(To a King's Recruit.)
Now is your time of trial, now
When into dusk the glamour pales
And the first glow of passion fails
That lit your eyes and flushed your brow
In that great moment when you made your vow.
The Vision fades; you scarce recall
The sudden swelling of the heart,
The swift resolve to have your part
In this the noblest quest of all
By which our word is given to stand or fall.
Your mother's pride, your comrades' praise—
All that romance that seemed so fair
Grows dim, and you are left to bear
The prose of duty's sombre ways
And labour of the long unlovely days.
Yet here's the test to prove you kin
With those to whom we trust our fate,
Sober and steadfast, clean and straight,
In that stern school of discipline
Hardened to war against the foe within.
For only so, in England's sight,
By that ordeal's searching flame
Found worthy of your fathers' fame,
With all your spirit's armour bright
Can you go forth in her dear cause to fight.
Majesty,—Though you will never receive this letter, I feel that I must write it if only to relieve my mind of an intolerable burden. There is no doubt about it, things are not going well with us, and we shall soon be in a situation of a most deplorable kind. Our armies have been driven back in France—this is what Von Stein means when he declares that we have had "partial successes"—and Paris, which was to be captured weeks ago, seems to be as strong and as defiant as ever. The English are still unbroken and are pouring new armies into France. In Galicia the wretched Austrians are running like sheep; even Servia has beaten them and is invading Hungary and Bosnia; and our wonderful fleet, which cost so much good money, is bottled up. Soon we shall have the Cossacks on our backs, and then the dance will begin in earnest.
But you don't care—not a bit of it. You've been prancing about and making speeches and showing yourself on balconies and congratulating God on being such a good German. Do for Heaven's sake give us all a rest. We are in for a frightful war, and untold miseries are sure to fall upon us. Do you suppose that we shall be helped to bear them if you continue to act like an inebriated madman in the sight of the whole world?
Of course shall have to bear the responsibility. I know that well enough. So, while I still have the liberty to use my pen, I mean to make my protest and throw back the burden you want to put upon me. Let me tell you this: you can't go on bragging and trampling on others and glorifying your splendid and immaculate self without rousing anger somewhere. Other people have their feelings—I've got some left myself—and in the long run they're bound to get tired of being exposed to your insolence. We may be miserable worms, but we don't want to be told so every day.
And then how wanton and silly the whole management of the affair has been. Think of our Empire so gloriously won, so magnificently established. France, no doubt, brooded over the possibility of a revanche, but no other country envied us our success or desired either to damage our prestige or to interfere with our growing commerce. Everybody was glad to hail us as friends. And now nearly the whole of I Europe has been brought about our ears. Almost all countries wish for our destruction and are trying to bring it about. Italy deserts us. Even America, though you cringe to her, dislikes us and mentions Louvain when we speak of culture. What a masterpiece of folly and miscalculation and wasted opportunity it has all been. And the truth is that there's nobody to thank for it except your sublime self. Others have made mistakes, but you alone were capable of constructing this colossal monument of detestable blunders. Our fault has been that we did not attempt to check you when you pulled on your jack-boots and mounted your high-horse to ride rough-shod over the world, and that we pretended to believe you when you assured us that all was well because you had taken in the Almighty as a sleeping-partner in the business of governing a State. That fault in all conscience is big enough, but it becomes a mere speck when it is measured against yours.
I could add more, but what I have said is enough. At any rate I am now feeling better.
Yours, with all deference,
I have found favour in the sight of God;
From all His servants He selected Me
To take His gospel, "God and Germany,"
To Belgian heretics. Lo, I have trod
Through Belgium terribly, and taught the pack:
I put their ancient cities to the sack,
I gave their men and women to the sword,
I took their Belgian babes upon my knee
And broke them to the glory of the Lord.
It may be that one Belgian kennel stands,
One Belgian dog, not trampled into dust,
Still battles on beside these hosts of Hell
Who think to question the Most High's commands -
God will forgive me one, for He is just;
The blood of many thousands lights my fest;
Calmly I step before the Judgment Seat—
"Have I done well, O Lord, have I done well?"
A Fable.
A Suffolk Sportsman, wandering out with his Gun to get what he could, once brought down a Pigeon.
It was a tine Bird, and he popped it in a Pie and made abhearty Meal of it.
And then he began to feel most horribly ill in his Stomach.
The Moral is that one should not eat German homers, for Evil Communications Corrupt Good Digestions.
"Who has not read the humorist W. W. Jacobs? who has not spent many an enjoyable hour over his books, such as 'Three Men in a boat?'"—Timaru Herald.
Obviously the writer of the above paragraph.
