ocent mirth as a child and laid his head down on the block with
a jest. Let us keep our course by the stars, by all means, but the
immediate tasks are much nearer than the stars--

The charities that soothe and heal and bless
Are scattered all about our feet--like flowers.

It is just this frightful gravity of the German mind that has made them
mad. They haven't learned to play; they haven't learned to laugh at
themselves. Their sombre religion has passed into a sombre irreligion. They
have grown gross without growing light-hearted. The spiritual battle song
of Luther has become a material battle song, and "the safe stronghold" is
no longer the City of God but the City of Krupp. They have neither the
splendid intellectual sanity of the French, nor the homely humour of the
English. It is this homely humour that has puzzled Europe. It has puzzled
the French as much as the Germans, for the French genius is declamatory and
needs the inspiration of ideas and great passions greatly stated. It was
assumed that, because the British soldier sang "Tipperary," moved in an
atmosphere of homely fun, indulged in no heroics, never talked of "glory,"
rarely of patriotism or the Fatherland, and only joked about "the flag,"
there was no great passion in him. Some of our frenzied people at home have
the same idea. They still believe we are a nation of "slackers" because we
don't shriek with them.

The truth, of course, is that the English spirit is distrustful of emotion
and display. It is ashamed of making "a fuss" and hates heroics. The
typical Englishman hides his feelings even from his family, clothes his
affections under a mask of indifference, and cracks a joke to avoid "making
a fool of himself." It is not that he is without great passions, but that
he does not like talking about them. He is too self-conscious to trust his
tongue on such big themes. He might "make an exhibition of himself," and he
dreads that above all things. This habit of reticence has its unlovely
side; but it has great virtues too. It keeps the mind cool and practical
and the atmosphere commonplace and good-humoured. It gives reserves of
strength that people who live on their "top notes" have not got. It goes on
singing "Tipperary" as though it had no care in life and no interest in
ideas or causes. And then the big moment comes and the great passion that
has been kept in such shamefaced secrecy blazes out in deeds as glorious as
any that were done on