Even those early and tragic reverses of the war did not stir the stolid British bulk.  Men fought for a chance to fight; restriction still oppressed factory output.  Red tape vied with tradition to block the path of military and industrial preparation.

Then the Lion stirred; the sloth fell away; men and munitions were enlisted; the strong hand was put on labour tyranny; conscription succeeded the haphazard voluntary system.  Britain got busy and she has buzzed ever since.

When the kingdom had become a huge arsenal; when the old sex differences vanished under the touchstone of a common peril; when the first khaki host swept to its place in the battle line, and the grey fleets were once more queens of the seas, England turned to the task of commercial rebuilding, once neglected, but thenceforth to be part and parcel of British purpose.

Animating this purpose, stirring it like a vast emotion, was the New Battle Cry of Empire—­the kindling Creed of United Dominions, consecrated to the economic mastery of the world.

But this revival was not an overnight performance.  If you know England you also know that it takes a colossal jolt to stir the British mind.  The war had been in full swing for over a year and the countryside was an armed camp before the realisation of what might happen commercially after the war soaked into the average islander’s consciousness.

Under the impassioned eloquence of Lloyd George the munition workers had been marshalled into an inspired working host; with the magic of Kitchener’s name, the greatest of all voluntary armies came into being.  But it remained for Hughes, of Australia, to point out the fresh path for the feet of the race.

Who is Hughes, of Australia?  You need not ask in England, for the story of his advent, the record of his astounding triumph, the thrilling message that he left implanted in the British breast, constitute one of the miracles of a war that is one long succession of dramatic episodes.  This Colonial Prime Minister arrived unknown:  he left a popular hero.

Thanks to him, Australia was prepared for war; and when the Mother Lioness sent out the world call to her cubs beyond the seas there was swift response from the men of bush and range.  The world knows what the Anzacs did in the Dardanelles; how they registered a monster heroism on the rocky heights of Gallipoli; gave a new glory to British arms.

England rang with their achievements.  What could she do to pay tribute to their courage?  Hughes was their national leader and spokesman; so the Political Powers That Be said: 

“Let us invite the Premier to sit in the councils of the empire and advise us about our future trade policy.”

Already Hughes had declared trade war on Germany in Australia.  Under his leadership every German had been banished from commonwealth business; by a special act of Parliament the complete and well-nigh war-proof Teutonic control of the famous Broken Hill metal fields had been annulled.  He stood, therefore, as a living defiance to the renewal of all commercial relations with the Central Powers.  But he went further than this:  He decreed trade extermination of the enemy—­merciless war beyond the war.