only to a few can come
the opportunity. We all want to do our share, but it is only human that
we should at the same time long to be there in the great business of
the hour, to see war as it really is, to feel the thrill of its supreme
moments, perhaps in our heart of hearts to make quite certain that we
are not cowards. And when we return, what do we bring with us? We
all bring a few bits of shell, pictures of ruined churches, perhaps a
German helmet--and our friends are full of envy. And some of us
return with scenes burnt into our brain of horror and of pathos such as
no human pen can describe. Yet it is only when we sit down in the
quiet of our homes that we realize the deeper meaning of all that we
have seen, that we grasp the secret of the strange aspects of
humanity which have passed before us. What we have seen is a
world in which the social conventions under which we live, and which
form a great part or the whole of most of our lives, have been torn
down. Men and women are no longer limited by the close barriers of
convention. They must think and act for themselves, and for once it is
the men and women that we see, and not the mere symbols which
pass as coin in a world at peace. To the student of men and women,
the field of war is the greatest opportunity in the world. It is a
veritable dissecting-room, where all the queer machinery that
goes to the making of us lies open to our view. On the whole,
I am very glad that I am a mere surgeon, and that I can limit my
dissections to men's bodies. Human Anatomy is bad enough,
but after the last three months the mere thought of an analysis
of Human Motives fills me with terror.

Our boat was one of the older paddle steamers. We were so fortunate
as to have a friend at Court, and the best cabins on the ship were
placed at our disposal. I was very grateful to that friend, for it was
very rough, and our paddle-boxes were often under water. We
consoled ourselves by the thought that at least in a rough sea we
were safe from submarines, but the consolation became somewhat
threadbare as time went on. Gradually the tall white cliffs of Dover
sank behind us, splendid symbols of the quiet power which guards
them. But for those great white cliffs, and the waves which wash their
base, how different the history of England would have been! They
broke the power of Spain in her proudest days, Napoleon gazed at
them in vain as at the walls of a fortress beyond his grasp, and
against