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The Glory of English Prose - Letters to My Grandson by Stephen Coleridge
page 68 of 149 (45%)
bereft of all the trappings of his sinister power.

There were times in the past when justice would have avenged such
awful crimes as lie at this man's door with the torture of his living body
and the desecration of his lifeless remains, but his conquerors disdained
to debase themselves by imitating his own abominations; and they left
him to afford a spectacle to posterity as the supreme example of
human ignominy!

When you are old, Antony, and this greatest of all wars has become
part of England's history, you will be proud and happy to remember
that your own father, at the first call for volunteers, laid down the
pencil and scale of his peaceful profession, went out to fight for his
country in the trenches in France, was wounded almost to death, and
was saved only by the skill and devotion of one of the greatest
surgeons of the day.[2] All the best blood of England, Scotland, and
Ireland went marching together to defend the freedom of the world,
and upon their hearts were engraven the glorious words:--

"Blessed be the Lord my strength, which teacheth my hands to war
and my fingers to fight."

May such a call never come to our beloved country again! But if it does,
Antony, I know where you will be found without need of exhortations
from me.

Your loving old
G.P.


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