SIDNEY LEE.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "IS IT YOU, MOTHER?"]

THE FATE OF FLEMISH ART AT THE HANDS OF KULTUR

It will not be possible to estimate the injury suffered by the monuments of art wherein Belgium was so rich till the war is ended and the ruins examined. Much of the irreparable loss we know, as in the cases of Louvain and Ypres. In general we may fairly conjecture that whatever is portable behind the German lines is stolen, or will be, and the rest destroyed. What is portable is stolen for its cash value, just as are money, furniture, clothes, and watches. So much of respect for works of art we may expect from the Prussians--the measure of respect for the cash shewn by the Prussian general at Termonde who robbed a helpless civilian of the 5,000 francs he had drawn to pay his workmen's wages, and then called earth and heaven to witness his exalted virtue in not also murdering his victim. But what cannot be carried--a cathedral, a monument, an ancient window--that is destroyed with an apish zest. Even a picture in time or place, inconvenient for removal, that also will be defiled, slashed to rags, burnt. And indeed why not? For the best use of a work of art as understood among the Prussian pundits is to make it the peg whereon to hang some ridiculous breach of statistics, some monstrous disquisition of bedevilled theory; and for such purposes a work no longer existing so as good as any--even better.

And so the marvels of the centuries go up in dust and flames, and the memorials of Memling and Matsijs, Van Eyck, and Rubens are treated as the masters' own bodies would have been treated, had fate delayed their time till the coming of the Boche.

ARTHUR MORRISON.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE FATE OF FLEMISH ART AT THE HANDS OF KULTUR]

THE GRAVES OF ALL HIS HOPES

"Look at the map," says the German Chancellor. Look at the map, and mark with a cross every German disappointment and you will have a history of the war more illuminating than many books on the subject. The Marne, Ypres, South Africa, West Africa, Egypt, Bagdad, India, Tripoli, Verdun.

Look at the map indeed. The map of the world that Germany set out to conquer. Consider the vapouring and vainglory that marked each of these "successes" in political or military trickery and the fact that of the military crosses each upbears above a mountain of losses the refrain of the old German song Verdorben--Ges...o...b..n--Ruined--Dead.

It is a wonderful map to consider, this map of the world in 1916. A wonderful map to be studied by the mothers of the Fatherland who have suckled their children to manure the crops of the future, to feed the crematoriums and blast furnaces of Belgium, to fill the mad houses, blind asylums, and homes for incurables, when the frosts of Russia and the guns of the Allies have done with them.

And every cross marks the grave of a hope.

Paris Regrets eternels.

That wonderful inscription was the first to be cut. Galliene was the mason. Verdun was the last and will not be the least. But, whatever may come to be written on stone, on the heart of the mourner when he comes to die only one inscription will be found: "Calais." If he has a heart large enough to have even these six letters.

H. DE VERE STACPOOLE.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE GRAVES OF ALL HIS HOPES]

"MY SIXTH SON IS NOW LYING HERE--WHERE ARE YOURS?"

There is a picture in Brussels that the Kaiser ought to study on one of his visits to the Belgian capital. It is Wertz's picture of Napoleon in Hades.

Wertz was a madman, he knew something of the horrors of war, but he knew, also, something of the grandeur and n.o.bility of Napoleon.

Napoleon is surrounded by women holding up the mutilated remains of sons, lovers, and fathers, and still he remains Napoleon, the child of Destiny, the Inscrutable, the Calm, and, if one may say so, the Gentleman.

Women knew, at least, that their dead had fallen before the armies or at the will of a great man in those Napoleonic days; there was something of Fate in the business.

But to-day the widow or the mourning mother, whilst knowing that her son or her husband has fallen in defending Humanity from the Beast can find no quarter in their hearts for the form or the shape of manhood that stands, in the words of Swinburne:

"Curse consecrated, crowned with crime and flame!"

No taunt could be too bitter for their lips and none more bitter than the words of Raemaekers:

"My sons are lying here--where are yours?"

H. DE VERE STACPOOLE.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "MY SIXTH SON IS NOW LYING HERE--WHERE ARE YOURS?"]

BUNKERED

The Crown Prince is in a very awkward predicament. He has driven his ball into a deep sand-pit from which a very clever professional golfer might perhaps extricate himself by a powerful stroke with a niblick. But young William is not a professional, and indeed knows nothing about the game. So he takes his driver and his other wooden clubs, and smashes them all, with much bad language, while he whacks at the ball, which only buries itself deeper in the sand. He is pondering what to do next.

There is, however, only one thing to do. He must take up his ball and lose the hole. The real players on his side must be disgusted at being saddled with such a partner. But what is to be done when a fool is born a war-lord by right of primogeniture? In a few years, in the course of nature, this fortunate youth will be the Supreme War-Lord himself; it will be his business to "stand in shining armour" by some luckless ally who has been selected to pick a quarrel for Germany's benefit, and to shake a "mailed fist" in the face of a trembling world. That will be a spectacle for G.o.ds and men. But perhaps something will happen instead.

W. R. INGE.

[Ill.u.s.tration: BUNKERED]

GOTT STRAFE VERDUN

An impartial military verdict on the German strategy and tactics at Verdun has not yet been delivered. After the failure of the Allies to break through last year, the German higher command issued a paper, which has been printed in American newspapers, advocating "nibbling" tactics, instead of attempts to carry a strongly fortified line by a coup _de main_. The Germans have buoyed up their hopes by a.s.suring each other that their troops have been making a slow but methodical progress toward the "fortress," according to program. But even if we grant that the disproportion in casualties is probably not so great as some of our critics have supposed, it is difficult to believe that the enemy was prepared for such resistance as he has met with. To all appearance, the Germans expected to break through in a few days, and hoped that this success would rehabilitate the credit of the paltry young prince whom we here see entangled in barbed wire, his uniform in rags, and despair depicted on his haggard face. Another confessed failure would finish the career of the Crown Prince; and yet there are limits to the endurance of any troops, and these limits have now been reached. There is nothing left to young William but useless imprecations. He swaggered into this war, for which he is partly responsible, expecting to win the reputation of a general; he will sneak out of it with the reputation of a burglar.

W. R. INGE.

[Ill.u.s.tration: GOTT STRAFE VERDUN

"If only I knew whether it is less dangerous to advance or to retire."]

THE LAST THROW

The first throw, of course, was that great rush which was stayed at the Marne by the Genius of Joffre; then there was the throw of the great attack on Russia, that which laid waste Serbia, and that which would have thrust men down from the Alps on to the Italian plain. In each of these Raemaekers' symbolism is applicable, for in each case death threw higher than either Germany or Austria could afford.

But in none is the symbolism so terribly fitting as in this case of Verdun, where the fighting men went forward in waves and died in waves--here death threw higher in every attack than Germany could throw, and to such heights was the slaughter pushed that it was, in truth, the last throw of which these war-makers were capable. It is significant, now that Germany can no longer afford such reckless sacrifices as were made before Verdun, that the German press contains allusions to heavy sacrifices on the part of the Allies, and tries to point to folly in allied policy. Surely, in the matter of sacrifice of life, no nation is so well qualified to speak from experience as Germany.

There is clumsy anxiety expressed in every line of the figure that holds the dice box, and in every line of the figure in the background is nervous fear for the result of the throw--fear that is fully justified.

But Death, master of the game, waits complacently to mark the score, knowing that these two gamblers are the losers--and that the loser pays.

E. CHARLES VIVIAN.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE LAST THROW]

THE ZEPPELIN BAG