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its settlement-its precise terms are quite immaterial so far as any principle is concerned-is a natural finish to the diplomatic alarms and excursions which preceded it. Germany has well played her part in the diplomatic comedy, cleverly adapting her tone to the system of Notes and Queries adopted at Washington. In every case her procedure has been the same.

Whenever President Wilson has had any reason to fear that the small war party in America might be able to work upon the general temper of the country the German Government has played, parallel with the President, for time and prudence. Then, when the "crisis" had passed, Germany could again stiffen her knees, and the circle could begin afresh. For instance, now that the Lusitania "formula" has been found, another question is opened by a new Note from Germany, as to the arming of merchantmen. This takes the negotiating parties back to starting point.

It has yet to be driven home to a large proportion of the public that America at large looks upon this war in a totally different way from those educated Americans with whom we sometimes discuss the merits of the Allied cause in London or Paris. Our general misconception as to the American point of view is largely due to the fact that the Americans we meet in England or France today belong to that small section-the sensitive section-of the American public which is heart and mind with the Allies in their struggle with Germany. But the American nation is not at all likely to go to dire extremes simply because Mr. Henry James naturalized himself in Great Britain, or because there is an American ambulance in France, or because in August, 1914, there was a spontaneous feeling among certain Americans on behalf of Belgium, and a furious indignation with the Power which had

stealthily prepared to claim by force the hegemony of Europe. The section of the American public which regards the War as a crusade against a Government responsible for the sack of Louvain, the sinking of the Lusitania, and the Zeppelin raids upon England is not by any means a majority; and it is politically balanced by an opposed minority on the other side which is not really American at all, but a separatist colony of German immigrants. The bulk of America does not regard the War either as a crusade of the Allies or as a splendid German adventure. It regards it simply as an event which has closed certain markets to American trade and has opened others. The War, as a war, it regards as strictly a European affair. It requires of its President and representative that he should keep America out of it, and do his best for the interests of America.

This is a perfectly intelligible view. It is not a high or heroic view. It is not idealist or generous. It does not warm the blood like the view of our friend, Mr. Roosevelt and those Americans who would like to see their country playing a fine, historic part. We do not imagine that the unborn generations of America will thrill to read the Lusitania correspondence or that their hearts will beat a little faster than usual when they follow the adventures of President Wilson in search of a "formula"-a formula whereby a Power which will assuredly figure as Apollyon in years to come might suitably compound for the murder of American citizens.

Nevertheless, we really have no right to demand of America that she should play a lofty and quixotic part in European affairs, and we shall be well advised not to nudge or hint at America that it is her duty to be magnificent. America has a right to her own views and her own way of dealing with her own affairs. The only drawback to the particular form in which

President Wilson decorates the very practical and worldly policy of his nation is that it rather encourages people in England in their delusions as to the American point of view. The President has a gift for fine phrases, such as "We are a body of idealists, much more ready to lay down our lives for thought than for dollars." When he puts America's shrewd policy in this particular way the public in Great Britain tends to become a little confused. Perhaps it would be better if the public here, instead of pretending to understand the euphemisms of American public life, would fix their attention more particularly upon what the American Government has actually done in its dealings with Germany on the one hand and with ourselves on the other. President Wilson, pleading with his countrymen for armaments, is not our affair. We shall learn very little by making ourselves eavesdroppers upon American domestic politics. Our concern is with "Notes" addressed to the British Foreign Office and with the steps actually taken by America to protest against the murder of American citizens at sea. When we confine ourThe Saturday Review.

selves to these perfectly intelligible departments of American statesmanship, we find a constant evidence of its intention to keep America true to the letter of a strict neutrality. The bulk of America expects its President to keep the War well away from its doors and to obtain the best terms it can for its trade.

These are the facts, and it would be well if the British public agreed to accept them. Our grateful sympathy will continue to go out to those Americans who have made the Allied cause morally their own; and we may privately regret that a fine, historic opportunity to show a disinterested passion on behalf of an idea has been refused by a great and powerful nation. But these very natural feelings are no excuse for self-deception. It is time the facts were faced. America in bulk has come to the conclusion that she does not desire to pose heroically or to play the Quixote on behalf of a threatened civilization. She has tacitly agreed with friend and foe alike not to count morally in the Great War. It is for us simply to note her decision, and conduct ourselves accordingly.

THE ITALIAN FRONT: IN THE TRENCHES.

The Italians are more Spartan in warfare than most of their Allies. They have no barbers, bathrooms, beds, lounges, libraries or creature comforts in their trenches; practically no protection, just a long ditch, a heap of stones and a slender covering of brushwood. Sixty days without a wash or a change of raiment is nothing out of the common. One frugal meal a day is served with military punctuality. Hunger, however, they tell me, is not so great a tyrant as the perpetual thirst, which sets the whole body in an agony, rendering men insensible to the wounds LAVING AGE, VOL. II, No. 64.

and deaths of their best friends. They open their mouths to try and refresh themselves with a little icy air, and their mouths are immediately filled with burning earth. Blessed is the rain when it comes and fills a few pannikins, even though it dislodges the stone parapets and makes knee-deep mud and renders all the mountain paths like rinks.

In the trenches, everybody and everything is earth-stained. The dainty, gray-green uniforms have been soaked in slime ever since the Italian war began. The motionless soldiers look like

Yet

mummies or gaunt sacks of rags. The sky weeps, the trees shed frozen tears, the cannons groan, the bullets sigh. What heroism to maintain a stout heart in such a woeful atmosphere! the officers' great difficulty has been to restrain the exuberant joy of their men. Newcomers have always wanted to laugh and shout and sing under fire. It is only after long training that they learn that noise assists the enemy's aim, that silence (one of the first commandments of Cadorna's decalogue) is an essential of safety, that Machiavelli was right when he compared love with war because "their successes are best matured in silence."

When at last the sun does shine, all are instantly stimulated to higher spirits, though his appearance is always the signal for redoubled cannonades. Sometimes the great guns go on booming and reverberating along the valleys for days and days; then the rains and clouds come down and there is a silence that may be felt.

It affords a strange sensation to stand on some high place and watch the effect of a bombardment on the enemies' lines. You may see their trenches catching fire by spontaneous combustion, like fermenting ricks, and belching dense columns of smoke which circle slowly up towards the sky. Or else little white clots of cloud appear in rows above their earthworks, following one another like candles being lighted on some high altar.

The most famous of the Austrian defenses, which runs from San Michele to Monfalcone, has been dubbed by Italians trincerone, "the big trench." It was dug in zigzags, cemented and armored like a fortress, protected by a wide field of mines; having the shape of a horseshoe, it could rake both flanks as well as the front of an advancing force. In front of it was the most prodigious wire entanglement yet seen in the war, each wire being nearly

half an inch thick and defiant of any nippers, defiant even of ordinary cannon; the only way to uproot them was with big shell bursting a yard in front and exploding their strong foundations. Again and again, fruitless efforts were made to cut the wires. Two hundred volunteers rushed out and not one came back. Two hundred and yet another two hundred followed with the same result. To approach this almost impregnable battery, it was first necessary to cross the Isonzo, an exploit that will ever be counted among the most glorious of Italian warfare! Then the enemy flooded the intervening territory to put any further advance quite out of the question. At some points the floods were over six feet deep. But the Italians are of Napoleon's opinion that many things are difficult, but none are ever impossible. They opened sluices and closed dykes and soon reduced the flood to a quagmire, threw planks and bridges over it, and waded with mud up to their waists. Then, after three days of frightful artillery, they took the trincerone, Lord knows how, rushing it like demons, seeming to tear away the stiff wire work with their teeth, leaping the armored and cemented trenches, and bursting upon the affrighted enemy like a tidal wave.

The Italian method of trench defense is more deliberate and more efficacious than the Austrian. Orders are to reserve fire until the last moment. Not a breath, not a movement, not a sign of life until the Philistines be right upon them. Then an avalanche of flame from every rifle and every machinegun, a sudden holocaust of hundreds, followed by the surrender of thousands. In one such onslaught, by the irony of fate, it was found that every enemy wore an armlet inscribed "Nach Rom"!

The Austrian trenches are often only forty or fifty, their outposts fifteen yards away, and rough chaff is often exchanged between the opposing lines.

There are polite allusions to macaroni and mandolines and (for some cryptic reason) umbrellas from the one side; references to hounds, swine, barbarians, from the other; and Cecco Beppe, the contemptuous nickname for Francis Joseph, is frequently taken in vain. But the insults are usually good-humored. The stock conversation is for the Austrians to proclaim that they are on their way to Rome, and for the Italians to answer, "Perhaps, as prisoners."

The precision of Austrian artillery is certainly inferior to that of the Italian. Before a bombardment of Italian trenches from afar, the occupants of the front Austrian trenches are always withdrawn, lest they should be hit by their own side. But the Italian gunners are justly confident in their aim and clear away the enemy's hosts and trenches in front of a headlong Italian charge.

Most of the Italian trenchmen's time seems to be devoted to carrying great sacks of earth in every direction. They hug them even while trying to rush the Austrian lines, dump them down to form primitive cover when the fire becomes too hot, and sometimes empty them on the enemy's heads on reaching their trenches.

What has impressed me most about the trench life is the intense feeling of The New Witness.

brotherliness which it engenders between officers and men. This does not relax discipline. Indeed, the men do not respect or like an officer who does not know his own mind or fails to impose it. Meanwhile, they chaff, they jest, they are familiar, like sons or brothers in the presence of a beloved elder. And there is much voluntarism in their active service, though it has some drawbacks in practice. Call for ten men for a desperate enterprise and a couple of hundred offer themselves immediately; ask for men to dig trenches in comparative safety and all remain mute.

One might imagine that men of a nervous, high-strung, vivacious temperament would soon be overwhelmed by the endless monotony of the trenches, but the Italians have been so thoroughly galvanized by the intensity of their patriotism that nothing seems to damp their ardor. The only times I have seen human nature reassert itself among them has been when they were wounded. As soon as they were tucked up in hospital, they slept heavily for days. Their weariness acted as an anesthetic, and seemed to render them insensible to pain. They almost welcomed the wounds which had procured them the long forgotten luxury of bed.

Herbert Vivian.

FAST COLORS.

Under the bedroom window is one of the favorite shrubs of the whole garden-Spirea Anthony Wateri. The coral-like masses of salmon-pink blossom are a vanished picture of summer, as the bright pink opening of the leaves are a still more distant memory of spring. The leaves went green, performed their function, and fell off; the blossoms burned with love, and left behind them red-brown seeds. The

long, clean cane-like branches are in everlasting orange-bronze. The sunshine could not alter their color, nor can the driving rain of winter wash out a scrap of it. The live sap within keeps it blushing, and the more latent life of the seeds keeps the panicles that have replaced the blossom less bright, but quite unvanishing.

To the spirea bush comes every morning, as soon as it is light enough to

see, a little party of bullfinches. The hens are in a sober garb that brightens the red branches and seed clusters by contrast, but the gallant males are like bright blossoms on the tree. None could help remarking the cherry-red of their broad breasts, bright as the Lady Gay roses that once filled the pergola behind them. But the eye that has them for feast every morning, and almost at every hour of the day is never tired of picking out new details of their composite beauty, the exact masterly extent of their shallow blue-black caps matched in color by the tail and the tips of the wings, the gradual shading of the rose into the French gray of a purple cloud, the points of ivory where the bars of the wings peep through, the purity of the remote ventral surface, and the flashing recognition mark like that of summer swallows when the little troop flies off, and leaves the shrub alone in its quiet orange-bronze. Transient roses and lilies are well enough in simple splashes of color or form, but no touch of harmony or contrast is too much in the painting of a work that has to stand the rains of winter and cheer us through the dark season.

Some little villain has been digging up our crocus bulbs, betrayed by their green tips, and making food of them at the expense of a joyous March. One day we caught him at it, and had not the heart to slay him. In his fawnred jacket and white waistcoat, the field mouse keeps himself as clean and bright among the muds of winter as among wood anemones and blue-bells. Sometimes we see him high in a hedge feeding on the red haws or perhaps the first green shoots of the honeysuckle. He will not easily go down. It costs so much trouble to climb so high that he will dare purblind man a good deal further than he would on the flat. And so he makes, perched among the dark coral berries, a picture full of tiny unexpected details of beauty.

Nature works her fast colors into material far more delicate than fur and feather. No pattern is more fragile than the dusty mosaic of the butterfly's wing. The wind has but to touch it against a grass-blade, and it is scratched beyond repair. A week on the wing, even in May weather, destroys the freshness of the orange tip, and makes a dowdy insect of it. The blue butterflies of August are soon so faded from their original tints that we can scarcely tell one species from another. Even in the glazed seclusion of the cabinet, the beauties that belong to high summer are very little like what they were when caught fresh from the chrysalis. In the rude jostling of Nature, they are almost As evanescent as the rainbow and the sunset.

Nature has, however, some fast colors even for the scales of the butterfly's wing. On a fine day among these cold and wet and muddy ones, a butterfly may come out from a stone-heap or other unthought-of place, and flash back the rays of the sun with his best mirror. No scratch of the hard stone has disturbed the dainty down, no mildew, has tumbled it, no damp has ever darkened it. The pretty arrangement of hard, bright colors that make the small tortoiseshell, the red admiral, and the peacock the best-loved of all our butterflies, would mark them out as butterflies that hibernate, if we did not know that their family has almost a monopoly in this habit. There are brown-reds and almond-yellows and black and white, and a strongly blended scarlet, making a pattern almost indestructible while the thing they are painted on is intact, but also little decorations within the the picture: in violet and lemon, and other dainty tints commonly found to be ephemeral. They are used sparingly, their strong neighbors hold them up, and while the butterfly lives he sports his entire uniform.

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