that gentleman of the German fleet-the Captain of the Emden-prevented the city from being the scene of a terrible carnage. His refusal to sink unarmed Vessels while the crews were on board, his refraining from bombarding the town, his stopping to pick up the crew of the Mosquet, although every minute was valuable to him, at once made him 'that gentleman, the Captain of the Emden.' On all sides you heard 'I hope they sink the Emden, but it will be a shame if any of her crew are lost.'

"While steaming away from Penang he met the tramp Glen. Instead of capturing her, he sent her into Penang with he message: 'I tried not to hit the I did so, I am very sorry, in

Well, he played the game,' and

as made me, for one, feel extremely whether the much-talked-of

rocities are true, except

agencies of war have made

ly have escaped. The range was everything they could have desired.

What was the matter? Why did they remain silent? The answer is this: Although it was a time of war, a large percentage of the officers of these ships had been allowed to remain ashore over night. Not one of the ships had steam up. Their decks were not even cleared for action. Yet, even taking this into consideration, it is inexplicable that, when two or three torpedoes from any one of them would have saved the day none was fired. The ships need not have moved an inch to have done so. The range was ridiculously short-less than 200 yards at one time. But surprise,

lack of discipline, and general inefficiency seemed to hold them paralyzed.

The prevailing opinion here is that they did not wish to draw the Emden's fire on themselves—although one did use her machine gun toward the end of the engagement. Whatever is said, however, it is impossible to get away from the fact that the French Navy yesterday sustained a blow to its efficiency that it will take a long time to wipe out. Theirs was a "masterly inaction" caused by something which they do not attempt themselves to define. Both army and navy commanders here are one in their contemptuous condemnation of such a spectacle.

B

EFORE it fades I would like to re

cord my impression of the Belgian soldier as I have seen him day after day through the two months ending with the fall of Antwerp. I have seen him on every kind of duty and off, on the roads, in cabarets, in camp and barrack, on the march, in trenches, fighting from behind all sorts of cover or from none, on foot, on horseback, on bicycles, mounted proudly on his auto-mitrailleuse, or running behind his gun-team of dogs, each dog pulling and barking as if it would tear the whole German Army to pieces. I have seen him wounded on battlefields, by the roadside, and in hospitals; I have seen him, in the later days at Antwerp, brought back from the forts and from those terrible advanced trenches unwounded, but from sheer exhaustion in almost more serious plight than any of his comrades whom the shells had hit. And I have seen him dead.

As a result there has grown up in me an extracrdinary affection for him. Greater even than my admiration of his

man.

careless courage is my liking for the For all his manhood he has so much of the child in him; he is such a chatterbox and so full of laughter, and never are his laugh and badinage so quick as when he has the sternest work on hand. Unshaven, mud-bespattered, hungry, so tired that he can hardly walk or lift his rifle to his shoulder, he will bear himself with a gallant gayety which, I think, is quite his own and is altogether fascinating.

As time goes on perhaps it will be the faces of the dead and wounded that will live most clearly in the memory, but at present the pictures of the Belgian soldier which stand out sharpest are less lugubrious and more commonplace.

I walked one day back toward Antwerp, along that awful road which ran by Contich and Waerloos to Waelhem. Daily along that road the German shells fell nearer to the city, so that whenever one went out to the place that he had visited yesterday he was likely to find himself disagreeably surprised. One day I found myself (I would not have been

N°

ORTHERN FRANCE, Dec. 20, 1914. This week-a week of many significant things has ended in the wildest whirl of weather imaginable. The rains have been terrific, blinding, tropical in their almost ceaseless roar and fury. Surely only madmen or fiends would fight in such an elemental maelstrom. We may be both, and perhaps we are, now that the whole world is topsy-turvy; for we are going savagely on at this dread business, half blind and wholly desperate. If the furious sky were to rain red-hot pitchforks the contending armies would still be undismayed and would crawl, if not fly, at one another's throats.

But there is no romance in trench fighting; it is sickening, demoralizing. Ask any soldier who has been at it for a time. He will pour a few plain truths into your shocked ear. Down at the railroad terminal today I met some of them a queer mixture. There was a batch of German prisoners; there was a squad of wounded Belgians, and there were four lost, stolen, or strayed British soldiers from the Seventh Division -a Sergeant and three men. They were all so plastered over with dirt that it was difficult to sort out their nationality.

What struck me most was their absolute and undisguised cheerfulness. I have lively recollection of the first German prisoners I saw in the early days of the war. They were in a gray funk, which is several degrees more sheer than a blue funk. They absolutely believed that the next moment or two would be their last on this woeful earth and that they would be shot out of hand.

The young Prussians I met today said that they had been having a very thin time recently; that their food was bad,

and getting worse and more scanty every day; that pneumonia and rheumatism were rife in their trenches, to say nothing of the dreaded typhoid, and that they were tremendously glad to be out of it all. They understood that they were going to England. Anyway, they hoped so fervently.

The Belgian soldiers were all slightly wounded, mostly in the legs and arms. The mud and slime of the trenches north of Furnes had not yet dried upon their sodden clothes. They were cold and benumbered and desperately hungry, for their train had been held up for hours while certain private and confidential military scene changing was going on. In spite of the pain their hurriedly dressed wounds were giving them they, too, were cheerful.

"We are in great heart," said one of them, "for we are moving on surely and certainly. This week something new has come to us. The knell of retreat no longer sounds in our hearts; the tocsin rings there instead. We are marching on; we are driving the barbarians back. Every inch of our motherland regained is sweet and precious to us. Three days ago I saw our King. He was as muddy and stained, Monsieur, as I am now. An officer who was with him wanted to remove the mud from his clothes. But no,' said the King, 'let it stay. If my own land clings thus to me, let it stay; it is better that it should be so,' and he laughed as he passed on. We all cheered him, and he laughed the more, showing a shining face and bidding us take heart, as a brighter day was dawning.

"So we went into the fight that evening, afraid of nothing. In rain and mist we charged a small village with a mighty shout. Though our numbers were small, we charged. We were beaten back, and then we charged again. My bayonet