Before the War he used to write letters to the _Times_ on the urgent necessity there was for complete disarmament. In fervent language he pressed the reduction of naval expenses. He was, and is still, under the impression that the _Times_ is still as it was in ages past--a British Thunderer; an Oracle which manifested itself as “I am Sir Oracle; and when I open my mouth let no dog bark.” He forgets that journalism is now only a monstrous Syndicate, not expressive of thoughts, but of Shares and Dividends, and that if the _Times_ were what it once was, it would not publish any letter from Snooks. But Snooks is “fixed” in his opinions. He admits no change in the course of things--an old-established institution must, without argument, remain always as such, and must not totter to decay. When decay sets in, despite Snooks, he firmly denies its possibility. “Nonsense!” he says--“D’ye think I’ve come to my time of life without knowing better than that? Teach your grandmother!” Just at the time when he wrote letters about naval expenses and disarmament, one or two other “Snooks’s” popped up and replied. He was not pleased with their replies, as they opposed him. So he took up that Scheme of Idiots, the “Channel Tunnel,” and wasted a deal of ink in seeking to point out what a fine thing it would be to spend needless millions on a tunnel which the Richborough Ferry makes superfluous. His arguments fell a little flat, and he was for a short period reduced to writing about “the first primrose in my back garden”--and “I hope some of your readers have noticed the very early arrival of the wasp this year,” to the indulgent _Daily Mail_. But he never has found quite enough to do in the way of letter-writing to satisfy his ambition. There are not enough wrongs for a Snooks to set right--people of place and position do not make enough mistakes for a “Snooks” to correct. Daily and nightly he is consumed by the desire to see his name in print, and his craving sometimes leads him to look up familiar Latin quotations, more or less applicable to the political situation, and to send them (with the usual signed letter) to certain small newspapers whose position and reputation make the chance of their editor’s classical scholarship doubtful. To see himself in print, no matter how or when, is Snooks’s joy. And now that the war is blowing the dust of human affairs in all directions, Snooks has, as some press reviewers say: “come into his own.” He finds, so he states with engaging modesty, that if HE had been consulted, there would have been no war. “There was that Algeciras business,” he says vaguely, not knowing in the least what he is talking about. “It should all have been settled then.” He knows Viscount Grey personally, so he says, but--“he never would take my advice”--and as for Kitchener--ah!--“That’s a man who had immense possibilities!--immense!--but he was obstinate--he wouldn’t listen to a word I told him!”