tion making guys of themselves on play-house stages—truly this modern England is a thing to be proud of! What have such people to do with the brave and sturdy men and women, boys and girls, who are doing their best to build up a mighty Empire over the seas—the real British? Yes, it must be from over the seas, from north and south and east and west, that come those who are to save our honour and our Flag, and to stir up the slumbering ones here—only slumbering, I hope and believe—nay, I feel sure of it—for most certainly the day is near when the people themselves will demand that every citizen is trained to take his share in the defence of his land. The hooligans, the cricketers, the football players, the hunting men, the “idle rich," all classes in fact, the very loafers and dreamers of the land, are simply waiting for the call, and then Britain is Britain once more. But who is to give the call, who is to give the touch that sets the mighty machine going again, who is to clear away these black and yellow fogs enveloping and choking the land? ere is no sign yet of his coming. Is he to come after war and fire and pestilence have devastated the land? Is he first to drive the doubtful foreigner who sweats upon us from the door, and rid us of those “naturalised” undesirable aliens who are battening and fattening upon us—those rich nobodies who desert their own land to play mean little parts in ours, and call themselves British? What have they to do with the holding together and building of our Empire? Is it already too late? I think not, if only the board were swept of the place-hunting crew now infesting it, and those who have a little of the vim and patriotism of their ancestors come to the fore and take the helm. Perhaps some one will publish The Wit, Wisdom, Humour, and Brilliancy of the House of
