overshadow all the great soldiers and sailors charged with their
nation's very life in the severest and infinitely the most critical
military struggle of man's history.

A democratic age, lacking in colour, and antipathetic to romance,
somewhat obscures for us the pictorial achievement of this remarkable
figure. He lacks only a crown, a robe, and a gilded chair easily to
outshine in visible picturesqueness the great Emperor. His achievement,
when we consider what hung upon it, is greater than Napoleon's, the
narrative of his origin more romantic, his character more complex. And
yet who does not feel the greatness of Napoleon?--and who does not
suspect the shallowness of Mr. Lloyd George?

History, it is certain, will unmask his pretensions to grandeur with a
rough, perhaps with an angry hand; but all the more because of this
unmasking posterity will continue to crowd about the exposed hero
asking, and perhaps for centuries continuing to ask, questions
concerning his place in the history of the world. "How came it, man of
straw, that in Armageddon there was none greater than you?"

The coldest-blooded amongst us, Mr. Massingham of _The Nation_ for
example, must confess that it was a moment rich in the emotion which
bestows immortality on incident when this son of a village schoolmaster,
who grew up in a shoemaker's shop, and whose boyish games were played in
the street of a Welsh hamlet remote from all the refinements of
civilization and all the clangours of industrialism, announced to a
breathless Europe without any pomposity of phrase and with but a brief
and contemptuous gesture of dismissal the passing away from the world's
stage of the Hapsburgs and Hohenzollerns--those ancient, long glorious,
and most puissant houses whose history for an æon was the history of