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I. Woodrow Wilson: Man and Statesman.
By Henry Leach . . . . CHAMBERS's JOURNAL 67 II. The Merchantmen. By Morley Roberts WESTMINSTER GAZETTE 72 III. Revolutions: Their Cause and Cure. By Ian D. Colvin . . . .
NationAL REVIEW 73 IV. Christina's Son. Book III. Chapters VII
and VIII. By W. M. Letts. (To be
. . 79 V. A Padre in East Africa. By R. G. . CORNHILL MAGAZINE VI. Undesigned Experiments. By Dr. Walter
Kidd, F.R.S.E. . . . . CONTEMPORARY REVIEW 99 VII. “The City of Dreams.” By Ganpat.
(Conclusion) . . . . BLACKWOOD's MAGAZINE 104 VIII. John Leech ,
. . . . TIMES 111 IX. The Case Against Persecution . MANCHESTER GUARDIAN 116 X. President Wilson's Answer
. . SPECTATOR 119 XI. Self-Denial. By R. C. Lehmann
. . . Punch 122 XII. A World Famine . .
NEW STATESMAN 123 XIII. Billy's Yarn. By C. Fox Smith . . London CHRONICLE 126
A PAGE OF VERSE. XIV. The Guards Came Through. By Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
- TIMES 66 XV. “The Bells o' Banff.” By Neil Munro Blackwood's MAGAZINE 66
BOOKS AND AUTHORS . . . . . . . 127
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THE GUARDS CAME THROUGH. Line after line with never a bend,
And a touch of the London swank Men of the 21st
A trifle of swank and dash, Up by the Chalk Pit Wood,
Cool as a home parade, Weak with our wounds and our thirst, Twinkle and glitter and fash. Wanting our sleep and our food,
Flinching never a shade, After a day and a night
With the shrapnel right in their face God, shall we ever forget!
Doing their Hyde Park stunt, Beaten and broke in the fight,
Keeping their swing at an easy pace, But sticking it-sticking it yet.
Arms at the trail, eyes front! Trying to hold the line,
Man, it was great to see! Fainting and spent and done,
Man, it was fine to do! Always the thud and the whine,
It's a cot and a hospital ward for Always the yell of the Hun! Northumberland, Lancaster, York, But I'll tell 'em in Blighty, wherever I Durham and Somerset,
be, Fighting alone, worn to the bone,
How the Guards came through. But sticking it-sticking it yet.
Arthur Conan Doyle.
Never a word of cheer!
“THE BELLS O’ BANFF.” Always the whine of the shell, Always the roar of its burst,
As I gaed down the water-side Always the tortures of hell,
I heard a maiden sing, As waiting and wincing we cursed
All in the lee-lone Sabbath morn, Our luck and the guns and the Boche. And the green glen answering. When our Corporal shouted “Stand “No longer hosts encountering hosts to!”
Shall clouds of slain deplore, And I heard some one cry. “Clear the They hang the trumpet in the hall, front for the Guards!"
And study war no more.” And the Guards came through.
Dead men of ancient tumults lay Our throats they were parched and hot, In dust below her feet;
But Lord, if you'd heard the cheers! Their spirits breathed to her but scents Irish and Welsh and Scot,
Of mint and the meadow-sweet; Coldstream and Grenadiers.
Singing her psalm, her bosom calm Two brigades, if you please,
As the dappled sky above, Dressing as straight as a hem, She thought the world was dedicate We—we were down on our knees,
For evermore to love!
O God! my heart was like to break, Praying with outstretched hand,
Hearing her guileless strain, Lord, I could speak for a week,
For pipes screamed through the HighBut how could you understand!
land hills, . How should your cheeks be wet,
And swords were forth again; Such feelin's don't come to you.
And little did the lassie ken But when can me or my mates forget,
Banff's battle bells were ringing; When the Guards came through!
Her lad was in the gear of war
While she was happy singing! "Five yards left extend!"
Neil Munro. It passed from rank to rank.
WOODROW WILSON: MAN AND STATESMAN.
Here in Britain diplomatic messages, great national appeals, proclamations, fine in their idea, mighty in their import, sentences which, lighted with a reader's imagination, blaze in the being, are often stodgy, complicated stuff of words. They smell of clerks and silken gowns, of old chambers and ancient precedents. They are hardly complete in themselves; the beauty of their intention is only revealed when imagination is applied. In such cases there seems a certain insincerity when indeed there is none. However, one comes to the understanding that this is a necessary governmental way; that in the highest places it is unusual and, maybe, impolitic to speak one's mind in simple terms; and that somehow constitutions and history demand a certain dullness and obscurity. If we reproach our enemies, praise the good Allies, encourage the little peoples who lean upon us, exhort our citizens to effort still higher, there are complications of terms, reservations, restraint, some coldness. The Americans come nearly new to such a business; it has been a rare affair with them, and they have no regard for precedents and forms. Truly, Lincoln was an influence, but the national messages of Lincoln had simplicity and frankness for their chief feature. They were not the European kind of thing. President Wilson's are the same in circumstances of even greater difficulty and greater moment. In their simplicity, their honesty, their idealism, and, above all, in the human sympathy they exhibit for the Old World in its agony, for poor suffering humanity, the appreciation of the sorrow and the pathos of it all, the pity of man for his poor brother, the wish to help, such messages are like draughts of cold water from a mountain spring to
parched lips. By them we feel a new force; we feel the youth and earnestness behind them. Even more than by the multiplied millions of dollars, the making of American arms, the coming of American ships, do we sometimes feel in these new and simple thoughts, so plainly expressed, setting forth the nobler principles of national and international life, the grand, the startling, effect of American idealism Mr. Wilson has been well inspired in the simplicity of his messages. The full spirit of Lincoln's frankness has come upon him, and his sppeals to Congress, to his countrymen, to the peoples of other lands, make a series which is matchless in plain impressiveness. We see the new hope, the new idealism, shining in them; we hear the call to man to be brave and strong that the end may be good for all. They are the words of man to man in the supreme crisis of the world. No conventions here! The proclamations of the President of the United States to his fellow-citizens and their foreign friends are not drafted by lawyers, considered by committees, altered and amended and given a Tudoresque finish. Instead of such a process, one likes to think of the President pacing in his garden, writing down, as is his habit, a note or two in shorthand, and then in the watches of the night, with the inspiration aflame in him, seating himself—as he does—before his little typewriter and with his own fingers keying the thoughts and words to their existence on paper almost as rapidly as they are shaped in his mind. That new tone in his messages, that simple frankness, that magnetic touch of hope and comfort and idealism, impress each reader at the first glance. Here is something that is not of the old way, not of