Well, perhaps one day we might have forgiven you your rapine and your murders; our towns that you have sacked; your heavy yokes; your infamous treasons.

The French race is so light of heart, so kindly, that we might perhaps in time have forgotten our resentments.

What we never shall forget will be this New Year's Day, which we have been forced to pass without news from our families.

You at least have had letters from your Gretchens, astounding letters, very likely, in which the melancholy blends with blue eyes, make a wonderful literary salad, composed of sour-krout, Berlin wool, forget-me-nots, pillage, bombardment, pure love, and transcendental philosophy.

But you like all this just as you like jam with your mutton.