were no less characteristic of her foreign policy than her vigilant care to eschew everything that might on any pretext be regarded as aggressive action. And all the time she was seeking to effect the fusion of her two great traditions: the tradition of Raison d'État' that had made her people the homogeneous organic entity it was, and the tradition of the Rights of Man,' which had made her one of the beacons of civilisation, shedding her light across the planet.

It is futile to speculate as to whether, even if chronic German meddlesomeness in the affairs of Germany's neighbours, and notably in those of France, had ceased, the future could conceivably have provided a balm for the troubled souls of Frenchmen, a consolation procurable at a less tragic sacrifice than that imposed by a Franco-German War. What is certain is that the war that Germany has forced upon the world has at last accomplished the fusion which all competent observers perceived was going on during the last decade. And it is not the least interesting aspect of the war that it has amalgamated the two Frances whose age-long struggle renders French history the most dramatic and the most human in the world-the France of the old Revolutionary ideology, and the France of a self-conscious idealism; on the one hand the France of the Marseillaise' and of the Revolutionary fêtes and of the 'immortal principles of 1789,' a France, that is, whose every action is tinged with disinterested emotion, for she knows herself to be fighting for Liberty and Justice and the freedom of peoples; and the France, on the other hand, which has rarely lost her European sense, a France which, from 1250 to 1648 (the Treaties of Westphalia), from 1648 to 1815 (the Treaty of Vienna), and from 1815 to 1870 had always, under her kings, deftly manoeuvred to prevent the unity of the German tribes, and to complete the task of Cæsar when he defeated Ariovistus by the creation and maintenance of a public law in Europe, rendering henceforth impossible the domination of any single State. The Revolution and the Empire, as Jacques Bainville has admirably shown in his 'Histoire des deux Peuples,' constitute a momentary break in the tradition :

'Into the subtle and complete network of the treaties of Westphalia, the Revolution introduced its unitary principle. Vol. 224.-No. 445.

2 D

By its propaganda it awakened in Germany the idea of nationality. By its brutal and excessive annexations, by the vexations of the war and the conquest, it made the peoples forget the pacific reign of French influence and civilisation, and engendered the craving for vengeance. It succeeded, in a word, in doing everything which it ought to have taken care not to do to further the union of the Germans against us, and to resuscitate for France the peril of a Great Germany.'

Whatever the witting or unwitting services rendered to German unity by the first Napoleon, it should nevertheless be remembered that he saw very clearly the danger of allowing Prussia to become too strong a Power. At Tilsit, in conversation with the Tsar Alexander and the King of Prussia, the great Emperor did not mince his words: It is part of my system,' he said, 'to weaken Prussia; I mean that she shall no longer be a power in the political balance of Europe.' A few weeks only after Fashoda, in November 1898, the greatest foreign Minister of the Third Republic, M. Delcassé, solemnly declared it to be his intention to reconcile France with all her Continental neighbours, and to make them one and all the friends of Russia, in order to deliver Europe from Prussian tyranny. The wish was Napoleonic; but it was, above all, ancien régime. Solemnly to conceive such a project was as fine an instance of French idealism as it would be possible to discover. Successfully to accomplish it within a period of less than seven years, to undo the work of Bismarck, as I have said, and to prepare the new Europe which has made it possible for France to resume her place at the head of civilisation, are achievements that will stand forth conspicuously, even in the incomparable history of France, for they will mark the epoch that they characterise with an ideal grandeur.

WM MORTON FULLERTON.

PENGE FUBLIC LIBRARY

Art. 6.-THE WAR AND THE POETS.

1. The Cliffs. The Clouds. By Charles M. Doughty. London: Duckworth, 1909, 1912.

2. Singsongs of the War. By Maurice Hewlett. London: Poetry Bookshop, 1914.

3. War Harvest: 1914. By Arthur K. Sabin. East Sheen: Temple Sheen Press, 1914.

4. Philip the King and other Poems. By John Masefield. London: Heinemann, 1914.

5. Battle. By Wilfrid W. Gibson. Mathews, 1915.

6. Swords and Ploughshares.

London: Elkin

By John Drinkwater.

London: Sidgwick and Jackson, 1915.

7. 1914 and other Poems. By Rupert Brooke. London : Sidgwick and Jackson, 1915.

And other works.

TENNYSON handsomely excused the poet in war-time. But indeed the most harshly practical mind would scarcely need to excuse the song that nerves a nation's heart.' It would not be unreasonable, however, before that line of argument was admitted, to ask to be shown such a song. Actually to 'nerve a nation's heart' must always be a quite extraordinary accomplishment for poetry. When the present war began it was expected, among other wonders, that a great outburst of patriotic poetry would accompany it. We certainly had the outburst; but history will scarcely find that the English temper owed much to the verses which the newspapers lavished on us. It was not altogether the fault of the verses. As the first bewilderment-a state not favourable to poetic influence-passed off, there followed a mood which did not at all require poetic influence; the tragic gravity of the time was sufficient in itself. What Mr Kipling said, with his trenchant symbolism:

"There is nothing left to-day

But steel and fire and stone,'

the nation already knew to be mere truth; and, in its heightened sense of itself, had already felt the thrill of his conclusion:

'Who stands if freedom fall?

Who dies if England live?'

Mr Kipling had once more spoken for his country. The gain was not encouragement, but expression. Thus it turned out that the very state of things which at first seemed likely to realise the ideal of Tennyson's phrase, made that realisation unnecessary. It seems to have been otherwise in Germany. There a nation, in a state not far off mesmerism, found itself profoundly responding, like an hypnotic patient to extravagant and ignoble suggestion, to Herr Lissauer's fiery rhapsody—a hymn which we may easily allow to be perhaps as good as poetry essentially insane can be. But indeed the occurrence in war-time of the electrifying song, the song that nerves a nation's heart, always depends, probably, less on the quality of the poetry than on the momentary psychology of the nation. If the nation needs electrifying, it will certainly find the song to do it; a sort of communal whimsy will decide on it. And it will probably not be a very good song; 'Lillibullero,' which is said to have been remarkably electrifying, may perhaps stand as typical. Tipperary' is about level with 'Lillibullero,' but is hardly a case in point, as its warlike significance is entirely accidental; it came from the ruck of musichall sentimentality, and had but the vaguest suitability in rhythm and feeling-the irresistible word Tipperary is doubtless the real secret of its success.

In short, this greatest of wars has not revealed to us any really Tyrtæan singer; and even Signor D'Annunzio, who evidently did wonders in Italy, found prose eloquence more to his purpose than poetry. No doubt we have had poems which accomplished something less than wholesale encouragement; and a poem which improves understanding or determination in the smallest fraction of the nation is not to be despised. But there is no reason why war-poetry, any more than other poetry, should be required to perform a specific function like encouragement; it may very well be merely expression. Patriotic poetry is, of course, a form of expression; it is expression polarised, so to speak, by a pre-determined purpose or morality; in fact, it is a kind-the highest kind of didactic poetry. But it is convenient for criticism, and the intention is sufficiently clear, if we assume a distinction between patriotic poetry and poetry which merely expresses the fact of the war in one of its aspects.

There is something very valuable in the latter sort of poetry. Poetic expression implies not merely intense apprehension of a thing; it implies also an apprehension which is by its very nature measured and firmly outlined. Limit and order and coherence are from the first the essential qualities of the thought which, by flowering into appropriate outward shape, becomes poetry. And precisely here is the value in poetic expression of the events and emotions that fill such a time as this. It is terribly likely that these events and emotions, when we are most conscious of them, are least submissive to mental control. Certainly it is most necessary that they should have power over our thoughts; but it is most necessary, too, that they should not abuse their power, by refusing their proper limits in thought, by throwing thought into disorder and incoherence. And, when poetry expresses them to us, they come to us not only in an intense realisation; it is a realisation that is, by its very nature, orderly and coherent; the essential manner of the realisation is shapely and continent and strictly outlined.

There has been an obvious assumption underlying this preface; namely, that poetry, to be worth discussion at all, must be good poetry. Our brief apologetics for warpoetry would not apply to a very considerable proportion of what has been printed as such. It would, indeed, be a futile industry to review the whole mass of versification for which the war has been responsible. Perhaps some German will do that for us when the war is well over, and deduce from it something wonderful and comprehensive. Here, however, the intention is only to review as much of the English war-poetry as seems likely to survive the tumult of its origin, with some slight mention of a few eminent failures. The review will not pretend to be exhaustive of our poetic successes; in sifting such an accumulation of verses, some successes may have been forgotten, and there may be some concealed. And among the compositions which are here ignored, there are certainly some which are not merely excusable, but laudable, in their spirit; it is only as poetry that they will not do. Mr Harold Begbie's energetic recruiting verses, for instance, very well served their