On our left wing the state of things remains
  Unaltered on a general review,
  Our losses in the centre match our gains,
  And on our right wing there is nothing new.

Nor do we gain much enlightenment from the “Eyewitness” with G.H.Q., though his literary skill in elegantly describing the things that do not matter moves our admiration.

[Illustration:  THE BULL-DOG BREED

OFFICER:  “Now, my lad, do you know what you are placed here for?”

RECRUIT:  “To prevent the henemy from landin’, sir.”

OFFICER:  “And do you think you could prevent him landing all by yourself?”

RECRUIT:  “Don’t know, sir, I’m sure.  But I’d have a damn good try!”]

The Kaiser’s sons continue to distinguish themselves as first-class looters, and the ban laid on the English language, including very properly the word “gentleman,” has been lifted in favour of Wilhelm Shakespeare.

The prophets are no longer so optimistic in predicting when the War will end.  One of Mr. Punch’s young men suggests Christmas, 1918.  But 500 German prisoners have arrived at Templemore, co.  Tipperary.  It’s a long, long way, but they’ve got there at last.

November, 1914.

The miracle of the Marne has been followed by another miracle—­that of Ypres.  Outgunned and outnumbered, our thin line has stemmed the rush to the sea.

The road to Calais has been blocked like that to Paris.  Heartening news comes from afar of the fall of Tsing-tau before our redoubtable Japanese allies, and with it the crumbling of Germany’s scheme of an Oriental Empire; of the British occupation of Basra; and of the sinking of the Emden, thanks to the “good hunting” of the Sydney—­the first fruits of Australian aid.  A new enemy has appeared in Turkey, but her defection has its consolations.  It is something to be rid of an “unspeakable” incubus full of promises of reform never fulfilled, “sick” but unrepentant, always turning European discord to bloody account at the expense of her subject nationalities:  in all respects a fitting partner for her ally and master.

At sea our pain at the loss of the Good Hope and Monmouth off Coronel is less than our pride in the spirit of the heroic Cradock, true descendant of Grenville and Nelson, prompt to give battle against overwhelming odds.  The soul of the “Navy Eternal” draws fresh strength from his example.  So, too, does the Army from the death of Lord Roberts, the “happy warrior,” who passed away while visiting the Western front.  The best homage we can pay him is not grief or

    Vain regret for counsel given in vain,
  But service of our lives to keep her free
    The land he served:  a pledge above his grave
  To give her even such a gift as he,
    The soul of loyalty, gave.

Even the Germans have paid reluctant tribute to one who, as Bonar Law said in the House, “was in real life all, and more than all, that Colonel Newcome was in fiction.”  He was the exemplar in excelsis of those “bantams,” “little and good,” who, after being rejected for their diminutive stature, are now joining up under the new regulations: