{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_14044/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_14044","id":"gutenberg_14044","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/14044","summary":null,"tags":["Category: British Literature","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Science-Fiction & Fantasy","Category: Short Stories","Paranormal fiction","Supernatural -- Fiction","War stories, English","World War I","World War, 1914-1918 -- Fiction"],"text":"THE ANGELS OF MONS\n\nThe Bowmen and Other Legends of the War\n\nby\n\nARTHUR MACHEN\n\n1915\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nIntroduction\n\nI have been asked to write an introduction to the story of \"The\nBowmen\", on its publication in book form together with three other\ntales of similar fashion. And I hesitate. This affair of \"The Bowmen\"\nhas been such an odd one from first to last, so many queer\ncomplications have entered into it, there have been so many and so\ndivers currents and cross-currents of rumour and speculation\nconcerning it, that I honestly do not know where to begin. I propose,\nthen, to solve the difficulty by apologising for beginning at all.\n\nFor, usually and fitly, the presence of an introduction is held to\nimply that there is something of consequence and importance to be\nintroduced. If, for example, a man has made an anthology of great\npoetry, he may well write an introduction justifying his principle of\nselection, pointing out here and there, as the spirit moves him, high\nbeauties and supreme excellencies, discoursing of the magnates and\nlords and princes of literature, whom he is merely serving as groom of\nthe chamber. Introductions, that is, belong to the masterpieces and\nclassics of the world, to the great and ancient and accepted things;\nand I am here introducing a short, small story of my own which\nappeared in _The Evening News_ about ten months ago.\n\nI appreciate the absurdity, nay, the enormity of the position in all\nits grossness. And my excuse for these pages must be this: that though\nthe story itself is nothing, it has yet had such odd and unforeseen\nconsequences and adventures that the tale of them may possess some\ninterest. And then, again, there are certain psychological morals to\nbe drawn from the whole matter of the tale and its sequel of rumours\nand discussions that are not, I think, devoid of consequence; and so\nto begin at the beginning.\n\n\n\nThis was in last August, to be more precise, on the last Sunday of\nlast August. There were terrible things to be read on that hot Sunday\nmorning between meat and mass. It was in _The Weekly Dispatch_ that I\nsaw the awful account of the retreat from Mons. I no longer recollect\nthe details; but I have not forgotten the impression that was then on\nmy mind, I seemed to see a furnace of torment and death and agony and\nterror seven times heated, and in the midst of the burning was the\nBritish Army. In the midst of the flame, consumed by it and yet\naureoled in it, scattered like ashes and yet triumphant, martyred and\nfor ever glorious. So I saw our men with a shining about them, so I\ntook these thoughts with me to church, and, I am sorry to say, was\nmaking up a story in my head while the deacon was singing the Gospel.\n\nThis was not the tale of \"The Bowmen\". It was the first sketch, as it\nwere, of \"The Soldiers' Rest\". I only wish I had been able to write it\nas I conceived it. The tale as it stands is, I think, a far better\npiece of craft than \"The Bowmen\", but the tale that came to me as the\nblue incense floated above the Gospel Book on the desk between the\ntapers: that indeed was a noble story--like all the stories that never\nget written. I conceived the dead men coming up through the flames and\nin the flames, and being welcomed in the Eternal Tavern with songs and\nflowing cups and everlasting mirth. But every man is the child of his\nage, however much he may hate it; and our popular religion has long\ndetermined that jollity is wicked. As far as I can make out modern\nProtestantism believes that Heaven is something like Evensong in an\nEnglish cathedral, the service by Stainer and the Dean preaching. For\nthose opposed to dogma of any kind--even the mildest--I suppose it is\nheld that a Course of Ethical Lectures will be arranged.\n\nWell, I have long maintained that on the whole the average church,\nconsidered as a house of preaching, is a much more poisonous place\nthan the average tavern; still, as I say, one's age masters one, and\nclouds and bewilders the intelligence, and the real story of \"The\nSoldiers' Rest\", with its \"sonus epulantium in \u00e6terno convivio\", was\nruined at the moment of its birth, and it was some time later that the\nactual story got written. And in the meantime the plot of \"The Bowmen\"\noccurred to me. Now it has been murmured and hinted and suggested and\nwhispered in all sorts of quarters that before I wrote the tale I had\nheard something. The most decorative of these legends is also the most\nprecise: \"I know for a fact that the whole thing was given him in\ntypescript by a lady-in-waiting.\" This was not the case; and all\nvaguer reports to the effect that I had heard some rumours or hints of\nrumours are equally void of any trace of truth.\n\nAgain I apologise for entering so pompously into the minuti\u00e6 of my bit\nof a story, as if it were the lost poems of Sappho; but it appears\nthat the subject interests the public, and I comply with my\ninstructions. I take it, then, that the origins of \"The Bowmen\" were\ncomposite. First of all, all ages and nations have cherished the\nthought that spiritual hosts may come to the help of earthly arms,\nthat gods and heroes and saints have descended from their high\nimmortal places to fight for their worshippers and clients. Then\nKipling's story of the ghostly Indian regiment got in my head and got\nmixed with the medi\u00e6valism that is always there; and so \"The Bowmen\"\nwas written. I was heartily disappointed with it, I remember, and\nthought it--as I still think it--an indifferent piece of work.\nHowever, I have tried to write for these thirty-five long years, and\nif I have not become practised in letters, I am at least a past master\nin the Lodge of Disappointment. Such as it was, \"The Bowmen\" appeared\nin _The Evening News_ of September 29th, 1914.\n\nNow the journalist does not, as a rule, dwell much on the prospect of\nfame; and if he be an evening journalist, his anticipations of\nimmortality are bounded by twelve o'clock at night at the latest; and\nit may well be that those insects which begin to live in the morning\nand are dead by sunset deem themselves immortal. Having written my\nstory, having groaned and growled over it and printed it, I certainly\nnever thought to hear another word of it. My colleague \"The Londoner\"\npraised it warmly to my face, as his kindly fashion is; entering, very\nproperly, a technical caveat as to the language of the battle-cries of\nthe bowmen. \"Why should English archers use French terms?\" he said. I\nreplied that the only reason was this--that a \"Monseigneur\" here and\nthere struck me as picturesque; and I reminded him that, as a matter\nof cold historical fact, most of the archers of Agincourt were\nmercenaries from Gwent, my native country, who would appeal to\nMihangel and to saints not known to the Saxons--Teilo, Iltyd, Dewi,\nCadwaladyr Vendigeid. And I thought that that was the first and last\ndiscussion of \"The Bowmen\". But in a few days from its publication the\neditor of _The Occult Review_ wrote to me. He wanted to know whether\nthe story had any foundation in fact. I told him that it had no\nfoundation in fact of any kind or sort; I forget whether I added that\nit had no foundation in rumour but I should think not, since to the\nbest of my belief there were no rumours of heavenly interposition in\nexistence at that time. Certainly I had heard of none. Soon afterwards\nthe editor of _Light_ wrote asking a like question, and I made him a\nlike reply. It seemed to me that I had stifled any \"Bowmen\" mythos in\nthe hour of its birth.\n\nA month or two later, I received several requests from editors of\nparish magazines to reprint the story. I--or, rather, my editor--\nreadily gave permission; and then, after another month or two, the\nconductor of one of these magazines wrote to me, saying that the\nFebruary issue containing the story had been sold out, while there was\nstill a great demand for it. Would I allow them to reprint \"The\nBowmen\" as a pamphlet, and would I write a short preface giving the\nexact authorities for the story? I replied that they might reprint in\npamphlet form with all my heart, but that I could not give my\nauthorities, since I had none, the tale being pure invention. The\npriest wrote again, suggesting--to my amazement--that I must be\nmistaken, that the main \"facts\" of \"The Bowmen\" must be true, that my\nshare in the matter must surely have been confined to the elaboration\nand decoration of a veridical history. It seemed that my light fiction\nhad been accepted by the congregation of this particular church as the\nsolidest of facts; and it was then that it began to dawn on me that if\nI had failed in the art of letters, I had succeeded, unwittingly, in\nthe art of deceit. This happened, I should think, some time in April,\nand the snowball of rumour that was then set rolling has been rolling\never since, growing bigger and bigger, till it is now swollen to a\nmonstrous size.\n\nIt was at about this period that variants of my tale began to be told\nas authentic histories. At first, these tales betrayed their relation\nto their original. In several of them the vegetarian restaurant\nappeared, and St. George was the chief character. In one case an\nofficer--name and address missing--said that there was a portrait of\nSt. George in a certain London restaurant, and that a figure, just\nlike the portrait, appeared to him on the battlefield, and was invoked\nby him, with the happiest results. Another variant--this, I think,\nnever got into print--told how dead Prussians had been found on the\nbattlefield with arrow wounds in their bodies. This notion amused me,\nas I had imagined a scene, when I was thinking out the story, in which\na German general was to appear before the Kaiser to explain his\nfailure to annihilate the English.\n\n\"All-Highest,\" the general was to say, \"it is true, it is impossible\nto deny it. The men were killed by arrows; the shafts were found in\ntheir bodies by the burying parties.\"\n\nI rejected the idea as over-precipitous even for a mere fantasy. I was\ntherefore entertained when I found that what I had refused as too\nfantastical for fantasy was accepted in certain occult circles as hard\nfact.\n\nOther versions of the story appeared in which a cloud interposed\nbetween the attacking Germans and the defending British. In some\nexamples the cloud served to conceal our men from the advancing enemy;\nin others, it disclosed shining shapes which frightened the horses of\nthe pursuing German cavalry. St. George, it will he noted, has\ndisappeared--he persisted some time longer in certain Roman Catholic\nvariants--and there are no more bowmen, no more arrows. But so far\nangels are not mentioned; yet they are ready to appear, and I think\nthat I have detected the machine which brought them into the story.\n\nIn \"The Bowmen\" my imagined soldier saw \"a long line of shapes, with a\nshining about them.\" And Mr. A.P. Sinnett, writing in the May issue of\n_The Occult Review_, reporting what he had heard, states that \"those\nwho could see said they saw 'a row of shining beings' between the two\narmies.\" Now I conjecture that the word \"shining\" is the link between\nmy tale and the derivative from it. In the popular view shining and\nbenevolent supernatural beings are angels, and so, I believe, the\nBowmen of my story have become \"the Angels of Mons.\" In this shape\nthey have been received with respect and credence everywhere, or\nalmost everywhere.\n\nAnd here, I conjecture, we have the key to the large popularity of the\ndelusion--as I think it. We have long ceased in England to take much\ninterest in saints, and in the recent revival of the cultus of St.\nGeorge, the saint is little more than a patriotic figurehead. And the\nappeal to the saints to succour us is certainly not a common English\npractice; it is held Popish by most of our countrymen. But angels,\nwith certain reservations, have retained their popularity, and so,\nwhen it was settled that the English army in its dire peril was\ndelivered by angelic aid, the way was clear for general belief, and\nfor the enthusiasms of the religion of the man in the street. And so\nsoon as the legend got the title \"The Angels of Mons\" it became\nimpossible to avoid it. It permeated the Press: it would not be\nneglected; it appeared in the most unlikely quarters--in _Truth_ and\n_Town Topics_, _The New Church Weekly_ (Swedenborgian) and _John\nBull_. The editor of _The Church Times_ has exercised a wise reserve:\nhe awaits that evidence which so far is lacking; but in one issue of\nthe paper I noted that the story furnished a text for a sermon, the\nsubject of a letter, and the matter for an article. People send me\ncuttings from provincial papers containing hot controversy as to the\nexact nature of the appearances; the \"Office Window\" of _The Daily\nChronicle_ suggests scientific explanations of the hallucination; the\n_Pall Mall_ in a note about St. James says he is of the brotherhood of\nthe Bowmen of Mons--this reversion to the bowmen from the angels being\npossibly due to the strong statements that I have made on the matter.\nThe pulpits both of the Church and of Non-conformity have been busy:\nBishop Welldon, Dean Hensley Henson (a disbeliever), Bishop Taylor\nSmith (the Chaplain-General), and many other clergy have occupied\nthemselves with the matter. Dr. Horton preached about the \"angels\" at\nManchester; Sir Joseph Compton Rickett (President of the National\nFederation of Free Church Councils) stated that the soldiers at the\nfront had seen visions and dreamed dreams, and had given testimony of\npowers and principalities fighting for them or against them. Letters\ncome from all the ends of the earth to the Editor of _The Evening\nNews_ with theories, beliefs, explanations, suggestions. It is all\nsomewhat wonderful; one can say that the whole affair is a\npsychological phenomenon of considerable interest, fairly comparable\nwith the great Russian delusion of last August and September.\n\n\n                      *     *     *     *     *\n\n\nNow it is possible that some persons, judging by the tone of these\nremarks of mine, may gather the impression that I am a profound\ndisbeliever in the possibility of any intervention of the\nsuper-physical order in the affairs of the physical order. They will\nbe mistaken if they make this inference; they will be mistaken if they\nsuppose that I think miracles in Jud\u00e6a credible but miracles in France\nor Flanders incredible. I hold no such absurdities. But I confess,\nvery frankly, that I credit none of the \"Angels of Mons\" legends,\npartly because I see, or think I see, their derivation from my own\nidle fiction, but chiefly because I have, so far, not received one jot\nor tittle of evidence that should dispose me to belief. It is idle,\nindeed, and foolish enough for a man to say: \"I am sure that story is\na lie, because the supernatural element enters into it;\" here, indeed,\nwe have the maggot writhing in the midst of corrupted offal denying\nthe existence of the sun. But if this fellow be a fool--as he is--\nequally foolish is he who says, \"If the tale has anything of the\nsupernatural it is true, and the less evidence the better;\" and I am\nafraid this tends to be the attitude of many who call themselves\noccultists. I hope that I shall never get to that frame of mind. So I\nsay, not that super-normal interventions are impossible, not that they\nhave not happened during this war--I know nothing as to that point,\none way or the other--but that there is not one atom of evidence (so\nfar) to support the current stories of the angels of Mons. For, be it\nremarked, these stories are specific stories. They rest on the second,\nthird, fourth, fifth hand stories told by \"a soldier,\" by \"an\nofficer,\" by \"a Catholic correspondent,\" by \"a nurse,\" by any number\nof anonymous people. Indeed, names have been mentioned. A lady's name\nhas been drawn, most unwarrantably as it appears to me, into the\ndiscussion, and I have no doubt that this lady has been subject to a\ngood deal of pestering and annoyance. She has written to the Editor of\n_The Evening News_ denying all knowledge of the supposed miracle. The\nPsychical Research Society's expert confesses that no real evidence\nhas been proffered to her Society on the matter. And then, to my\namazement, she accepts as fact the proposition that some men on the\nbattlefield have been \"hallucinated,\" and proceeds to give the theory\nof sensory hallucination. She forgets that, by her own showing, there\nis no reason to suppose that anybody has been hallucinated at all.\nSomeone (unknown) has met a nurse (unnamed) who has talked to a\nsoldier (anonymous) who has seen angels. But _that_ is not evidence;\nand not even Sam Weller at his gayest would have dared to offer it as\nsuch in the Court of Common Pleas. So far, then, nothing remotely\napproaching proof has been offered as to any supernatural intervention\nduring the Retreat from Mons. Proof may come; if so, it will be\ninteresting and more than interesting.\n\n\n\nBut, taking the affair as it stands at present, how is it that a\nnation plunged in materialism of the grossest kind has accepted idle\nrumours and gossip of the supernatural as certain truth? The answer is\ncontained in the question: it is precisely because our whole\natmosphere is materialist that we are ready to credit anything--save\nthe truth. Separate a man from good drink, he will swallow methylated\nspirit with joy. Man is created to be inebriated; to be \"nobly wild,\nnot mad.\" Suffer the Cocoa Prophets and their company to seduce him in\nbody and spirit, and he will get himself stuff that will make him\nignobly wild and mad indeed. It took hard, practical men of affairs,\nbusiness men, advanced thinkers, Freethinkers, to believe in Madame\nBlavatsky and Mahatmas and the famous message from the Golden Shore:\n\"Judge's plan is right; follow him and _stick_.\"\n\nAnd the main responsibility for this dismal state of affairs\nundoubtedly lies on the shoulders of the majority of the clergy of the\nChurch of England. Christianity, as Mr. W.L. Courtney has so admirably\npointed out, is a great Mystery Religion; it is _the_ Mystery\nReligion. Its priests are called to an awful and tremendous hierurgy;\nits pontiffs are to be the pathfinders, the bridge-makers between the\nworld of sense and the world of spirit. And, in fact, they pass their\ntime in preaching, not the eternal mysteries, but a twopenny morality,\nin changing the Wine of Angels and the Bread of Heaven into gingerbeer\nand mixed biscuits: a sorry transubstantiation, a sad alchemy, as it\nseems to me.\n\n\n\n\n\nThe Bowmen\n\nIt was during the Retreat of the Eighty Thousand, and the authority of\nthe Censorship is sufficient excuse for not being more explicit. But\nit was on the most awful day of that awful time, on the day when ruin\nand disaster came so near that their shadow fell over London far away;\nand, without any certain news, the hearts of men failed within them\nand grew faint; as if the agony of the army in the battlefield had\nentered into their souls.\n\nOn this dreadful day, then, when three hundred thousand men in arms\nwith all their artillery swelled like a flood against the little\nEnglish company, there was one point above all other points in our\nbattle line that was for a time in awful danger, not merely of defeat,\nbut of utter annihilation. With the permission of the Censorship and\nof the military expert, this corner may, perhaps, be described as a\nsalient, and if this angle were crushed and broken, then the English\nforce as a whole would be shattered, the Allied left would be turned,\nand Sedan would inevitably follow.\n\nAll the morning the German guns had thundered and shrieked against\nthis corner, and against the thousand or so of men who held it. The\nmen joked at the shells, and found funny names for them, and had bets\nabout them, and greeted them with scraps of music-hall songs. But the\nshells came on and burst, and tore good Englishmen limb from limb, and\ntore brother from brother, and as the heat of the day increased so did\nthe fury of that terrific cannonade. There was no help, it seemed. The\nEnglish artillery was good, but there was not nearly enough of it; it\nwas being steadily battered into scrap iron.\n\nThere comes a moment in a storm at sea when people say to one another,\n\"It is at its worst; it can blow no harder,\" and then there is a blast\nten times more fierce than any before it. So it was in these British\ntrenches.\n\nThere were no stouter hearts in the whole world than the hearts of\nthese men; but even they were appalled as this seven-times-heated\nhell of the German cannonade fell upon them and overwhelmed them and\ndestroyed them. And at this very moment they saw from their trenches\nthat a tremendous host was moving against their lines. Five hundred of\nthe thousand remained, and as far as they could see the German\ninfantry was pressing on against them, column upon column, a grey\nworld of men, ten thousand of them, as it appeared afterwards.\n\nThere was no hope at all. They shook hands, some of them. One man\nimprovised a new version of the battlesong, \"Good-bye, good-bye to\nTipperary,\" ending with \"And we shan't get there\". And they all went\non firing steadily. The officers pointed out that such an opportunity\nfor high-class, fancy shooting might never occur again; the Germans\ndropped line after line; the Tipperary humorist asked, \"What price\nSidney Street?\" And the few machine guns did their best. But everybody\nknew it was of no use. The dead grey bodies lay in companies and\nbattalions, as others came on and on and on, and they swarmed and\nstirred and advanced from beyond and beyond.\n\n\"World without end. Amen,\" said one of the British soldiers with some\nirrelevance as he took aim and fired. And then he remembered--he says\nhe cannot think why or wherefore--a queer vegetarian restaurant in\nLondon where he had once or twice eaten eccentric dishes of cutlets\nmade of lentils and nuts that pretended to be steak. On all the plates\nin this restaurant there was printed a figure of St. George in blue,\nwith the motto, _Adsit Anglis Sanctus Geogius_--May St. George be a\npresent help to the English. This soldier happened to know Latin and\nother useless things, and now, as he fired at his man in the grey\nadvancing mass--300 yards away--he uttered the pious vegetarian\nmotto. He went on firing to the end, and at last Bill on his right had\nto clout him cheerfully over the head to make him stop, pointing out\nas he did so that the King's ammunition cost money and was not lightly\nto be wasted in drilling funny patterns into dead Germans.\n\nFor as the Latin scholar uttered his invocation he felt something\nbetween a shudder and an electric shock pass through his body. The\nroar of the battle died down in his ears to a gentle murmur; instead\nof it, he says, he heard a great voice and a shout louder than a\nthunder-peal crying, \"Array, array, array!\"\n\nHis heart grew hot as a burning coal, it grew cold as ice within him,\nas it seemed to him that a tumult of voices answered to his summons.\nHe heard, or seemed to hear, thousands shouting: \"St. George! St.\nGeorge!\"\n\n\"Ha! messire; ha! sweet Saint, grant us good deliverance!\"\n\n\"St. George for merry England!\"\n\n\"Harow! Harow! Monseigneur St. George, succour us.\"\n\n\"Ha! St. George! Ha! St. George! a long bow and a strong bow.\"\n\n\"Heaven's Knight, aid us!\"\n\nAnd as the soldier heard these voices he saw before him, beyond the\ntrench, a long line of shapes, with a shining about them. They were\nlike men who drew the bow, and with another shout their cloud of\narrows flew singing and tingling through the air towards the German\nhosts.\n\nThe other men in the trench were firing all the while. They had no\nhope; but they aimed just as if they had been shooting at Bisley.\nSuddenly one of them lifted up his voice in the plainest English,\n\"Gawd help us!\" he bellowed to the man next to him, \"but we're\nblooming marvels! Look at those grey... gentlemen, look at them! D'ye\nsee them? They're not going down in dozens, nor in 'undreds; it's\nthousands, it is. Look! look! there's a regiment gone while I'm\ntalking to ye.\"\n\n\"Shut it!\" the other soldier bellowed, taking aim, \"what are ye\ngassing about!\"\n\nBut he gulped with astonishment even as he spoke, for, indeed, the\ngrey men were falling by the thousands. The English could hear the\nguttural scream of the German officers, the crackle of their revolvers\nas they shot the reluctant; and still line after line crashed to the\nearth.\n\nAll the while the Latin-bred soldier heard the cry: \"Harow! Harow!\nMonseigneur, dear saint, quick to our aid! St. George help us!\"\n\n\"High Chevalier, defend us!\"\n\nThe singing arrows fled so swift and thick that they darkened the air;\nthe heathen horde melted from before them.\n\n\"More machine guns!\" Bill yelled to Tom.\n\n\"Don't hear them,\" Tom yelled back. \"But, thank God, anyway; they've\ngot it in the neck.\"\n\nIn fact, there were ten thousand dead German soldiers left before that\nsalient of the English army, and consequently there was no Sedan. In\nGermany, a country ruled by scientific principles, the Great General\nStaff decided that the contemptible English must have employed shells\ncontaining an unknown gas of a poisonous nature, as no wounds were\ndiscernible on the bodies of the dead German soldiers. But the man who\nknew what nuts tasted like when they called themselves steak knew also\nthat St. George had brought his Agincourt Bowmen to help the English.\n\n\n\n\n\nThe Soldiers' Rest\n\nThe soldier with the ugly wound in the head opened his eyes at last,\nand looked about him with an air of pleasant satisfaction.\n\nHe still felt drowsy and dazed with some fierce experience through\nwhich he had passed, but so far he could not recollect much about it.\nBut--an agreeable glow began to steal about his heart--such a glow as\ncomes to people who have been in a tight place and have come through\nit better than they had expected. In its mildest form this set of\nemotions may be observed in passengers who have crossed the Channel on\na windy day without being sick. They triumph a little internally, and\nare suffused with vague, kindly feelings.\n\nThe wounded soldier was somewhat of this disposition as he opened his\neyes, pulled himself together, and looked about him. He felt a sense\nof delicious ease and repose in bones that had been racked and weary,\nand deep in the heart that had so lately been tormented there was an\nassurance of comfort--of the battle won. The thundering, roaring waves\nwere passed; he had entered into the haven of calm waters. After\nfatigues and terrors that as yet he could not recollect he seemed now\nto be resting in the easiest of all easy chairs in a dim, low room.\n\nIn the hearth there was a glint of fire and a blue, sweet-scented puff\nof wood smoke; a great black oak beam roughly hewn crossed the\nceiling. Through the leaded panes of the windows he saw a rich glow of\nsunlight, green lawns, and against the deepest and most radiant of all\nblue skies the wonderful far-lifted towers of a vast, Gothic\ncathedral--mystic, rich with imagery.\n\n\"Good Lord!\" he murmured to himself. \"I didn't know they had such\nplaces in France. It's just like Wells. And it might be the other day\nwhen I was going past the Swan, just as it might be past that window,\nand asked the ostler what time it was, and he says, 'What time? Why,\nsummer-time'; and there outside it looks like summer that would last\nfor ever. If this was an inn they ought to call it _The Soldiers'\nRest_.\"\n\nHe dozed off again, and when he opened his eyes once more a kindly\nlooking man in some sort of black robe was standing by him.\n\n\"It's all right now, isn't it?\" he said, speaking in good English.\n\n\"Yes, thank you, sir, as right as can be. I hope to be back again\nsoon.\"\n\n\"Well well; but how did you come here? Where did you get that?\" He\npointed to the wound on the soldier's forehead.\n\nThe soldier put his hand: up to his brow and looked dazed and puzzled.\n\n\"Well, sir,\" he said at last, \"it was like this, to begin at the\nbeginning. You know how we came over in August, and there we were in\nthe thick of it, as you might say, in a day or two. An awful time it\nwas, and I don't know how I got through it alive. My best friend was\nkilled dead beside me as we lay in the trenches. By Cambrai, I think\nit was.\n\n\"Then things got a little quieter for a bit, and I was quartered in a\nvillage for the best part of a week. She was a very nice lady where I\nwas, and she treated me proper with the best of everything. Her\nhusband he was fighting; but she had the nicest little boy I ever\nknew, a little fellow of five, or six it might be, and we got on\nsplendid. The amount of their lingo that kid taught me--'We, we' and\n'Bong swot' and 'Commong voo potty we' and all--and I taught him\nEnglish. You should have heard that nipper say ''Arf a mo', old un!'\nIt was a treat.\n\n\"Then one day we got surprised. There was about a dozen of us in the\nvillage, and two or three hundred Germans came down on us early one\nmorning. They got us; no help for 'it. Before we could shoot.\n\n\"Well there we were. They tied our hands behind our backs, and smacked\nour faces and kicked us a bit, and we were lined up opposite the house\nwhere I'd been staying.\n\n\"And then that poor little chap broke away from his mother, and he run\nout and saw one of the Boshes, as we call them, fetch me one over the\njaw with his clenched fist. Oh dear! oh dear! he might have done it a\ndozen times if only that little child hadn't seen him.\n\n\"He had a poor bit of a toy I'd bought him at the village shop; a toy\ngun it was. And out he came running, as I say, Crying out something in\nFrench like 'Bad man! bad man! don't hurt my Anglish or I shoot you';\nand he pointed that gun at the German soldier. The German, he took his\nbayonet, and he drove it right through the poor little chap's throat.\"\n\nThe soldier's face worked and twitched and twisted itself into a sort\nof grin, and he sat grinding his teeth and staring at the man in the\nblack robe. He was silent for a little. And then he found his voice,\nand the oaths rolled terrible, thundering from him, as he cursed that\nmurderous wretch, and bade him go down and burn for ever in hell. And\nthe tears were raining down his face, and they choked him at last.\n\n\"I beg your pardon, sir, I'm sure,\" he said, \"especially you being a\nminister of some kind, I suppose; but I can't help it, he was such a\ndear little man.\"\n\nThe man in black murmured something to himself: \"_Pretiosa in\nconspectu Domini mors innocentium ejus_\"--Dear in the sight of the\nLord is the death of His innocents. Then he put a hand very gently on\nthe soldier's shoulder.\n\n\"Never mind,\" said he; \"I've seen some service in my time, myself. But\nwhat about that wound?\"\n\n\"Oh, that; that's nothing. But I'll tell you how I got it. It was just\nlike this. The Germans had us fair, as I tell you, and they shut us up\nin a barn in the village; just flung us on the ground and left us to\nstarve seemingly. They barred up the big door of the barn, and put a\nsentry there, and thought we were all right.\n\n\"There were sort of slits like very narrow windows in one of the\nwalls, and on the second day it was, I was looking out of these slits\ndown the street, and I could see those German devils were up to\nmischief. They were planting their machine-guns everywhere handy where\nan ordinary man coming up the street would never see them, but I see\nthem, and I see the infantry lining up behind the garden walls. Then I\nhad a sort of a notion of what was coming; and presently, sure\nenough, I could hear some of our chaps singing 'Hullo, hullo, hullo!'\nin the distance; and I says to myself, 'Not this time.'\n\n\"So I looked about me, and I found a hole under the wall; a kind of a\ndrain I should think it was, and I found I could just squeeze through.\nAnd I got out and crept, round, and away I goes running down the\nstreet, yelling for all I was worth, just as our chaps were getting\nround the corner at the bottom. 'Bang, bang!' went the guns, behind me\nand in front of me, and on each side of me, and then--bash! something\nhit me on the head and over I went; and I don't remember anything more\ntill I woke up here just now.\"\n\nThe soldier lay back in his chair and closed his eyes for a moment.\nWhen he opened them he saw that there were other people in the room\nbesides the minister in the black robes. One was a man in a big black\ncloak. He had a grim old face and a great beaky nose. He shook the\nsoldier by the hand.\n\n\"By God! sir,\" he said, \"you're a credit to the British Army; you're a\ndamned fine soldier and a good man, and, by God! I'm proud to shake\nhands with you.\"\n\nAnd then someone came out of the shadow, someone in queer clothes such\nas the soldier had seen worn by the heralds when he had been on duty\nat the opening of Parliament by the King.\n\n\"Now, by _Corpus Domini_,\" this man said, \"of all knights ye be\nnoblest and gentlest, and ye be of fairest report, and now ye be a\nbrother of the noblest brotherhood that ever was since this world's\nbeginning, since ye have yielded dear life for your friends' sake.\"\n\nThe soldier did not understand what the man was saying to him. There\nwere others, too, in strange dresses, who came and spoke to him. Some\nspoke in what sounded like French. He could not make it out; but he\nknew that they all spoke kindly and praised him.\n\n\"What does it all mean?\" he said to the minister. \"What are they\ntalking about? They don't think I'd let down my pals?\"\n\n\"Drink this,\" said the minister, and he handed the soldier a great\nsilver cup, brimming with wine.\n\nThe soldier took a deep draught, and in that moment all his sorrows\npassed from him.\n\n\"What is it?\" he asked?\n\n\"_Vin nouveau du Royaume_,\" said the minister. \"New Wine of the\nKingdom, you call it.\" And then he bent down and murmured in the\nsoldier's ear.\n\n\"What,\" said the wounded man, \"the place they used to tell us about in\nSunday school? With such drink and such joy--\"\n\nHis voice was hushed. For as he looked at the minister the fashion of\nhis vesture was changed. The black robe seemed to melt away from him.\nHe was all in armour, if armour be made of starlight, of the rose of\ndawn, and of sunset fires; and he lifted up a great sword of flame.\n\n  Full in the midst, his Cross of Red Triumphant Michael brandished,\n  And trampled the Apostate's pride.\n\n\n\n\n\nThe Monstrance\n\n  Then it fell out in the sacring of the Mass that right as the\n  priest heaved up the Host there came a beam redder than any rose and\n  smote upon it, and then it was changed bodily into the shape and\n  fashion of a Child having his arms stretched forth, as he had been\n  nailed upon the Tree.--Old Romance.\n\nSo far things were going very well indeed. The night was thick and\nblack and cloudy, and the German force had come three-quarters of their\nway or more without an alarm. There was no challenge from the English\nlines; and indeed the English were being kept busy by a high shell-fire\non their front. This had been the German plan; and it was coming off\nadmirably. Nobody thought that there was any danger on the left; and so\nthe Prussians, writhing on their stomachs over the ploughed field, were\ndrawing nearer and nearer to the wood. Once there they could establish\nthemselves comfortably and securely during what remained of the night;\nand at dawn the English left would be hopelessly enfiladed--and there\nwould be another of those movements which people who really understand\nmilitary matters call \"readjustments of our line.\"\n\nThe noise made by the men creeping and crawling over the fields was\ndrowned by the cannonade, from the English side as well as the German.\nOn the English centre and right things were indeed very brisk; the big\nguns were thundering and shrieking and roaring, the machine-guns were\nkeeping up the very devil's racket; the flares and illuminating shells\nwere as good as the Crystal Palace in the old days, as the soldiers\nsaid to one another. All this had been thought of and thought out on\nthe other side. The German force was beautifully organised. The men who\ncrept nearer and nearer to the wood carried quite a number of machine\nguns in bits on their backs; others of them had small bags full of\nsand; yet others big bags that were empty. When the wood was reached\nthe sand from the small bags was to be emptied into the big bags; the\nmachine-gun parts were to be put together, the guns mounted behind the\nsandbag redoubt, and then, as Major Von und Zu pleasantly observed,\n\"the English pigs shall to gehenna-fire quickly come.\"\n\nThe major was so well pleased with the way things had gone that he\npermitted himself a very low and guttural chuckle; in another ten\nminutes success would be assured. He half turned his head round to\nwhisper a caution about some detail of the sandbag business to the big\nsergeant-major, Karl Heinz, who was crawling just behind him. At that\ninstant Karl Heinz leapt into the air with a scream that rent through\nthe night and through all the roaring of the artillery. He cried in a\nterrible voice, \"The Glory of the Lord!\" and plunged and pitched\nforward, stone dead. They said that his face as he stood up there and\ncried aloud was as if it had been seen through a sheet of flame.\n\n\"They\" were one or two out of the few who got back to the German lines.\nMost of the Prussians stayed in the ploughed field. Karl Heinz's scream\nhad frozen the blood of the English soldiers, but it had also ruined\nthe major's plans. He and his men, caught all unready, clumsy with the\nburdens that they carried, were shot to pieces; hardly a score of them\nreturned. The rest of the force were attended to by an English burying\nparty. According to custom the dead men were searched before they were\nburied, and some singular relies of the campaign were found upon them,\nbut nothing so singular as Karl Heinz's diary.\n\nHe had been keeping it for some time. It began with entries about\nbread and sausage and the ordinary incidents of the trenches; here\nand there Karl wrote about an old grandfather, and a big china pipe,\nand pinewoods and roast goose. Then the diarist seemed to get fidgety\nabout his health. Thus:\n\n  April 17.--Annoyed for some days by murmuring sounds in my head. I\n  trust I shall not become deaf, like my departed uncle Christopher.\n\n  April 20.--The noise in my head grows worse; it is a humming sound.\n  It distracts me; twice I have failed to hear the captain and have\n  been reprimanded.\n\n  April 22.--So bad is my head that I go to see the doctor. He speaks\n  of tinnitus, and gives me an inhaling apparatus that shall reach, he\n  says, the middle ear.\n\n  April 25.--The apparatus is of no use. The sound is now become like\n  the booming of a great church bell. It reminds me of the bell at St.\n  Lambart on that terrible day of last August.\n\n  April 26.--I could swear that it is the bell of St. Lambart that I\n  hear all the time. They rang it as the procession came out of the\n  church.\n\nThe man's writing, at first firm enough, begins to straggle unevenly\nover the page at this point. The entries show that he became convinced\nthat he heard the bell of St. Lambart's Church ringing, though (as he\nknew better than most men) there had been no bell and no church at St.\nLambart's since the summer of 1914. There was no village either--the\nwhole place was a rubbish-heap.\n\nThen the unfortunate Karl Heinz was beset with other troubles.\n\n  May 2.--I fear I am becoming ill. To-day Joseph Kleist, who is next\n  to me in the trench, asked me why I jerked my head to the right so\n  constantly. I told him to hold his tongue; but this shows that I am\n  noticed. I keep fancying that there is something white just beyond\n  the range of my sight on the right hand.\n\n  May 3.--This whiteness is now quite clear, and in front of me. All\n  this day it has slowly passed before me. I asked Joseph Kleist if he\n  saw a piece of newspaper just beyond the trench. He stared at me\n  solemnly--he is a stupid fool--and said, \"There is no paper.\"\n\n  May 4.--It looks like a white robe. There was a strong smell of\n  incense to-day in the trench. No one seemed to notice it. There is\n  decidedly a white robe, and I think I can see feet, passing very\n  slowly before me at this moment while I write.\n\nThere is no space here for continuous extracts from Karl Heinz's diary.\nBut to condense with severity, it would seem that he slowly gathered\nabout himself a complete set of sensory hallucinations. First the\nauditory hallucination of the sound of a bell, which the doctor called\ntinnitus. Then a patch of white growing into a white robe, then the\nsmell of incense. At last he lived in two worlds. He saw his trench,\nand the level before it, and the English lines; he talked with his\ncomrades and obeyed orders, though with a certain difficulty; but he\nalso heard the deep boom of St. Lambart's bell, and saw continually\nadvancing towards him a white procession of little children, led by a\nboy who was swinging a censer. There is one extraordinary entry: \"But\nin August those children carried no lilies; now they have lilies in\ntheir hands. Why should they have lilies?\"\n\nIt is interesting to note the transition over the border line. After\nMay 2 there is no reference in the diary to bodily illness, with two\nnotable exceptions. Up to and including that date the sergeant knows\nthat he is suffering from illusions; after that he accepts his\nhallucinations as actualities. The man who cannot see what he sees and\nhear what he hears is a fool. So he writes: \"I ask who is singing 'Ave\nMaria Stella.' That blockhead Friedrich Schumacher raises his crest and\nanswers insolently that no one sings, since singing is strictly\nforbidden for the present.\"\n\nA few days before the disastrous night expedition the last figure in\nthe procession appeared to those sick eyes.\n\n  The old priest now comes in his golden robe, the two boys holding\n  each side of it. He is looking just as he did when he died, save\n  that when he walked in St. Lambart there was no shining round his\n  head. But this is illusion and contrary to reason, since no one has\n  a shining about his head. I must take some medicine.\n\nNote here that Karl Heinz absolutely accepts the appearance of the\nmartyred priest of St. Lambart as actual, while he thinks that the halo\nmust be an illusion; and so he reverts again to his physical condition.\n\nThe priest held up both his hands, the diary states, \"as if there were\nsomething between them. But there is a sort of cloud or dimness over\nthis object, whatever it may be. My poor Aunt Kathie suffered much\nfrom her eyes in her old age.\"\n\n                      *     *     *     *     *\n\nOne can guess what the priest of St. Lambart carried in his hands when\nhe and the little children went out into the hot sunlight to implore\nmercy, while the great resounding bell of St. Lambart boomed over the\nplain. Karl Heinz knew what happened then; they said that it was he\nwho killed the old priest and helped to crucify the little child\nagainst the church door. The baby was only three years old. He died\ncalling piteously for \"mummy\" and \"daddy.\"\n\n                      *     *     *     *     *\n\nAnd those who will may guess what Karl Heinz saw when the mist cleared\nfrom before the monstrance in the priest's hands. Then he shrieked and\ndied.\n\n\n\n\n\nThe Dazzling Light\n\n  The new head-covering is made of heavy steel, which has been\n  specialty treated to increase its resisting power. The walls\n  protecting the skull are particularly thick, and the weight of the\n  helmet renders its use in open warfare out of the question. The rim\n  is large, like that of the headpiece of Mambrino, and the soldier\n  can at will either bring the helmet forward and protect his eyes or\n  wear it so as to protect the base of the skull . . . Military\n  experts admit that continuance of the present trench warfare may\n  lead to those engaged in it, especially bombing parties and barbed\n  wire cutters, being more heavily armoured than the knights, who\n  fought at Bouvines and at Agincourt.--_The Times_, July 22, 1915\n\nThe war is already a fruitful mother of legends. Some people think\nthat there are too many war legends, and a Croydon gentleman--or lady,\nI am not sure which--wrote to me quite recently telling me that a\ncertain particular legend, which I will not specify, had become the\n\"chief horror of the war.\" There may be something to be said for this\npoint of view, but it strikes me as interesting that the old\nmyth-making faculty has survived into these days, a relic of noble,\nfar-off Homeric battles. And after all, what do we know? It does not\ndo to be too sure that this, that, or the other hasn't happened and\ncouldn't have happened.\n\nWhat follows, at any rate, has no claim to be considered either as\nlegend or as myth. It is merely one of the odd circumstances of these\ntimes, and I have no doubt it can easily be \"explained away.\" In fact,\nthe rationalistic explanation of the whole thing is patent and on the\nsurface. There is only one little difficulty, and that, I fancy, is by\nno means insuperable. In any case this one knot or tangle may be put\ndown as a queer coincidence and nothing more.\n\nHere, then, is the curiosity or oddity in question. A young fellow,\nwhom we will call for avoidance of all identification Delamere Smith--\nhe is now Lieutenant Delamere Smith--was spending his holidays on the\ncoast of west South Wales at the beginning of the war. He was\nsomething or other not very important in the City, and in his leisure\nhours he smattered lightly and agreeably a little literature, a little\nart, a little antiquarianism. He liked the Italian primitives, he knew\nthe difference between first, second, and third pointed, he had looked\nthrough Boutell's \"Engraved Brasses.\" He had been heard indeed to\nspeak with enthusiasm of the brasses of Sir Robert de Septvans and Sir\nRoger de Trumpington.\n\nOne morning--he thinks it must have been the morning of August 16,\n1914--the sun shone so brightly into his room that he woke early, and\nthe fancy took him that it would be fine to sit on the cliffs in the\npure sunlight. So he dressed and went out, and climbed up Giltar\nPoint, and sat there enjoying the sweet air and the radiance of the\nsea, and the sight of the fringe of creaming foam about the grey\nfoundations of St. Margaret's Island. Then he looked beyond and gazed\nat the new white monastery on Caldy, and wondered who the architect\nwas, and how he had contrived to make the group of buildings look\nexactly like the background of a medi\u00e6val picture.\n\nAfter about an hour of this and a couple of pipes, Smith confesses\nthat he began to feel extremely drowsy. He was just wondering whether\nit would be pleasant to stretch himself out on the wild thyme that\nscented the high place and go to sleep till breakfast, when the\nmounting sun caught one of the monastery windows, and Smith stared\nsleepily at the darting flashing light till it dazzled him. Then he\nfelt \"queer.\" There was an odd sensation as if the top of his head\nwere dilating and contracting, and then he says he had a sort of\nshock, something between a mild current of electricity and the\nsensation of putting one's hand into the ripple of a swift brook.\n\nNow, what happened next Smith cannot describe at all clearly. He knew\nhe was on Giltar, looking across the waves to Caldy; he heard all the\nwhile the hollow, booming tide in the caverns of the rocks far below\nhim, And yet he saw, as if in a glass, a very different country--a\nlevel fenland cut by slow streams, by long avenues of trimmed trees.\n\n\"It looked,\" he says, \"as if it ought to have been a lonely country,\nbut it was swarming with men; they were thick as ants in an anthill.\nAnd they were all dressed in armour; that was the strange thing about\nit.\n\n\"I thought I was standing by what looked as if it had been a\nfarmhouse; but it was all battered to bits, just a heap of ruins and\nrubbish. All that was left was one tall round chimney, shaped very\nmuch like the fifteenth-century chimneys in Pembrokeshire. And\nthousands and tens of thousands went marching by.\n\n\"They were all in armour, and in all sorts of armour. Some of them had\noverlapping tongues of bright metal fastened on their clothes, others\nwere in chain mail from head to foot, others were in heavy plate\narmour.\n\n\"They wore helmets of all shapes and sorts and sizes. One regiment had\nsteel caps with wide trims, something like the old barbers' basins.\nAnother lot had knights' tilting helmets on, closed up so that you\ncouldn't see their faces. Most of them wore metal gauntlets, either of\nsteel rings or plates, and they had steel over their boots. A great\nmany had things like battle-maces swinging by their sides, and all\nthese fellows carried a sort of string of big metal balls round their\nwaist. Then a dozen regiments went by, every man with a steel shield\nslung over his shoulder. The last to go by were cross-bowmen.\"\n\nIn fact, it appeared to Delamere Smith that he watched the passing of\na host of men in medi\u00e6val armour before him, and yet he knew--by the\nposition of the sun and of a rosy cloud that was passing over the\nWorm's Head--that this vision, or whatever it was, only lasted a\nsecond or two. Then that slight sense of shock returned, and Smith\nreturned to the contemplation of the physical phenomena of the\nPembrokeshire coast--blue waves, grey St. Margaret's, and Caldy Abbey\nwhite in the sunlight.\n\nIt will be said, no doubt, and very likely with truth, that Smith fell\nasleep on Giltar, and mingled in a dream the thought of the great war\njust begun with his smatterings of medi\u00e6val battle and arms and\narmour. The explanation seems tolerable enough.\n\nBut there is the one little difficulty. It has been said that Smith is\nnow Lieutenant Smith. He got his commission last autumn, and went out\nin May. He happens to speak French rather well, and so he has become\nwhat is called, I believe, an officer of liaison, or some such term.\nAnyhow, he is often behind the French lines.\n\nHe was home on short leave last week, and said:\n\n\"Ten days ago I was ordered to ----. I got there early in the morning,\nand had to wait a bit before I could see the General. I looked about\nme, and there on the left of us was a farm shelled into a heap of\nruins, with one round chimney standing, shaped like the 'Flemish'\nchimneys in Pembrokeshire. And then the men in armour marched by, just\nas I had seen them--French regiments. The things like battle-maces\nwere bomb-throwers, and the metal balls round the men's waists were\nthe bombs. They told me that the cross-bows were used for\nbomb-shooting.\n\n\"The march I saw was part of a big movement; you will hear more of it\nbefore long.\"\n\n\n\n\n\nThe Bowmen And Other Noble Ghosts\n\nBy \"The Londoner\"\n\nThere was a journalist--and the _Evening News_ reader well knows the\ninitials of his name--who lately sat down to write a story.\n\n                           *            *\n\nOf course his story had to be about the war; there are no other\nstories nowadays. And so he wrote of English soldiers who, in the dusk\non a field of France, faced the sullen mass of the oncoming Huns. They\nwere few against fearful odds, but, as they sent the breech-bolt home\nand aimed and fired, they became aware that others fought beside them.\nDown the air came cries to St. George and twanging of the bow-string;\nthe old bowmen of England had risen at England's need from their\ngraves in that French earth and were fighting for England.\n\n                           *            *\n\nHe said that he made up that story by himself, that he sat down and\nwrote it out of his head. But others knew better. It must really have\nhappened. There was, I remember, a clergyman of good credit who told\nhim that he was clean mistaken; the archers had really and truly risen\nup to fight for England: the tale was all up and down the front.\n\nFor my part I had thought that he wrote out of his head; I had seen\nhim at the detestable job of doing it. I myself have hated this\nbusiness of writing ever since I found out that it was not so easy as\nit looks, and I can always spare a little sympathy for a man who is\ndriving a pen to the task of putting words in their right places. Yet\nthe clergyman persuaded me at last. Who am I that I should doubt the\nfaith of a clerk in holy orders? It must have happened. Those archers\nfought for us, and the grey-goose feather has flown once again in\nEnglish battle.\n\n                           *            *\n\nSince that day I look eagerly for the ghosts who must be taking their\nshare in this world-war. Never since the world began was such a war as\nthis: surely Marlborough and the Duke, Talbot and Harry of Monmouth,\nand many another shadowy captain must be riding among our horsemen.\nThe old gods of war are wakened by this loud clamour of the guns.\n\n                           *            *\n\nAll the lands are astir. It is not enough that Asia should be humming\nlike an angry hive and the far islands in arms, Australia sending her\nyoung men and Canada making herself a camp. When we talk over the war\nnews, we call up ancient names: we debate how Rome stands and what is\nthe matter with Greece.\n\n                           *            *\n\nAs for Greece, I have ceased to talk of her. If I wanted to say\nanything about Greece I should get down the Poetry Book and quote Lord\nByron's fine old ranting verse. \"The mountains look on Marathon--and\nMarathon looks on the sea.\" But \"standing on the Persians' grave\"\nGreece seems in the same humour that made Lord Byron give her up as a\nhopelessly flabby country.\n\n                           *            *\n\n\"'Tis Greece, but living Greece no more\" is as true as ever it was.\nThat last telegram of the Kaiser must have done its soothing work. You\nremember how it ran: the Kaiser was too busy to make up new phrases.\nHe telegraphed to his sister the familiar Potsdam sentence: \"Woe to\nthose who dare to draw the sword against me.\" I am sure that I have\nheard that before. And he added--delightful and significant\npostscript!--\"My compliments to Tino.\"\n\n                           *            *\n\nAnd Tino--King Constantine of the Hellenes--understood. He is in bed\nnow with a very bad cold, and like to stay in bed until the weather be\nmore settled. But before going to bed he was able to tell a journalist\nthat Greece was going quietly on with her proper business; it was her\nmission to carry civilisation to the world. Truly that was the mission\nof ancient Greece. What we get from Tino's modern Greece is not\ncivilisation but the little black currants for plum-cake.\n\n                           *            *\n\nBut Rome. Greece may be dead or in the currant trade. Rome is alive\nand immortal. Do not talk to me about Signor Giolitti, who is quite\nsure that the only things that matter in this new Italy, which is old\nRome, are her commercial relations with Germany. Rome of the legions,\nour ancient mistress and conqueror, is alive to-day, and she cannot be\nfor an ignoble peace. Here in my newspaper is the speech of a poet\nspoken in Rome to a shouting crowd: I will cut out the column and put\nit in the Poetry Book.\n\n                           *            *\n\nHe calls to the living and to the dead: \"I saw the fire of Vesta, O\nRomans, lit yesterday in the great steel works of Liguria, The\nfountain of Juturna, O Romans, I saw its water run to temper armour,\nto chill the drills that hollow out the bore of guns.\" This is poetry\nof the old Roman sort. I imagine that scene in Rome: the latest poet\nof Rome calling upon the Romans in the name of Vesta's holy fire, in\nthe name of the springs at which the Great Twin Brethren washed their\nhorses. I still believe in the power and the ancient charm of noble\nwords. I do not think that Giolitti and the stockbrokers will keep old\nRome off the old roads where the legions went.\n\n\n\n\n\nPostscript\n\nWhile this volume was passing through the press, Mr. Ralph Shirley,\nthe Editor of \"The Occult Review\" called my attention to an article\nthat is appearing in the August issue of his magazine, and was kind\nenough to let me see the advance proof sheets.\n\nThe article is called \"The Angelic Leaders\" It is written by Miss\nPhyllis Campbell. I have read it with great care.\n\nMiss Campbell says that she was in France when the war broke out. She\nbecame a nurse, and while she was nursing the wounded she was informed\nthat an English soldier wanted a \"holy picture.\" She went to the man\nand found him to be a Lancashire Fusilier. He said that he was a\nWesleyan Methodist, and asked \"for a picture or medal (he didn't care\nwhich) of St. George... because he had seen him on a white horse,\nleading the British at Vitry-le-Fran\u00e7ois, when the Allies turned\"\n\nThis statement was corroborated by a wounded R.F.A. man who was\npresent. He saw a tall man with yellow hair, in golden armour, on a\nwhite horse, holding his sword up, and his mouth open as if he was\nsaying, \"Come on, boys! I'll put the kybosh on the devils\" This figure\nwas bareheaded--as appeared later from the testimony of other\nsoldiers--and the R.F.A. man and the Fusilier knew that he was St.\nGeorge, because he was exactly like the figure of St. George on the\nsovereigns. \"Hadn't they seen him with his sword on every 'quid'\nthey'd ever had?\"\n\nFrom further evidence it seemed that while the English had seen the\napparition of St. George coming out of a \"yellow mist\" or \"cloud of\nlight,\" to the French had been vouchsafed visions of St. Michael the\nArchangel and Joan of Arc. Miss Campbell says:--\n\n  \"Everybody has seen them who has fought through from Mons to Ypres;\n  they all agree on them individually, and have no doubt at all as to\n  the final issue of their interference\"\n\nSuch are the main points of the article as it concerns the great\nlegend of \"The Angels of Mons.\" I cannot say that the author has\nshaken my incredulity--firstly, because the evidence is second-hand.\nMiss Campbell is perhaps acquainted with \"Pickwick\" and I would remind\nher of that famous (and golden) ruling of Stareleigh, J.: to the\neffect that you mustn't tell us what the soldier said; it's not\nevidence. Miss Campbell has offended against this rule, and she has\nnot only told us what the soldier said, but she has omitted to give us\nthe soldier's name and address.\n\nIf Miss Campbell proffered herself as a witness at the Old Bailey and\nsaid, \"John Doe is undoubtedly guilty. A soldier I met told me that he\nhad seen the prisoner put his hand into an old gentleman's pocket and\ntake out a purse\"--well, she would find that the stout spirit of Mr.\nJustice Stareleigh still survives in our judges.\n\nThe soldier must be produced. Before that is done we are not\ntechnically aware that he exists at all.\n\nThen there are one or two points in the article itself which puzzle\nme. The Fusilier and the R.F.A. man had seen \"St, George leading the\nBritish at Vitry-le-Fran\u00e7ois, when the Allies turned.\" Thus the time\nof the apparition and the place of the apparition were firmly fixed in\nthe two soldiers' minds.\n\nYet the very next paragraph in the article begins:--\n\n  \"'Where was this ?' I asked. But neither of them could tell\"\n\nThis is an odd circumstance. They knew, and yet they did not know; or,\nrather, they had forgotten a piece of information that they had\nthemselves imparted a few seconds before.\n\nAnother point. The soldiers knew that the figure on the horse was St.\nGeorge by his exact likeness to the figure of the saint on the English\nsovereign.\n\nThis, again, is odd. The apparition was of a bareheaded figure in\ngolden armour. The St. George of the coinage is naked, except for a\nshort cape flying from the shoulders, and a helmet. He is not\nbareheaded, and has no armour--save the piece on his head. I do not\nquite see how the soldiers were so certain as to the identity of the\napparition.\n\nLastly, Miss Campbell declares that \"everybody\" who fought from Mons\nto Ypres saw the apparitions. If that be so, it is again odd that\nNobody has come forward to testify at first hand to the most amazing\nevent of his life. Many men have been back on leave from the front, we\nhave many wounded in hospital, many soldiers have written letters\nhome. And they have all combined, this great host, to keep silence as\nto the most wonderful of occurrences, the most inspiring assurance,\nthe surest omen of victory.\n\nIt may be so, but--\n\nArthur Machen.","title":"The Angels of Mons: The Bowmen and Other Legends of the War","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":10832}