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 rôle that is expected of him—the rôle of the irresponsible boy out of school hours. The point he doesn’t realise is that why people are ignorant of his vision of sacrifice is because he has said nothing to mirror it to them. He can’t. It isn’t in his nature. His silence works an injustice both to others and to himself.

“I have a rendezvous with death!” Those words of Alan Seeger’s utter the true heart of the Front. Every khaki-clad figure has the same sure foreknowledge of the stern privilege of the rendezvous which awaits him. It is only his dumbness that causes him to conceal that knowledge.

But it is not of Alan Seeger that I wish to write. I only quote his last words because they are significant of the heart and mind of another poet—a Highlander who was brave enough to break through the curse of reticence and express the beliefs which to him appeared most shining. Lieutenant E. A. Mackintosh, M.C., belonged to the Seaforths and was killed recently near Fontaine-Notre-Dame while observing enemy movements under heavy shell-fire. He was twenty-four when he died. The war created him into bigness of soul; previous to that he had been a pleasant versifier with nothing important to say. He left behind one published volume, “A Highland Regiment,” and numerous scraps of mud-stained manuscript, including his finest achievement, “War, the Liberator,” which are here for the first time printed. It is