England, in February, 1917, seems to deserve the title of “the great Loan Land.”  Amateurs of anagrams have found satisfaction in the identity of “Bonar Law” with “War Loan B.”  As a cynic has remarked, “in the midst of life we are in debt.”  But the champions of national economy are not happy.  The staff of the new Pensions Minister, it is announced, will be over two thousand.  It is still hoped, however, that there may be a small surplus which can be devoted to the needs of disabled soldiers.  Our great warriors are in danger of being swamped by our small but innumerable officials.

[Illustration:  A PLAIN DUTY

“Well, good-bye, old chap, and good luck!  I’m going in here to do my bit, the best way I can.  The more everybody scrapes together for the War Loan, the sooner you’ll be back from the trenches.”]

The older Universities, given over for two years to wounded soldiers and a handful of physically unfit or coloured undergraduates, are regaining a semblance of life by the housing of cadet battalions in some colleges.  The Rhodes scholars have all joined up, and normal academic life is still in abeyance: 

  In Tom his Quad the Bloods no longer flourish;
    Balliol is bare of all but mild Hindoos;
  The stalwart oars that Isis used to nourish
    Are in the trenches giving Fritz the Blues,
      And many a stout D.D. 
  Is digging trenches with the V.T.C.

[Illustration:  The Brothers Tingo, who are exempted from military service, do their bit by helping to train ladies who are going on the land.]

It is true that Mr. Bernard Shaw has visited the front.  No reason is assigned for this rash act, and too little has been made of the fact that he wore khaki just like an ordinary person.  Amongst other signs of the times we note that women are to be licensed as taxi-drivers: 

War has taught the truth that shines Through the poet’s noble lines:  “Common are to either sex Artifex and opifex.”

A new danger is involved in the spread of the Army Signalling Alphabet.  The names of Societies are threatened.  The dignity of Degrees is menaced by a code which converts B.A. into Beer Ack.  Initials are no longer sacred, and the great T.P. will become Toc Pip O’Connor, unless some Emma Pip introduces a Bill to prevent the sacrilege.

March, 1917.

With the end of Tsardom in Russia, the fall of Baghdad, and the strategic retreat of Hindenburg on the Western front, all crowded into one month, March fully maintains its reputation for making history at the expense of Caesars and Kaisers.  It seems only the other day when the Tsar’s assumption of the title of Generalissimo lent new strength to the legend of the “Little Father.”  But the forces of “unholy Russia”—­Pro-German Ministers and the sinister figure of Rasputin—­have combined to his undoing, and now none is so poor to do him reverence.  In the House of Commons everybody