Among the many “reflections” flashed upon the mirror of the time there is one which to my mind is not so much a “reflection” as a blur—a blot which is almost a dark and deepening shadow. I, who venture to write of it, own myself to be but a mere romancist, whose ostensible business is to weave night and day, like the “Lady of Shalott,”—“A magic web with colours gay,” a web of thought-tapestry into scenes and episodes which may or may not please my readers and distract them from the continuous harassment and grief brought upon them by the war. It might even be said of me that—
“So she weaveth steadily
And little other care hath she,”
but for the further fact that—
“Moving through a mirror clear
That hangs before her all the year
Shadows of the world appear,”
and the Shadow which darkens my outlook most is what I may call the Shadow of Negation, or what the Roman Church classifies among the sins against the Holy Ghost, namely, “Presumption of God’s mercy.”
There are any number of apparently worthy, respectable and well-intentioned persons who regard the Great War as a singular piece of Divine injustice and undeserved annoyance to themselves—and their attitude towards it is so amazing as to be almost incredible.
They are incapable of taking a broad outlook; and, to them, the whole terrible business is a monstrously impertinent interference with the peaceful working of the Parish Pump—no more.