I am reprinting here, in response to requests, certain recent experiencesin Great Britain and France. These were selected in the hope ofconveying to American readers some idea of the atmosphere, of "what it islike" in these countries under the immediate shadow of the battle clouds.It was what I myself most wished to know. My idea was first to send homemy impressions while they were fresh, and to refrain as far as possiblefrom comment and judgment until I should have had time to make a fullersurvey.
wistfully through his spectacles across the waters. Later, when twilight deepened, when the moon had changed from silver to gold, the orators gave place to a singer. He had been a bootblack in America. Now he had become a bard. His plaintive minor chant evoked, one knew not how, the flavour of that age-long history of oppression and wrong these were now determined to avenge. Their conventional costumes were proof that we had harboured them--almost, indeed, assimilated them. And suddenly they had reverted. They were going to slaughter the Turks.
On a bright Saturday afternoon we steamed into the wide mouth of the Gironde, a name stirring vague memories of romance and terror. The French passengers gazed wistfully at the low-lying strip of sand and forest, but our uniformed pilgrims crowded the rail and hailed it as the promised land of self-realization. A richly coloured watering-place slid into view, as in a moving-picture show. There was, indeed, all the reality and unreality of the cinematograph
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