Until one has seen a British port of embarkation in this war one has no real beginning, even, of a conception of the task the war has imposed upon Britain.  It was so with me, I know, and since then other men have told me the same thing.  There the army begins to pour into the funnel, so to speak, that leads to France and the front.  There all sorts of lines are brought together, all sorts of scattered activities come to a focus.  There is incessant activity, day and night.

It was from Folkestone, on the southeast coast, that the Reverend Harry Lauder, M.P.  Tour was to embark.  And we reached Folkestone on June 7, 1917.

Folkestone, in time of peace, was one of the greatest of the Southern watering places.  It is a lovely spot.  Great hotels line the Leas, a glorious promenade, along the top of chalk cliffs, that looks out over the Channel.  In the distance one fancies one may see the coast of France, beyond the blue water.

There is green grass everywhere behind the beach.  Folkestone has a miniature harbor, that in time of peace gave shelter to the fishing fleet and to the channel steamers that plied to and from Boulogne, in France.  The harbor is guarded by stone jetties.  It has been greatly enlarged now—­so has all Folkestone, for that matter.  But I am remembering the town as it was in peace!

There was no pleasanter and kindlier resort along that coast.  The beach was wonderful, and all summer long it attracted bathers and children at play.  Bathing machines lined the beach, of course, within the limits of the town; those queer, old, clumsy looking wagons, with a dressing cabin on wheels, that were drawn up and down according to the tide, so that bathers might enter the water from them directly.  There, as in most British towns, women bathed at one part of the beach, men at the other, and all in the most decorous and modest of costumes.

But at Folkestone, in the old days of peace, about a mile from the town limits, there was another stretch of beach where all the gay folk bathed—­men and women together.  And there the costumes were such as might be seen at Deauville or Ostend, Etretat or Trouville.  Highly they scandalized the good folk of Folkestone, to be sure—­but little was said, and nothing was done, for, after all those were the folk who spent the money!  They dressed in white tents that gleamed against the sea, and a pretty splash of color they made on a bright day for the soberer folk to go and watch, as they sat on the low chalk cliffs above them!

Gone—­gone!  Such days have passed for Folkestone!  They will no doubt come again—­but when?  When?

June the seventh!  Folkestone should have been gay for the beginning of the onset of summer visitors.  Sea bathing should just have been beginning to be attractive, as the sun warmed the sea and the beach.  But when we reached the town war was over all.  Men in uniform were everywhere.  Warships lay outside the harbor.  Khaki and guns, men trudging along, bearing the burdens of war, motor trucks, rushing ponderously along, carrying ammunition and food, messengers on motorcycles, sounding to all traffic that might be in the way the clamorous summons to clear the path—­those were the sights we saw!