You can't carry out the Cromwellian method in the nineteenth
century. Too many people know what is going on, and consciences are too
tender. On the other hand, nothing is so disastrous as that method half
carried out. We can't exterminate the Dutch or seriously reduce their
numbers. We can do enough to make hatred of England and thirst for
revenge the first duty of every Dutchman, and we can't effectively
reduce the numbers of the men who will carry that duty out. Of course it
is not a question of the war only. It is a question of governing the
country afterwards.
So far we only really hold the ground on which our armies stand. If I
were to walk out from this tent a mile or two over the hills yonder, I
should probably be shot. Kronstadt has been ours for four months. It is
on the main railway. The country all round is being repeatedly crossed
by our troops. Yet an Englishman would not be safe for a minute out of
range of those guns on the hill.
There is a delightful feeling of spring in the air. We have had some
warm, heavy rains lately. The veldt grass, till now dry and dusty and
almost white, is beginning to push up tiny green blades, and the green
colour is beginning to spread almost imperceptibly over the distant
hills. I begin to feel a sort of kindred impulse in myself. The old
lethargy, bred of the dull, monotonous marches over the dreary plains,
is passing, and I begin to cock an attentive eye at the signs of
awakening, and feel that I am waking up myself.
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