August Zb, 1915. 
LAND AND WATER 
" I wonder if they'll be made to sintj in German as 
weU." 
Now and again when I raised my eyes from my 
copy I saw Monsieur Hamel sitting still in his seat look- 
ing steadily at everMhing about him, as if he wished to 
carry away in that stare every bit of the little school- 
house. Think of it. For forty years he had been in the 
same place facing his yard and the same sort of a class. 
Only, the benches were polished and rubbed by use, the 
walnut trees in the vard had grown, and the hop-vine he 
had himself planted had twined about the windows as 
high as the roof. How it must be breaking the heart of 
the poor man to leave all those things and to hear his 
sister paltering about in the room above where she was 
packing up. For they were going away the next day, 
leaving the country for ever. 
All the same it was very brave of him to take our 
cla-ss up to the end. After writing, we had our history 
lesson ; then all the little ones said iheir ba, be, bi, bo, 
bu in a sing-song together. At the back of the room old 
Hauser had put on his spectacles and, holding his 
primer in both hands, was spelling out the letters 
with him. You could see how earnest he, too, was 
over it. His voice trembled with emotion, and it was 
so funny to hear him that we all wanted to laugh — and 
to cry. 
All at once the church clock struck twelve, then we 
heard the Angelus. Just tlien the bugles of the Prussians 
coming back from drill blared out under our windows. 
Monsieur Hamel, white as anything, got up from his 
chair. Never had he looked so tall. 
" My friends," he said, " my friends, I . . I . ." 
Something choked him. He couldn't finish the 
sentence. 
He turned roimd to the blackboard, took a piece of 
chalk, and wrote in as large and heavy letters as he 
could : 
" FRANCE FOR EVER ! " 
There he stood, with his head leaning against the 
wall, not saying a word, and motioned to us with his 
hand : 
" That is all . . . go." 
MILTON AS THE WAR POET. 
By S. P. B. Mais. 
IN time past it was commonly thought that the 
average soldier or sailor did not, in the common 
acceptance of the phrase, read at all. No greater 
error could be made. Any man bound on a dan- 
gerous mission is in far greater need of the stay 
and comfort that can only be derived from literature than 
the normal citizen. 
Everyone will remember the list of books that 
Captain Scott and his heroic crew took out to the South 
Pole. The choice was necessarily limited. What were 
the volumes which were read and re-read in those age- 
long days and nights of darkness, when no work was 
possible? " V'anity Fair" and "The Pickwick Papers." 
The " Junior Suljaltern " who has been delighting the 
hearts of thousands month by month in Blackwood's 
M-ogazine also gives outgoing officers invaluable tips as 
to what they will require in the trenches. " Above all," 
he says, " do not omit to bring your ' V'anity Fair ' and 
* Pickwick.' " I bethink me of those many letters that 
occupy the most sacred drawer in my study, those letters 
from absent friends in the trenches. One and all tell at 
different times of the joy and comfort derived from well- 
known chapters of great novels or from poems re-read 
with an insight into the meaning of life and death 
entirely lacking before. 
Shakespeare's appeal has been, of course, imiversal 
for three hundred years, but passages even from those 
choruses in " Henry V." which by constant repetition 
Iiad threatened to become hackneyed and meaningless 
have caused thrills of patriotic pride to surge through 
the minds of the least imaginative among us. But the 
most amazing part of this Renascence of Reading has 
been the re-discovery of Milton. It has been the fashion 
for many years to look upon " Paradise Lost " not (as 
Doctor Johnson boldly said) as a book which no nlan 
could wish to be Igoger. but simply as appallingly dull— 
in fact, unreadable. Now we find that this stern, cold 
patriot of the Commonwealth, by means of his magic 
gift of sonorous, majestic language, has transcribed for 
us exactly the life that is being lived in the trenches. 
Merely to dive at random into any of the earlier 
books of this poem is to find oneself arrested by a phrase 
which precisely describes what we, for lack of the right 
,'words, have been unable to visualise. It is worth while 
to give concrete examples of this. What picture of 
desecrated Belgium is so vivid as this? 
Seest thou yon dreary plain, forlorn and wild, 
Th« seat of desolation, void of light, 
8ave what the glimmering of these livid flames 
.Caste pale and dreadfuH 
Does not this exactly bring trench-life home to us? 
'Twiit host and host but narrow space was left, 
A dreadful interval, and front to front 
Presented stood, in terrible array 
Of hideous length. 
My next instance is almost uncanny in its aptness of 
expression : 
Deeds of eternal fame 
Were done, but infinite; for wide was spread 
That war, and various; sometimes on firm ground 
A standing fight; then, soaring on main wing. 
Tormented all the air; all air seemed then 
Conflicting fire. 
Here is a description of the ravage wrought by modern 
big-gun fire : 
Infernal flame 
Which, into hollow engines, long and round. 
Thick-rammed, at th' other bore with touch of fire 
Dilated and infuriate, shall send forth 
From far, witli thundering noise, among our foes 
Such implementa of mischief as shall dash 
To pieces and o'erwhelm whatever stands 
Adverse, that they shall fear we have disarmed 
The Thunderer of his only dreaded bolt. 
Soon obscured with smoke, 
(Flame) From those deep-throated engines belched, whose roar 
Embowelled with outrageous noise the air. 
And all her entrails tore, disgorging foul 
Their devilish glut, chained thunderbolts and hail 
Of iron globes; which, on the victor host 
Levelled, with such impetuous fury smote 
That whom they hit . . . down fell 
By thousands . 
. . . So hills amid the air enoOjpntereU bills 
Hnrled to and tlQ with jaculation dire. 
That unc?erground they fought in dismal .«hade; 
Infernal noise ! War seemed a civil game 
To this uproar; horrid confusion heaped 
Upon confusion rose. 
Then the following passage might almost have been 
written as an epitome of German ideals : 
To overcome in battle, and subdue 
Nations, and bring home spoils with infinite 
Manslaughter, shall be held the highest pitch 
Of human glory, and, for glory done. 
Of triumph tobe styled great conquerors. 
Patrons of mankind, gods, and sons of gods — 
Destroyers rightly called, and plagues of men. 
Thus fame shall be achieved, renown on earth. 
And what most merits fame in silence hid. 
I could multiply instance upon instance with the 
greatest easej there is no need to refer to " Sortes 
17 
