tead of blaming the recklessness
of those who allowed Europe to be enkindled. And there used to be some
who could not forget Serbia's dynastic history. But that has been
forgiven, and Serbia has purchased a good name by a shedding of blood
and a national unhappiness unparalleled in the war. People said,
"Serbia is no more, Serbia can never be again." Yet after complete
loss of country to the most malevolent of foes, and after the agony of
Corfu, behold still Serbia fighting. And was it not the vigour of
Serbia's reconstituted army in 1918 which, under Misio and a French
Marshal, struck the critical blow at the Bulgar which ruined the whole
German confederation--brought about the surrender of Bulgaria and
Austria, and led infallibly to the Armistice! Whatever happens in the
new political turmoil, Serbia has won our admiration and gratitude in
the West.

The impression which one obtains in passing through the towns and
villages of Macedonia is very painful. Ghevgeli, on the Greek
frontier, and such places, remind one of the shattered areas of Western
Europe. You realize, if you did not do so before, that the deadly
disease of war ravaged this empty country as greedily as it did the
fullness of Flanders and France. Ruin stares from thousands of lost
homes, and from many you realize the inhabitants have been destroyed
also. There is recovery. Like convalescent maimed creatures, Skoplye
and Nish creep into the sunlight and show signs of animation. Not
nearly so many fields are ploughed as in Bulgaria. Why? Because the
labouring hands are lost. You see many jolly, laughing Turks in
Skoplye. They can laugh. Their manhood survives plentifully, but
death has gleaned in every Serbian family down there. The trains go at
a snail's pace through Serbia. One day we went all day and part of the
night at an average of five kilometres the hour. In Bulgaria and
Greece the trains go slowly, but they are express compared with the
trains from Ghevgeli to Skoplye. The reason is because the permanent
way has been almost ruined and will need years of work upon it, and all
bridges have been blown up. The train halts now and then, and then
most fearfully budges forward, scarcely moves, budges, budges upon
temporary wooden structures of bridges, and the workmen down below seem
veritably holding the bridges up whilst the trains go over them.

You stop hours at little villages, the exhausted and damaged engines
surrendered to