But I've seen that reel three times, and every time the dead man
in the gutter laughed."
"CHANTONS, BELGES! CHANTONS!"
Here at home I am in a land where the wholesale martyrdom of Belgium is
regarded as of doubtful authenticity. We who have witnessed widespread
atrocities are subjected to a critical process as cold as if we were
advancing a new program of social reform. I begin to wonder if anything
took place in Flanders. Isn't the wreck of Termonde, where I thought I
spent two days, perhaps a figment of the fancy? Was the bayoneted girl
child of Alost a pleasant dream creation? My people are busy and
indifferent, generous and neutral, but yonder several races are living
at a deeper level. In a time when beliefs are held lightly, with tricky
words tearing at old values, they have recovered the ancient faiths of
the race. Their lot, with all its pain, is choicer than ours. They at
least have felt greatly and thrown themselves into action. It is a stern
fight that is on in Europe, and few of our countrymen realize it is our
fight that the Allies are making.
Europe has made an old discovery. The Greek Anthology has it, and the
ballads, but our busy little merchants and our clever talkers have never
known it. The best discovery a man can make is that there is something
inside him bigger than his fear, a belief in something more lasting than
his individual life.
Pages:
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95