At the beginning of March these last words could not have been added.  There was an American professor not far from me at dinner, and we discussed the “blazing indiscretion” of Herr Zimmermann’s Mexican letter.  But he knew no more than I. Only I remember with pleasure the general tone of all the conversation about America that I either engaged in or listened to at Headquarters just a month before the historic meeting of Congress.  It was one of intelligent sympathy with the difficulties in your way, coupled with a quiet confidence that the call of civilisation and humanity would very soon—­and irrevocably—­decide the attitude of America towards the war.

* * * * *

The evening at the Chateau passed only too quickly, and we were sad to say good-bye, though it left me still the prospect of further conversation with some members of the Intelligence Staff on my return journey from Paris and those points of the French line for which, thanks to the courtesy of the French Headquarters, I was now bound.

The last night under the little schoolmistress’s quiet roof amid the deep stillness of the village was a wakeful one for me.  The presence of the New Armies, as of some vast, impersonal, and yet intensely living thing, seemed to be all around me.  First, as an organisation, as the amazing product of English patriotic intelligence devoted to one sole end—­the defence of civilisation against the immoral attack of the strongest military machine in the world.  And then, so to speak, as a moral entity, for my mind was full of the sights and sounds of the preceding days, and the Army appeared to me, not only as the mighty instrument for war which it already is, but as a training school for the Empire, likely to have incalculable effect upon the future.

How much I have heard of training since my arrival in France!  It is not a word that has been so far representative of our English temper.  Far from it.  The central idea of English life and politics, said Mr. Bright, “is the assertion of personal liberty.”  It was, I suppose, this assertion of personal liberty which drove our extreme Liberal wing before the war into that determined fighting of the Naval and Military Estimates year after year, that determined hatred of anything that looked like “militarism,” and that constant belittlement of the soldier and his profession which so nearly handed us over, for lack of a reasonable “militarism,” to the tender mercies of the German variety.

But, years ago, Matthew Arnold dared to say, in face of the general British approval of Mr. Bright, that there is, after all, something greater than the “assertion of personal liberty,” than the freedom to “do as you like”; and he put forward against it the notion of “the nation in its collected and corporate character” controlling the individual will in the name of an interest wider than that of individuals.