flood of widows’ and orphans’ tears. Mentally unbalanced, physically inefficient, and morally lacking--living as one pursued by the Furies in an armoured cage, and surrounded by guards on earth and in air, lest by chance his “Gott” should kill him, he moves one to amazement and pity--for the whirlwind has him in its centre, twirling him round and round like a veritable mannikin of sport for the dread gods of destiny--a mannikin who hardly knows how he came to be where he is, or where he will find himself when the storm is past. Meanwhile his voice is heard above the storm shouting “To England! England! The one foe! My Mother’s land, which I hate! Would that every drop of British blood in my veins might be drained out of me!” Well, why not? A calf has been bled before now, and not a drop of its mother’s blood has been left in its carcase--there is nothing to prevent this desirable consummation for the Kaiser since he so devoutly wishes it. The whirlwind may strip him yet, and perform this required kindness! But in the interval the arrogant and half-crazed “War Lord” has sacrificed the best flower and strength of Germany’s manhood to his criminal and insatiable lust of power. The German people have not yet realised the mercilessness of this military despot--but when they do--when they count the desolate homes, the ruined trades, the lost commerce, the ravaged lives and broken hearts which mark the “triumph” of the stagey and spectacular “hero” they have worshipped, there will be an end of the blind credulity with which they have followed a vain ideal. * * * * *