English developments. Upon almost any question of current
English opinion and upon most current English social questions, the
best studies are in French. But there has been little or no reciprocal
activity. The English in France seem to confine their French studies to
_La Vie Parisienne._ It is what they have been led to expect of French
literature.

There can be no doubt in any reasonable mind that this war is binding
France and England very closely together. They dare not quarrel for the
next fifty years. They are bound to play a central part in the World
League for the Preservation of Peace that must follow this struggle.
There is no question of their practical union. It is a thing that must
be. But it is remarkable that while the French mind is agog to apprehend
every fact and detail it can about the British, to make the wisest
and fullest use of our binding necessities, that strange English
"incuria"--to use the new slang--attains to its most monumental in this
matter.

So there is not much to say about how the British think about the
French. They do not think. They feel. At the outbreak of the war, when
the performance of France seemed doubtful, there was an enormous feeling
for France in Great Britain; it was like the formless feeling one has
for a brother. It was as if Britain had discovered a new instinct. If
France had crumpled up like paper, the English would have fought on
passionately to restore her. That is ancient history now. Now the
English still feel fraternal and fraternally proud; but in a mute way
they are dazzled. Since the German attack on Verdun began, the French
have achieved a crescendo. None of us could have imagined it. It did not
seem possible to very many of us at the end of 1915 that either France
or Germany could hold on for another year. There was much secret
anxiety for France. It has given place now to unstinted confidence and
admiration. In their astonishment the British are apt to forget the
impressive magnitude of their own effort, the millions of soldiers, the
innumerable guns, the endless torrent of supplies that pour into France
to avenge the little army of Mons. It seems natural to us that we should
so exert ourselves under the circumstances. I suppose it is wonderful,
but, as a sample Englishman, I do not feel that it is at all wonderful.
I did not feel it wonderful even when I saw the British aeroplanes
lording it in the air over Martinpuich, and not a German to be seen.
Si