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the Red, Swoll'n with impious pride
 * And stuffed with texts to serve his instant need,

Took Shame for partner and Disgrace for guide,
 * Earned to the full the hateful traitor's meed,
 * And bade his hordes advance

Through Belgium's cities towards the fields of France; And when at last our patient island race,
 * By the attempted wrong
 * Made fierce and strong,

Flung back the challenge in the braggart's face, Oh then, while martial music filled the air, Clarion and fife and bagpipe and the drum, Calling to men to muster, march, and dare,
 * Oh, then thy day,, was come.

, the Muse shall fill my strain
 * To sing thy praises; thou hadst spent thy time

Not idly, nor hadst lived thy life in vain,
 * Unfitted for the guerdon of my rhyme.

For lo, the Funds went sudden crashing down,
 * And men grew pale with monetary fear,
 * And in in the toppling mart
 * The stoutest heart

Melted, and fortunes seemed to disappear; And some, forgetting their austere renown,
 * Went mad and sold

Whate'er they could and wildly called for Gold!

"Since through no fault of ours the die was cast
 * We shall go forth and fight
 * In death's despite

And shall return victorious at the last;
 * "But how, ah how," they said,
 * "Shall we and ours be fed

And clothed and housed from dreary day to day, If, while our hearths grow cold, we have no coin to pay?"

Then thou, where no gold was and little store
 * Of silver, didst appear and wave thy pen,
 * And with thy signature
 * Make things secure,

Bidding us all pluck up our hearts once more
 * And face our foolish fancied fears like men.

"I give you notes," you said, "of different kinds
 * To ease your anxious minds:

The one is black and shall be fairly found Equal in value to a golden pound; The other—mark its healthy scarlet print— Is worth a full half-sovereign from the Mint."

Thus didst thou speak—at least I think thou didst—
 * And, lo, the murmurs fell
 * And all things went right well,

While thy notes fluttered in our happy midst. Therefore our grateful hearts go forth to thee, Our British note-provider, brave ! R. C. L.

 ".—Can any member let me know as to what kind of weather to expect in Belgium towards the end of October, and as to the condition of the roads? I and my wife propose going a tandem tour at that time in the Ardennes, Luxembourg, etc. Are most of the hotels shut for the season at that time? Would the north of France be preferable?—G. J.'—C. T. C. Gazette."

This gentleman is evidently particular. We are half afraid he will not get quite what he wants.



The Times' "agony column," my staple reading during toast-and-marmalade, suffers from the all-pervading war. Old friends have dropped out of the column on its war march. No longer does the Young Gentleman yearning for the idyllic life call on the charitable to provide him with a year of perfect ease, comfort and luxury. I had hoped to meet him some day, to draw out his confidences, perchance to edit his memoirs. "My Cheek is My Fortune" would be a catchy title. But apparently the War has put him out of business. The idyllic life has gone. Another victim.

His place is being filled by the Sportsman, eager to be up and shooting—partridges. "Either singly or with a house party" he offers. He asks only for board, lodging and ammunition. These provided, he is willing to go for the enemy all September and October.

Another Sportsman, humbler in aspiration, is prepared to specialise on rabbits. He is ready to continue the fight until "Peace terms dictated in Berlin by Allies."

There has also arisen the Professional Rescuer. He offers to go abroad—for a cash consideration—and smuggle back stranded relatives. He does not give particulars of personal appearance, but one may imagine him as essentially Williamlequeuish—small dark moustache, super-shrewd eyes, Homburg hat, a revolver in every pocket, speaking six languages more fluently than the natives, and on terms of intimacy with half the diplomats of Europe. He would his conversation with a casual: "The last time I was chatting with the (I shall, of course, cut him in future)…"

Another occupation has been called into being by the War. It is that of Berth-Snatcher. He is apparently a City man who has realised all his securities and invested them in berths and staterooms on Atlantic Liners. These he now offers "at a small bonus"—exact amount unstated. is the

Also interesting is the occupation of Amateur Adviser. He has much well-intentioned advice to offer to all and sundry: "To the War Office. It is hoped that something is being done regarding," etc. Or: "Japan, our Ally, could easily lend us million men."

Presumably the Amateur Adviser has been denied place in the correspondence columns.

The Young Hungarian Nobleman, whose remittances have been stopped by the war, is reminiscent of the original yearner for the idyllic life. "Is supposed to be of good appearance," he states with obtrusive modesty.

But the romantic halo around these young aristocrats is rather tarnished by the Young French Vicomte. When he advertises that he "would thankfully accept some clothes from English or American gentlemen," one suspects a snug little second-hand business somewhere in savoury Soho.

 From a letter in The Bristol Evening Times:-

"'Only last evening I was passing through one of our main thoroughfares, and saw seven or eight Territorials taking refreshment in a the backbone. I ask in fairness, Is this the backbone. I ask in fairness, is this patriotic?'"

In fairness we reply, It is neither.

"'The old Latinist has it, 'Deos vult pedere prius dementas,'' Manx Chronicle."

How one's Latin slips from one with advancing age! But he must have been very old.

"'The Scheldt can easily be damned.'—Daily Chronicle."

So can the, but it isn't enough to say so.