding to it, but taking it for
granted, just as they had taken for granted their duty to come
out to France and die if that were destined.

And studying them, at cafe tables, at the base, or in their depots, I
acknowledged that, broadly, they were right. In spite of an
extraordinary ignorance of art and letters (speaking of the great
majority), in spite of ideas stereotyped by the machinery of their
schools and universities, so that one might know precisely their
attitude to such questions as social reform, internationalism, Home
Rule for Ireland, or the Suffragettes--any big problem demanding
freedom of thought and un-conventionality of discussion--it was
impossible to resist the conviction that these officers of the British
army have qualities, supreme of their kind, which give a mastery to
men. Their courage was not a passion, demanding rage or religious
fervour, or patriotic enthusiasm, for its inspiration. It was the very law
of their life, the essential spirit in them. They were unconscious of it as
a man is unconscious of breathing, unless diseased. Their honour
was not a thing to talk about. To prate about the honour of the army
or the honour of England was like talking about the honour of their
mother. It is not done. And yet, as Mark Antony said, "They were all
honourable men," and there seemed an austerity of virtue in them
which no temptation would betray--the virtue of men who have a code
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