A notable exception to this feeling is found in the attitude of the populace towards their chosen ruler, the Emperor, or Film-Lord, Charlemagne-Chaplin. It is only fair to record that recent spectacular (and carefully stage-managed) appearances of the monarch have been greeted with every demonstration of unswerving loyalty and affection. More significant perhaps to an outside spectator is the undeniable fact that the Wild Western portions of Cinemaland are to-day in a state of turbulence bordering upon anarchy. The Cowboys, who are its chief denizens, would seem, so far as my experience goes, to spend their entire time in exploits of murderous violence; though here (as elsewhere among this remarkable people) the influence of sentiment is often unexpectedly potent. It can hardly be doubted that a populace so emotional and ill-balanced as that of Cinemaland will have little power to withstand the strain of disaster. Despite my apparent freedom from restraint I am persuaded that I was kept under the observation of a number of uniformed officials during the whole course of my stay in Cinemaland; and I am bound to confess that my departure, which was made under cover of darkness, was not unattended with a sense of personal relief. * * * * * PARABLES FOR BOSCHES. Once upon a time there was a Father who was devoted to his child. He fed it and nursed it and watched it grow and gave it toys to play with--both soldiers and boats. Also he made it promises that some day he would extend their house and garden until no house and garden were bigger. Every year he took it to the top of a high precipice and showed it beautiful lands and water which should some day be theirs. The child had heard this promise so often that it used to ask, "When? when?" And always the answer was, "Some day, some day." And then at last the day came, and the Father took the child to the high precipice yet once more, but behold it chanced that they both fell over and were smashed, the Father hopelessly and the child very, very badly, so that it would for long years or perhaps for evermore be a cripple. * * * * * ONE OF OUR ALLIES. Somewhere in France--no, let me be bold and say in Paris--there is a young French soldier named Charles. Less than two years ago he was a plumber and whole; to-day he has but one arm, his left; the other and a piece of his shoulder with it having gone in saving his country from the foe. Charles is shy and very modest, and no bigger than so many French youths--he is only twenty-two--with dark-brown hair and blue eyes with very black centres, and a moustache that never succeeds in looking more than three weeks old. Being, however, brave, he does not let his maimed condition unduly trouble him, but runs his errands (all that he can now do) and whistles as he runs, and is glad to be alive at all, instead of dead, as so many of his comrades are and as his Colonel is, as I shall tell.