From the military point of view Belgium is a backwater. It has no tide of its own. All its future movement depends on the ebb and flow of the immense struggle in France. The advance posts, or wandering patrols—if I may change the image—snarl and snap at one another continually. Every day, almost, from here to Antwerp, a German "Taube"—surely the most ill-omened dove that ever invaded the skies—hums over us. But Belgium has not yet got its cue.
The Belgian army would risk too much in a swoop on Brussels. The Germans, on the other hand, while less depleted than might have been anticipated, and strong enough to hold their own, are not strong enough to take the offensive with effect. We hear every day two scare stories. One is that Brussels has been evacuated; the other that von Goltz is pounding the forts at Antwerp. The mere mathematics of war rules out both; one for the present, the other, we hope and believe, for all time.
The weather has cleared. The equinox would
