THE leading spirit of the Balkan Alliance is Bulgaria, its policy directed by an able ruler, Tsar Ferdinand, its strategy devised by a capable Staff, at whose head, as the sovereign’s right hand, stands General Sava Savof. To the Western nations who were indulging in autumn holidays while the Balkan cauldron was seething to overflowing the war came as a surprise, was inaugurated with astounding efficiency, and went its victorious course with bewildering rapidity. That was the impression made by recent events in the Balkans upon the lethargic Western mind. To those who happened to have looked behind the scenes there was no suddenness in the outbreak of hostilities, no surprise at the efficient organization which led to well-deserved successes in the field.

It has been my privilege to visit Bulgaria several times, and on each occasion I have returned with a yet higher opinion of the Bulgarian people, their Tsar, and his advisers.

The first to mention this people was the Armenian historian Moses, of Koren, towards the end of the fifth century. In his time the Bulgars occupied the lower reaches of the Volga, and called their capital BulÂr, BulghÂr; here was the mart where they transacted business with their neighbours. From the banks of the Volga the Bulgars, a Finno-Ugric race, and akin to the Turks, moved along the northern shore of the Black Sea towards the Danube, and had reached Macedonia by the beginning of the seventh century.

When the country which is now Bulgaria formed part of Dacia Trajana, in the days of Emperor Aurelian, Goths swarmed in and drove the Dacians into Moesia, now Servia. They wandered south, much to the discomfiture of ancient Byzantium. On their westward way the Goths, under Theodoric, had trampled down the Finno-Ugric people, the Bulgarians, which had come to the plains of the Lower Danube from the north-east. For a century and a half all traces of this people disappeared from the historian’s ken, and they were not heard of again until the ninth century. Debarred by a stronger race from returning northward to rejoin their kinsmen who had migrated to Finland, their progress westward checked by more powerful nations, they turned towards the south, and thus began a conflict which has never ceased, though it may have lain dormant, for over ten centuries, a conflict which has since broken out afresh and led the Bulgars to the gates of Constantinople. These people, the Bulgars, found vent for their military ardour in opposing the inroads of the Eastern Emperors, and may lay claim to an honour till then appropriated only by the Goths—that of having slain a Roman Emperor in battle.

It came about in this fashion. Nicephorus I, Emperor of the East (802-811) had advanced with boldness and success into the west of Bulgaria and destroyed the Royal Court by fire. But while he lingered on in search of spoil, refusing all offers of a treaty, his enemies collected their forces and barred the lines of retreat. For two days the Emperor waited in despair and inactivity, on the third the Bulgarians surprised the camp and slew the Emperor and great officers of the Empire. Valens had escaped insults from the Goths when defeated and slain at Adrianople, but the skull of Nicephorus, encased with gold, was made to serve as drinking-vessel.

Towards the end of the ninth century King Boris of Bulgaria brought two holy men, Cyril and Methodius, originators of the Cyrillic alphabet adopted by all Slav nations, and Christianity, then introduced, aroused a desire for learning among the Bulgarians.

The power of Bulgaria increased, and under Tsar Simeon, son of Boris, extended over Bulgaria of to-day, Wallachia, part of Hungary and Transylvania, parts of Albania and Epirus, of Macedonia and Thessaly. Simeon assumed the title of Tsar and Autocrat of all Bulgarians. This title was retained by all Bulgarian sovereigns until the conquest of their country by the Turks.

Early in October an extraordinary session of the Sobranje celebrated the anniversary of Bulgaria’s independence and the assumption of the ancient title by Tsar Ferdinand.

Simeon, son of Boris, was intended for a religious life, but he abandoned it to take up arms; he inherited the crown of Bulgaria, and reigned from the end of the ninth to well into the tenth century. His education was completed at Constantinople, where many other youthful nobles of his country gathered for the same purpose, and to this day the custom prevails, for among the students at Robert College, which stands high on the banks of the Bosphorus, are many of Tsar Ferdinand’s young subjects. Among its former pupils was M. Gueshof, now Prime Minister of Bulgaria.

Despite his Byzantine education Simeon did not love the Greeks, and Luitprand, the historian, writes: “Simeon fortis bellator, BulgariÆ proecrat; Christianus sed vicinis GrÆcis valde inimicus.” This hostility to the Greeks found frequent expression, and Simeon with his host appeared before the walls of Constantinople. On classic ground, at Achelous, the Greeks were vanquished by the Bulgarians, and Simeon hastened to besiege the Emperor in his own strong City.

Down by the Golden Horn on the plain outside the Gate of EdirnÉ, Tsar Simeon met Romanus Lecapenus, the Emperor of the East, at the place where King Crum of Bulgaria had been asked to confer with Leo V, the Armenian (813-820), and had narrowly escaped the arrows of the archers treacherously concealed in ambush. Vying with the Greeks in the splendour of their display the Bulgars took jealous precautions against a similar surprise, and deep mistrust informed the spirit in which their sovereign dictated terms of peace. “Are you a Christian?” asked the humbled Emperor. “It is your duty to abstain from the blood of your fellow-Christians. Has the thirst for riches seduced you from the blessings of peace? Sheathe your sword, open your hand, and I will give you the utmost measure of your desire.”

But peace was not for long. Simeon’s successors by their jealousies undermined the strength of the kingdom, and when next the Bulgarians met the Greeks in battle they were easily defeated by Basil II, called Bulgaroktonos. A terrible home-coming theirs; through snow and ice the remnant of Bulgaria’s manhood struggled on in little bands of a hundred at a time, each company following the voice of a single leader, as they groped their way through darkness—they were blinded. They had escaped from the clemency of a Christian Emperor, by whose orders only one man in each hundred retained the sight of one eye.

Then for over a century Bulgaria remained subject to Byzantium, until two Bulgarian chiefs—Peter and Asan—rose in revolt against Isaac Angelus (1185-1195), and spread the fire of rebellion from the Danube to the hills of Macedonia and Thrace. So Isaac and his brother, Alexius III (1195-1203), were forced to recognize Bulgaria’s independence.

Such hopeless rulers as Alexius IV and V and Nicolas Canabas made easy the conquest of Byzant by the Latins in 1204. Calo John, King of Bulgaria, sent friendly greetings to Baldwin I, the new Emperor of the East, but these provoked an unexpected answer. Baldwin demanded that the rebel should deserve his pardon by touching with his forehead the footstool of the imperial throne. So trouble broke out again. Again war was waged, with all its attendant savagery, and Calo John reinforced his army by a body of fourteen thousand horsemen from the Scythian deserts. A fierce battle at Adrianople resulted in the total defeat of the Emperor, who was taken prisoner. His fate was for some years uncertain, and even the demands of the Pope for the restitution of the Emperor failed to elicit any other answer from King John save that Baldwin had died in prison. For years the conflict raged, till Henry, the second Latin Emperor of the East, routed the Bulgarians. Calo John was slain in his tent by night, and the deed was piously ascribed to the lance of St. Demetrius.

GolubaÇ The stronghold of Old Servia guarding the Pass of Kasan.
GolubaÇ
The stronghold of Old Servia guarding the Pass of Kasan.

In the fourteenth century another foe threatened Bulgaria and all Eastern Europe. Amurath with his Janissaries was closing in upon Constantinople. He beat the Greek Emperor at Adrianople in 1361, and made this town his base of operations against Bulgaria, which country he harried until Sisvan, the Tsar, obtained peace at the price of offering his daughter in marriage to Amurath. But peace did not ensue, and Sisvan had to flee before Ali, and surrendered at Nicopolis.

Nicopolis, where King Sigismund of Hungary was vanquished by Sultan Bajazet, by whose victory the Balkan States became subject to the Porte. Here there was fierce fighting in 1810, and again in 1877, for the road to the Pass of Plevna starts from here. Here at Nicopolis are the ruins, underground, of one of the earliest Christian churches, but its history is quite unknown.

Recent times have witnessed the rise of Bulgaria from the status of an Ottoman province to that of an independent kingdom, strong, prosperous, and determined. And on its southern frontier, and from the banks of the Struma to the Black Sea shore, the armed forces of Bulgaria strained at the leash, their eager gaze towards Constantinople, Tsarigrad, the Castle of CÆsar.

Among those whose eager eyes turned ever towards the south is one (I hope he still lives) for whom I have the friendliest feelings. His name is Dedo ’Mitri, and I venture to describe a visit I paid to that worthy.

Like Bill Sloggins of song, Dedo ’Mitri is “a party as you don’t meet every day.” The continuation of the verse applies equally:

In itself this condition is a matter for no great wonderment, but you must know that Dedo ’Mitri has reached the age at which it cannot be said of many that they are always hale and hearty. Many do not travel as far along life’s journey as Dedo ’Mitri has done; he was well on in the eighties when I met him a year or two ago. This, of course, accounts for his being called “Dedo ’Mitri,” which, being interpreted, meaneth “Grandfather Dimitri.” The fact of Dimitri being abbreviated to ’Mitri speaks of his popularity. Several circumstances go towards the making of Dedo ’Mitri’s popularity. His age, of course, has something to do with it, his cheerfulness still more, and his position adds to his popularity—he keeps the largest of the two inns in the village, keeps the only inn that really counts for anything. Probably the most important ingredient of the recipe for Dedo ’Mitri’s popularity is his past—he is an ex-comitadji.

To have been a comitadji is indeed a matter of great distinction in those countries south of the Balkans. There it is that Dedo ’Mitri lives and has his being, there, among the Rhodope Mountains, along which runs the frontier between Bulgaria and Turkey. Dedo ’Mitri is a Bulgarian, a splendid specimen of a fine race.

For his country’s sake Dedo ’Mitri endured untold hardships, and committed deeds desperate and daring, deeds that perhaps send their phantoms crowding round his couch o’ nights. Perhaps! though to all appearances Dedo ’Mitri’s looks do not suggest nights spent with the spectre Remorse. He, like other fighters for a country’s liberties, may rather glory in what he has done, though of this again no word escapes him. There are others in the village ready to tell you of his exploits.

Dedo ’Mitri
Dedo ’Mitri

Songs and legends of the great, of King Crum, Tsar Simeon, and the Asens, kept alive the intense feeling of Bulgarian nationality during centuries of Turkish domination. Under the heavy oppression of Ottoman rule the Church founded by Cyril and Methodius lived on, deeply rooted in the hearts of the people. So, when Bulgaria awoke in the beginning of the nineteenth century there were found men like Dedo ’Mitri to take up arms, to sacrifice all for their country’s liberty. He was a baby when Russia declared war against Turkey in 1827, but still remembers the depth of feeling that stirred his folk and urged him to take his share in the work as soon as his arm was strong enough for it. He was in the full vigour of manhood when his own efforts, and those of other patriots, had brought about the establishment of a Bulgarian Exarchate at Constantinople. He rejoiced when the Congress of Berlin ratified the treaty of San Stefano, making Bulgaria autonomous, and his militant activity came to an end when Eastern Roumelia was united to his country.

Now Dedo ’Mitri lives at peace with all the world in his quiet little village among the Rhodope Mountains.

To get to RadoÏl, where Dedo ’Mitri lives, two roads are open to you. You may train from Sofia to Bellova, then drive along the high road towards Tshamkuria in the mountains. The road is good, because the King has a shooting-box at Tshamkuria, and he is very particular about the roads he travels over. RadoÏl is half-way to Tshamkuria, and every one who passes that way stops to bait at Dedo ’Mitri’s.

If you wish to see more of people and country than is possible from the train, another way to RadoÏl is preferable. Take a seat in the motor which goes to Tshamkuria every other day. The chauffeur is a young Englishman, who has a good deal to say if you ask him about the state of the road. It is in parts a very bad road indeed. In fact, but for the trees that line it with more or less regularity on either hand, you might mistake the road for a dried-up watercourse. The first part of the road is not so bad, quite good, in fact, but it suddenly becomes incredibly bad, about eight or ten miles from the small town of Samakov, and the streets of that town are quite Oriental in their uselessness as such. You stop at Samakov to let the engine cool down a bit, and find it quite an Oriental town. Here and there an old mosque, a Turkish fountain, and mules, donkeys, heavy-going buffaloes drinking at it. The costumes of the people you meet are Oriental, though the women go unveiled. Samakov has a garrison; it is not far from the Turkish frontier, and the uniforms of the fine-looking Bulgarian soldiers strike a Western note. But on the whole the aspect of the town is Oriental, the smells intensely so.

The road improves as it leaves Samakov, it becomes really quite a good road, and carries you upwards into the mountains. There on a high plateau embowered in a forest of pines lies Tshamkuria. It is a hot-weather resort—everybody who is anybody in Sofia comes here for the summer. But we are not concerned with such fashionable matter, we have set out to visit Dedo ’Mitri at RadoÏl, so start at once.

We have arranged for the hire of a conveyance the evening before with a Jew. If the weather be fine we will drive away at seven in the morning, keep the conveyance for the day, and pay the son of Israel seven francs. The morning mist among the mountains made one or two unsuccessful attempts to turn into rain; we thought the weather fine enough, the Jew did not think so, and therefore thought fit to demand double the amount arranged for. This was not to be borne, so we looked about for some other means of conveyance, and in our search met one Vasil. Vasil, a stout Bulgarian peasant wearing a dubious cotton shirt, his thick cloth baggy breeches upheld by a cummerbund of faded crimson, his coat of the same brown cloth, black braided, slung over his shoulders, promised to convey us to RadoÏl in great comfort as soon as he should have caught a horse. It appeared there were several horses over which Vasil disposed, but they happened to be out in the forest in search of breakfast. After a delay of an hour or so Vasil returned with what he described as a horse. The likeness was there, though very remote, and the unhappy-looking scraggy pony was tied by assorted strings to a two-wheeled trap—once upon a time something like a dogcart; a head-stall and odd bits of harness were then artistically arranged about this anatomical study, Vasil wiped the damp seat with a wet cloth, handed me his whip, and intimated that all was ready for a start. All was not ready, however, for the horse had gone to sleep, and my attempt to crack the whip flung the lash into the bushes, whence it had to be retrieved, then refastened. In the meantime the horse realized that something unusual was toward; he woke up, shook off some bits of harness, and went to sleep again while they were being readjusted. Then Vasil woke him up again, gave him a gentle lead, and so we really started. There was no difficulty about finding the road, or chance of losing your way. The road leads broad and smooth in zigzags down into the valley where RadoÏl lies. On either hand dense forest, where wolves prowl during the winter months and bears are no infrequent visitors. Huge pines send straight shafts up into the morning sky, their dark green striking a sombre note among the rich green of birch and oak. Here and there honeysuckle trails over masses of rock in sweet profusion, and the voice of a tinkling stream lightens our way with music. Now and again at an angle of the road we were granted a glimpse of the distant country below, wide expanses of fertile plains, and beyond them again the purple lines of mountains far away. The sun had broken through the mountain mist and called forth the songs of birds.

Those angles of the road were rather too much for the horse. The trap boasted of no brake, the wheels revolved in a manner suggesting the infirmity of extreme old age, yet they took charge and guided our course, and with senile spite attempted to hurl us into the depths below. But we were saved by the fact that our speed was not excessive. Any attempt at steering the horse by the usual method led to a dead stop, on which occasion the head-gear would fall off. All these matters put much incident into our journey. After a couple of hours the “passage perilous” down the mountain was behind us and we were on a fairly straight and level road. An occasional gentle rise met us; this caused the horse to stop for contemplation of the awful task before him; he would shake his head at our wild proceedings and patiently wait until the whip-lash had been recovered. Our progress, though not marked by any undue haste, roused interest where we passed. Slow-stepping oxen dragging a plough, a primitive implement, little more than an iron-shod staff, would stop to watch us with big wondering eyes. At last—a turn of the road brought us in full view of the village and we rattled down the stone-paved street. Stone-paved—that is, large stones were placed about at irregular intervals, the interstices being pools of muddy water. Across a bridge, over a turbulent mountain stream, and we pulled up in front of Dedo ’Mitri’s hostelry.

RadoÏl Dedo ’Mitri’s Hostelry.
RadoÏl
Dedo ’Mitri’s Hostelry.

Dedo ’Mitri himself stands outside his front door. The house projects above it, thus forming what might be a verandah were it not on a level with the road. Dedo ’Mitri was in shirt-sleeves, as becomes a busy man. The twinkle in his eyes might be that of a hospitable welcome, though having heard of his antecedents it may be suspected of suggesting old predatory instincts slow to die. We advised our host that we meant to take the midday meal with him, and while he prepared it we had a look at the village, took a sketch or two which meant to give a better idea of the place than word-painting can do.

The accessories to the repast prepared by Dedo ’Mitri were simple in the extreme, it was also necessary to wipe your fork carefully before using it. However, the food was good, wholesome grey bread and a quaint mess of eggs and cream-cheese. Then Dedo ’Mitri was called upon to supply cheese by itself; this he did without demur, but a demand for clean plates puzzled him, though he complied. On being asked for a clean knife he had no cause to vanish again into his dark kitchen, but produced a murderous-looking clasp-knife from out the pocket of his voluminous breeches; we preferred our own knives. An excellent if somewhat rough red wine accompanied the repast.

In the meantime the village had assembled. Stalwart men stood round us watching intently, others sat drinking wine a little way off. The village priest in passing, seeing something unusual in progress, stepped in and found the time suitable for refreshment. A background of children completed the circle. When it became evident that sketching was the next event Dedo ’Mitri’s authority was evidenced. I pointed out a small fair child with dark-lashed eyes—Dimitra—she was called up to stand perfectly still. This she did in solemn wonder. A well-built maiden moved with graceful steps to the village fountain opposite the house. On my noticing her Dedo ’Mitri’s powerful voice rang out, “Helenka,” and she too remained motionless until released. There were urgent demands from the spectators to be taken one after another, but time was short, so only one smart buck, his short jacket slung jauntily across his shoulders, figures in my sketch-book.

Then Vasil was called for. He appeared leading the horse, both stumbling—the horse from the infirmity of old age, Vasil from an undue indulgence in the red wine. He had also regaled himself freely on garlic; the afternoon sun drew an indescribable aroma from him.

Farewell to Dedo ’Mitri and promises to return, farewells and much handshaking to all the assembled village, a discriminate distribution of small copper coins, a courtly salute from the priest, and we turned our horse’s head towards the mountains whence we came.

Slower than ever was our progress, as Vasil in his sleep was constantly falling off the back seat, and the horse, once stopped, was loath to move on again. The whip-lash was lost for ever, yet there was the broad road up into the mountains all before us.

We left Vasil and his conveyance in the road and turned afoot into a track which used to be the only means of communication in earlier days. A very unsafe one too, for it offered splendid opportunities to those who pursue guerilla warfare. Here and there were masses of boulders whence marksmen could command the track and then vanish in the impenetrable forests.

Dedo ’Mitri knows them well, that track, those piles of rock that offer cover to the sniper, those giants of the forest, and the thick undergrowth that covered his retreat. But Dedo ’Mitri no longer goes to see his old acquaintances the rocks and forest trees. His country is free, free as the wind that howls on wintry nights up the valley to join chorus with the wolves. From mountain and valley, from town and village, the Crescent had faded away to the south, and Bulgaria, a strong young kingdom, forced its way out of Turkish oppression. They are old men now, those who are left, who like Dedo ’Mitri spent the best years of their life in the cause of freedom. But the story has never been forgotten, the traditions of Bulgaria’s former greatness live strong in a regenerate Bulgaria. The sons of Bulgaria looked down from the Rhodope Mountains, over the rolling plains, their gaze bent on Constantinople, Tsarigrad, the Castle of CÆsar. They have knocked at the gates of that City before.

With consummate skill Tsar Ferdinand kept his plans secret while the Balkan League was forming to overthrow the last of Ottoman power in Europe. For many years all Bulgaria had been preparing for this great stroke, arming, organizing, making sacrifices as a nation must do when in pursuit of a high ideal, so when the moment came it found a strong people, trained to arms, determined to snatch success from before the cannon’s mouth and crown its standards with laurel victory. With a possible war strength of over three hundred thousand men and four hundred and fifty guns Bulgaria stood ready to take the field.

The massacres of Kochana gave impetus to the avalanche which was ready to descend over the hills and vales of Thrace. Bulgaria had been making steady propaganda in Macedonia and had drawn within the folds of its nationality a great number of those nondescripts, Slavs, who form the major portion of the inhabitants of that quondam Turkish province. This propaganda was actively supported by the Bulgarian Church under its enlightened high-priest, His Beatitude Joseph, Exarch of Bulgaria.

I first met the Exarch some years ago while on a visit to Bulgaria. His Beatitude had left Constantinople, where the interests of his flock in Macedonia require that he should reside, and was taking a holiday in a remote village near Sofia, a village nestling among the mountain range of Vitosa, by the banks of a mountain torrent along which a broad military road leads to the Turkish frontier. We discussed the state of Macedonia, and though I may not divulge all that was said to me, I gained an even higher opinion of Bulgarian thoroughness and efficiency. We also discussed the schism between the Greek and Bulgarian sections of the Orthodox Church; this is a purely political matter, and was freely used by the Porte to foster racial animosity in Macedonia. When the Greeks gained their independence the Bulgarians of Macedonia were encouraged to build schools and were allowed to endow several new bishoprics; when the Greeks were temporarily disabled by the war of 1898 the Porte thought fit to persecute the Bulgarians of Macedonia, assisted in this by Pomaks, Bulgarians converted to Islam some centuries ago. The Turks overdid this policy, and their measures only served to crystalize the different non-Turk racial and religious elements of Macedonia. Bands of comitadjis were formed, they assisted nationalist propaganda by primitive methods, and finally, the Porte being weakened by revolution and the vacillations of a farcical Parliament terrorized by esoteric militarism, strengthened the arms of those who sought freedom from Turkish rule.

The occasion arose over the massacres of Kotchana, which sent a wave of fierce indignation over Bulgaria. Reforms in Macedonia and the punishment of those concerned in the outrages were demanded by Tsar Ferdinand and refused by the Porte, which, feeling itself strong enough and ignoring the strength and stability of the Balkan Alliance, declared war on Bulgaria. Forthwith the armies of Bulgaria, already assembled in battle array on the frontier, poured into Thrace and overran that province, driving the Ottoman forces before it.

War was declared by Turkey against Bulgaria and Servia on October 17th, on the same day Greece sent a similar declaration to the Porte. Then the highly organized forces of the Allies marched. While the Greek navy put to sea to capture islands in the Ægean and invaded Turkey from the south, the Bulgarians entered Thrace in three columns under the Tsar and General Savof, General Hanof capturing Kurt KalÉ and Mustapha Pasha on October 18th. On the following day Turkish cruisers made a futile attempt on the Bulgarian coast, bombarding Varna and destroying an inoffensive monastery. By this day all the four Allies had invaded Turkish territory. The mountain passes were in the hands of the Bulgarians by October 20th, and the army marching on Adrianople; Adrianople, where the Bulgars had vanquished Emperor Nicephorus and his troops by the banks of the Maritza in 811.

While in the west the Servian army was continuing its victorious march on ÜskÜb, while the Montenegrin northern army under Prince Danilo moved from Berane to the capture of Plava and Gusinje, and their southern army commenced the siege of Scutari by attacking Tarabosh, the Bulgarian armies drove the Turks from the Arda River west of Adrianople, and General Dimitrief completed the easterly turning movement by attacking the Ottoman forces at Kirk Kilisse. Here the battle raged to and fro with varying success until the Turks, under Abdullah Pasha, were finally routed on October 24th. At the same time Bulgarian troops occupied Vasiliko on the Black Sea; the Servians, under General Yankovitch, had already captured Prishtina on the 20th, and others commanded by General Ziskovitch had entered Kralovo and Novi Bazar. On the day which witnessed the defeat of Abdullah Pasha at the hands of General Dimitrief at Kirk Kilisse, the Servians, led by their Crown Prince in person, won the decisive battle of Kumanovo.

The tale of disaster continued; on October 25th the Turks evacuated KÜprÖlÜ in the west; in the eastern theatre of war the Bulgarians opened the bombardment of Adrianople. On the following day King Peter entered ÜskÜb, the former residence of Servian Kings, in solemn state, and KÜprÖlÜ, Drama, and Koziani were captured by the forces of the Allies.

Further Ottoman losses occurred on October 27th, when Istip fell and the Bulgarians captured Baba Eski, occupied Bunar Hissar, and took the Kresna Pass in the Struma Valley. All this time the Greeks were gaining ground towards Janina, and by October 30th had captured Veria and Thasos, preparatory to marching on Saloniki. By October 31st fighting was general all along the line in Thrace, the Allies were marching on Saloniki, and the northern and southern armies of Montenegro had closed in upon Scutari.

By the beginning of November the Western Powers had awakened from the dreams of the soporific status quo and began to realize that that formula no longer applied to the Near East. On November 9th Mr. Asquith solemnly announced that the Allies must have secured to them the fruits of victory. I wonder what Power, or group of Powers, however prominent the capital P, would dare to rob these gallant young nations of what they have won by bravery and devotion such as no older nation has exhibited in recent history. The Allies had continued along the path of conquest; Serbs had occupied Prilep and begun their advance on the Albanian coast, and Saloniki had surrendered before Mr. Asquith’s sententious statement. Fighting continued, and step by step the Allies pressed their old enemy towards the sea, the Greeks occupying more islands in the Ægean, the Bulgars pressing on towards Chatalja, hammering insistently on those outer defences of Constantinople till the Porte saw no help for it but to arrange an armistice.

So while the great men of the Great Powers were beginning to realize what was happening next door, and were working the cumbrous machinery of diplomacy too late for any practical purpose, the Allies, four young nations, unspoilt by luxury and great possessions, inspired by a high ideal, crossed their borders, drove the Ottoman forces before them from many a sternly contested field, and forced them to offer terms within a day’s march of the Turkish capital.

There is great glory in this crusade of the Allies against the heavy obstacle to progress which centres in Constantinople. Great glory for Western civilization by which these young kingdoms were informed when they set their house in order and united their forces to bold endeavour. Great glory to the faith they profess, which makes union possible and thus leads to victory. Greater glory still to those of all the other European nations who, seeing the plight of Christianity’s old enemy, hastened to assist him. Here in Constantinople they are at work, these bearers of Western culture, under Red Cross or Red Crescent, helping where the Turkish authorities have proved helpless, saving thousands from death by wound or disease while their own stand by and let the mosques, built to commemorate the victories of Islam, overflow with untended sufferers.

Yes, it is a great and glorious victory this last crusade begun by the young kingdoms of the Balkans, informed with high purpose, trained by Western thought and action, completed by those soldiers of the Cross who risked their lives in fighting dread diseases, seeking no reward, moved by that mainspring of their faith, Charity.