Part 3

The Prussian Junker is the road-hog of Europe. Small nationalities in his way are flung to the roadside, bleeding and broken; women and children crushed under the wheel of his cruel car; Britain ordered out of his way. All I can say is this: If the old British spirit is alive in British hearts, that bully will be torn from his seat. Were he to win it would be the greatest catastrophe that has befallen democracy since the days of the Holy Alliance and its ascendency. They think we cannot beat them. It will not be easy. It will be a long job. It will be a terrible war. But in the end we shall march through terror to triumph. We shall need all our qualities--every quality that Britain and its people possess--prudence in council, daring in action, tenacity in purpose, courage in defeat, moderation in victory, in all things faith, and we shall win.

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It is a great opportunity. It only comes once in many centuries to the children of men. For most generations sacrifice comes in drab weariness of spirit to men. It has come to-day to you, it has come to-day to us all, in the form of the glow and thrill of a great movement for liberty, that impels millions throughout Europe to the same noble end. It is a great war for the emancipation of Europe from the thraldom of a military caste, which has cast its shadow upon two generations of men, and which has now plunged the world into a welter of bloodshed. Some have already given their lives. There are some who have given more than their own lives. They have given the lives of those who are dear to them. I honour their courage, and may God be their comfort and their strength. But their reward is at hand. Those who have fallen have had consecrated deaths. They have taken their part in the making of a new Europe, a new world. I can see the sign of it coming in the glare of the battle-field. The people will gain more by this struggle in all lands than they comprehend at the present time.

But that is not all. There is something infinitely greater and more enduring which is emerging already out of this great conflict; a new patriotism, richer, nobler, more exalted than the old one. I can see a new recognition amongst all classes, high and low, shedding themselves of selfishness--a new recognition that the honour of a country does not depend merely on the maintenance of its glory in the stricken field, but in protecting its homes from distress as well. It is a new patriotism. It is bringing a new outlook for all classes. A great flood of luxury and of sloth which had submerged the land is receding, and a new Britain is appearing. We can see for the first time the fundamental things that matter in life, and that have been obscured from our vision by the tropical growth of prosperity.

May I tell you, in a simple parable, what I think this war is doing for us? I know a valley in North Wales, between the mountains and the sea, a beautiful valley, snug, comfortable, sheltered by the mountains from all the bitter blasts. It was very enervating, and I remember how the boys were in the habit of climbing the hills above the village to have a glimpse of the great mountains in the distance and to be stimulated and freshened by the breeze which came from the hilltops, and by the great spectacle of that great range.

We have been living in a sheltered valley for generations. We have been too comfortable, too indulgent; many, perhaps, too selfish. And the stern hand of fate has scourged us to an elevation where we can see the great everlasting things that matter for a nation, the great peaks of honour we had forgotten, duty and patriotism, and, clad in glittering white, the great pinnacle of sacrifice pointing like a rugged finger to Heaven. We shall descend into the valleys again; but as long as the men and women of this generation last they will carry in their hearts the image of these great mountain peaks, whose foundations are unshaken, though Europe rock and sway in the convulsions of a great war.

RT. HON. DAVID LLOYD GEORGE

THE TRIBUTE

Not by the valour of Belgium, nor the lightning sabre of France, Not by the thunder of Britain's Fleet, and the Bear's unchecked advance, Not by these fears, Lord Kaiser, tho' they shatter a tyrant's lust, Is your heart most darkly troubled, and your soul brought down to the dust.

But by the great affirming of the lands we have knit as one; By the love, by the passionate loyal love, of each separate freeborn son. Canada cries, "We are coming!" and Australasia, "We come!" And you scowl that no Boer is rising at the beat of your German drum.

And the sons of Ind bear witness--"We have grumbled, but now no more; We have shared your plentiful righteous Peace, we will share your righteous War. Trust us to guard your Honour, one with yours is our breath; You have dealt us an even justice, we are yours to the gates of Death."

Here in these rain-swept islands where we fought for the things of peace, Where we quarrelled and stormed in factions, at a stroke all factions cease; And there in the vast dominions, more free than your Prussian lords, The women are shouting for England and the men are drawing their swords.

HAROLD BEGBIE _By permission of the Author_

EXTRACT FROM SPEECH OF LORD KITCHENER AT THE GUILDHALL

(_November 9, 1914_)

The British Empire is now fighting for its existence. I want every citizen to understand this cardinal fact, for only from a clear conception of the vast importance of the issue at stake can come the great national, moral impulse without which Governments, War Ministers, and even Navies and Armies can do but little. We have enormous advantages in our resources of men and material, and in that wonderful spirit of ours which has never understood the meaning of defeat. All these are great assets, but they must be used judiciously and effectively.

I have no complaint whatever to make about the response to my appeals for men--and I may mention that the progress in the military training of those who have already enlisted is most remarkable; the country may well be proud of them--but I shall want more men, and still more, till the enemy is crushed. Armies cannot be called together as with a magician's wand, and in the process of formation there may have been discomfort and inconveniences and, in some cases, even downright suffering. I cannot promise that these conditions will wholly cease, but I can give you every assurance that they have already greatly diminished, and that everything which administrative energy can do to bring them to an end will assuredly be done. The men who come forward must remember that they are enduring for their country's sake just as their comrades are in the shell-torn trenches.

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Although, of course, our thoughts are constantly directed toward the troops at the front and the great task they have in hand, it is well to remember that the enemy will have to reckon with the force of the great Dominion, the vanguard of which we have already welcomed in the very fine body of men forming the contingents from Canada and Newfoundland; while from Australia, New Zealand, and other parts, are coming in quick succession soldiers to fight for the Imperial cause. And besides all these, there are training in this country over a million and a quarter of men eagerly waiting for the call to bear their part in the great struggle, and as each and every soldier takes his place in the field, he will stand forward to do his duty, and in doing that duty will sustain the credit of the British Army, which, I submit, has never stood higher than it does to-day.

THE KAISER

"I am the Lord of War", he said, and bared His blade. "Dominion shall be mine alone." East, south, west, north, his clamorous bugles blared, His battle lines were thrown.

Then lo! the leopards of England woke from sleep, Roaring their challenge forth across the sea, And France's voice was heard in thunders deep, Calling on Liberty.

And Belgium sprang, alert, to meet the foe, And from her mountains Serbia sent her bands, And the great bear of Russia, growling low, Turned from his northern lands.

Far over land and sea the summons swept, And Canada, among her fields of grain, Threw down the sickle, caught the sword, and leapt, Shouting, across the main.

Australia, hasting from the southward, came; Africa, India, sprang into the fight. "Lo, Kaiser! here our answer to thy claim; Now God shall show the right."

Then he who drew the blade looked forth, and saw That ring of steel and fire about his throne, And knew himself at last, with trembling awe, The Lord of Death alone.

NORAH HOLLAND _From "Spun-yarn and Spindrift"-- By permission of the Author and J. M. Dent & Sons, Ltd., Toronto_

EXTRACT FROM DEBATE ON THE ADDRESS

(_British House of Commons, November 11, 1914_)

The Empire is on its trial. The experience of these three months not only encourages us to believe, but inspires us with the confident hope that the longer the trial lasts, and the more severe it becomes, the more clearly shall we emerge from it the champions of a just cause, and we shall have achieved, not only for ourselves--for our direct and selfish interests are small--but for Europe and for civilization, and for the great principle of small nationalities, and for liberty and for justice, one of their most enduring victories.

RT. HON. H. H. ASQUITH

THE CANADIAN

I never saw the cliffs of snow, The Channel billows tipped with cream, The restless, eddying tides that flow About the Island of my dream. I never saw the English downs Upon an April day, The quiet, old Cathedral towns, The hedgerows white with may.

And still the name of England, Which tyrants laugh to scorn, Can thrill my soul. It is to me A very bugle-horn.

A thousand leagues from Plymouth shore, In broader lands I saw the light. I never heard the cannon roar, Or saw a mark of England's might; Save that my people lived in peace, Bronzed in the harvest sun, And thought that tyranny would cease, That battle-days were done.

And still the flag of England Streamed on a friendly breeze, And twice two hundred ships of war Went surging through the seas.

I heard Polonius declaim About the new, the golden age, When Force would be the mark of shame, And men would curb their murderous rage. "Beat out your swords to pruning-hooks", He shouted to the folk. But I--I read my history books, And marvelled as he spoke.

For it was glorious England, The mother of the Free, Who loosed that foolish tongue, but sent Her Admirals to sea.

And liberty and love were ours, Home, and a brood of lusty sons, The long, North sunlight and the flow'rs, How could we think about the guns, The searchlights on a wintry cloud, The seamen stern and bold, Since we were hurrying with the crowd To rake the hills for gold?

But it was glorious England Who scanned the threatening morn. To me the very name of her Is like a bugle-horn.

J. E. MIDDLETON _From "Sea Dogs and Men at Arms"-- G. P. Putnam's Sons, New York. By permission of the Author_

TO BELGIUM IN EXILE

(_May 19, 1915_)

Land of the desolate, Mother of tears, Weeping your beauty marred and torn, Your children tossed upon the spears, Your altars rent, your hearths forlorn, Where Spring has no renewing spell, And Love no language save a long Farewell!

Ah, precious tears, and each a pearl, Whose price--for so in God we trust Who saw them fall in that blind swirl Of ravening flame and reeking dust-- The spoiler with his life shall pay, When Justice at the last demands her Day.

O tried and proved, whose record stands Lettered in blood too deep to fade, Take courage! Never in our hands Shall the avenging sword be stayed Till you are healed of all your pain, And come with Honour to your own again.

SIR OWEN SEAMAN _Reprinted by permission of London "Punch"_

A CHANT OF LOVE FOR ENGLAND

(This "Chant of Love", by a distinguished American poet, is a reply to Ernst Lissauer's notorious "Chant of Hate for England".)

A song of hate is a song of Hell; Some there be that sing it well. Let them sing it loud and long, We lift our hearts in a loftier song: We lift our hearts to Heaven above, Singing the glory of her we love,-- _England!_

Glory of thought and glory of deed, Glory of Hampden and Runnymede; Glory of ships that sought far goals, Glory of swords and glory of souls! Glory of songs mounting as birds, Glory immortal of magical words; Glory of Milton, glory of Nelson, Tragical glory of Gordon and Scott; Glory transcendent that perishes not,-- Hers is the story, hers be the glory, _England!_

Shatter her beauteous breast ye may; The spirit of England none can slay! Dash the bomb on the dome of Paul's-- Deem ye the fame of the Admiral falls? Pry the stone from the chancel floor,-- Dream ye that Shakespeare shall live no more? Where is the giant shot that kills Wordsworth walking the old green hills? Trample the red rose on the ground,-- Keats is beauty while earth spins round! Bind her, grind her, burn her with fire, Cast her ashes into the sea,-- She shall escape, she shall aspire, She shall arise to make men free: She shall arise in a sacred scorn, Lighting the lives that are yet unborn; Spirit supernal, Splendour eternal, ENGLAND!

HELEN GRAY CONE _From "A Chant of Love for England, and Other Poems"-- By permission of the Author and J. M. Dent & Sons, Ltd., Toronto_

"CANADIANS--CANADIANS--THAT'S ALL!"

(_April 22, 1915_)

The night of April twenty-second was probably the most momentous time of the six days and nights of fighting. Then the Germans concentrated on the Yser Canal, over which there was but one bridge, a murderous barrage fire which would have effectively hindered the bringing up of reinforcements or guns, even had we had any in reserve.

During the early stages of the battle, the enemy had succeeded to a considerable degree in turning the Canadian left wing. There was a large open gap at this point, where the French Colonial troops had stood until the gas came over. Toward this sector the Germans rushed rank after rank of infantry, backed by guns and heavy artillery. To the far distant left were our British comrades. They were completely blocked by the German advance. They were like rats in a trap and could not move.

At the start of the battle, the Canadian lines ran from the village of Langemarck over to St. Julien, a distance of approximately three to four miles. From St. Julien to the sector where the Imperial British had joined the Turcos was a distance of probably two miles.

These two miles had to be covered, and covered quickly. We had to save the British extreme right wing, and we had to close the gap. There was no question about it. It was our job. On the night of April the twenty-second we commenced to put this into effect. We were still holding our original position with the handful of men who were in reserves, all of whom had been included in the original grand total of twelve thousand. We had to spread out across the gap of two miles and link up the British right wing. Doing this was no easy task. Our company was out first and we were told to get into field-skirmishing order. We lined up in the pitchy darkness at five paces apart, but no sooner had we reached this than a whispered order passed from man to man: "Another pace, lads, just another pace". This order came again and yet again. Before we were through and ready for the command to advance, we were at least twice five paces each man from his nearest comrade.

Then it was that our Captain told us bluntly that we were obviously outnumbered by the Germans, ten to one. Then he told us that, practically speaking, we had scarcely the ghost of a chance, but that a bluff might succeed. He told us to "swing the lead over them". This we did by yelling, hooting, shouting, clamouring, until it seemed, and the enemy believed, that we were ten to their one.

The ruse succeeded. At daybreak, when we rested, we found that we had driven the enemy back almost to his original position. All night long we had been fighting with our backs to our comrades who were in the front trenches. The enemy had got behind us and we had had to face about in what served for trenches. By dawn we had him back again in his original position, and we were facing in the old direction. By dawn we had almost, though not quite, forced a junction with the British right.

The night of April the twenty-second is one that I can never forget. It was frightful, yes. Yet there was a grandeur in the appalling intensity of living, in the appalling intensity of death as it surrounded us.

The German shells rose and burst behind us. They made the Yser Canal a stream of molten glory. Shells fell in the city, and split the darkness of the heavens in the early night hours. Later, the moon rose in the splendour of springtime. Straight behind the tower of the great cathedral it rose and shone down on a bloody earth.

Suddenly the grand old Cloth Hall burst into flames. The spikes of fire rose and fell and rose again. Showers of sparks went upward. A pall of smoke would form and cloud the moon, waver, break, and pass. There was the mutter and rumble and roar of great guns....

It was glorious. It was terrible. It was inspiring. Through an inferno of destruction and death ... we lived because we must.

Perhaps our greatest reward came when on April twenty-sixth the English troops reached us. We had been completely cut off by the enemy barrage from all communication with other sectors of the line. Still, through the wounded gone back, word of our stand had drifted out. The English boys fought and force-marched and fought again their terrible way through the barrage to our aid, and when they arrived, weary and worn and torn, cutting their bloody way to us, they cheered themselves hoarse; cheered as they marched along, cheered and gripped our hands as they got within touch of us. Yell after yell went upward, and stirring words woke the echoes. The boys of the Old Country paid their greatest tribute to us of the New as they cried:

"Canadians--Canadians--that's all!"

HAROLD R. PEAT _From "Private Peat"--Copyright, 1917. Used by special permission of the Publishers, The Bobbs-Merrill Company_

FROM "A CANADIAN TWILIGHT"

Oh, to have died that day at Langemarck! To have perished nobly in a noble cause!

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For in the years to come it shall be told How these laid down their lives, not for their homes, Their orchards, fields and cities: "They were driven To slaughter by no tyrant's lust for power; Of their free manhood's choice they crossed the sea To save a stricken people from its foe. They died for Justice--Justice owes them this: That what they died for be not overthrown."

[A]BERNARD FREEMAN TROTTER _From "A Canadian Twilight and Other Poems of War and Peace"--By permission of McClelland & Stewart, Ltd., Publishers, Toronto_

FOOTNOTE:

[A] Bernard Freeman Trotter, Second Lieut. Eleventh Leicesters, was killed in action in France, May 7, 1917.

WE WERE MEN OF THE FURROW

We were men of the furrow, men of the hammer and spade; Men of the plain and the forest, children of commerce and trade; Men of the day and the distance; men of the mothering earth; Laying the lines of a nation nurturing fair from the birth.

Taking our freedom for granted, we, who had ever been free; Speaking the tongue of our fathers, confident, composite, we; Welcoming all in our borders, laying our wealth at their feet, Querying not of their motives, holding their honour complete.

Little thought we of the war-cloud, little of drilling and drill; We were for peace with our neighbours--peace (and a pocket to fill); Only one neighbour we counted, only one neighbour we knew; Him--though we watched him--we trusted; trusted, and felt he was true.

Proud of our flag and traditions; proud, but not boastfully so; Dreaming our dreams and our visions, planning the way we would go; Saying, "This task for to-morrow; life shall be clay in our hands; We shall be first of the nations, fattest and fairest of lands".

Then in the quivering heaven gathered the threatening wrath; We looked--and went on with our labours; heard, and replied with a laugh; Surely the world was for business; (list to the hammer and spade); Leave the war-lords to their lusting--on with our traffic and trade!

Then, in a flash, it was on us; blazed, and it dazzled our eyes; Then for a moment we faltered, suddenly sick with surprise; Next, by the blood that was in us, and a manhood not wholly undone, We were stripping the cloth for the khaki and dropping the spade for the gun.

What of the men of the furrow, men of the hammer and spade, Men without heart for the soldier, loathing his life and his trade? What? Let the enemy answer; he scoffed at our fighters, and then The flower of his finest battalions went down to our peace-loving men.

Well may the world read a lesson, well may it learn, and be wise; Not to the strong is the battle; not to the swift is the prize; Loud is the boast of the despot, clanking his nation in arms; _But beware of a peace-loving people when they sweep from their forests and farms!_

ROBERT J. C. STEAD _From "Kitchener and Other Poems"-- By permission of The Musson Book Company, Limited, Toronto_

DEVON MEN

From Bideford to Appledore the meadows lie aglow With kingcup and buttercup that flout the summer snow; And crooked-back and silver-head shall mow the grass to-day, And lasses turn and toss it till it ripen into hay; For gone are all the careless youth did reap the land of yore, The lithe men and long men, The brown men and strong men, The men that hie from Bideford and ruddy Appledore.

From Bideford and Appledore they swept the sea of old With cross-bow and falconet to tap the Spaniard's gold; They sped away with dauntless Drake to traffic on the Main, To trick the drowsy galleon and loot the treasure train; For fearless were the gallant hands that pulled the sweeping oar, The strong men, the free men, The bold men, the seamen, The men that sailed from Bideford and ruddy Appledore.

From Bideford and Appledore in craft of subtle gray Are strong hearts and steady hearts to keep the sea to-day; So well may fare the garden where the cider-apples bloom And summer weaves her colour-threads upon a golden loom; For ready are the tawny hands that guard the Devon shore, The cool men, the bluff men, The keen men, the tough men, The men that hie from Bideford and ruddy Appledore!