had passed in which
the British Empire had not been engaged in a war of some kind, but they
were wars waged somewhere in the outlands of the earth. To the
stop-at-home man in the street they were rather more matters of latitude
and longitude than battle, murder, and sudden death. The South African
War, and even the terrible struggle between Russia and Japan, were
already memories drifting out of sight in the rush of the headlong
current of twentieth-century life.

But this was quite another matter; here was war--not war that was being
waged thousands of miles away in another hemisphere or on another side
of the globe--but war within twenty-one miles of English land--within
two or three hours, as it were, of every Englishman's front door.

This went home to every man who had a home, or who possessed anything
worth living for. It was not now a case of sending soldiers, militia and
yeomanry away in transports, and cheering them as they went. Not now, as
Kipling too truly had said of the fight for South Africa:

"When your strong men cheered in their millions, while your
striplings went to the war."

Now it was the turn of the strong men; the turn of every man who had the
strength and courage to fight in defence of all that was nearest and
dearest to him.

As yet there was no excitement. At every theatre and every music-hall in
London and the great provincial cities and towns, the performances were
stopped as soon as the news was received by telegraph. The managers read
the news from the stage, the orchestras played the first bar of the
National Anthem, the audiences rose to their feet, and all over the
British Islands millions of voices sang "God save the King," and then,
obeying some impulse, which seemed to have inspired the whole land,
burst into the triumphant psalm of "Rule Britannia."

And when the theatres and music-halls closed, men and women went on
their way home quietly discussing the tremendous tidings which had been
officially announced. There was no attempt at demonstration, there was
very little cheering. It was too serious a matter for that. The men and
women of Britain were thinking, not about what they should say, but
about what they should do. There was no time for shouting, for
to-morrow, perhaps even to-night, the guns would be talking--"The
drumming guns which have no doubts."

The House rose at half-past eleven, and at ten minutes to twelve
Lieutenant Denis Castellan, came in