Writing to you, _cher_ TOBY, in the confidence of friendly correspondence (I suppose your letters are not opened at the Post Office, Barkshire not being an Irish county) I will confess that I really could not help it. It is not that I do not know better, but my temper is perhaps a little peculiar. I am essentially a fighting-man. If any one bites his thumb at me I will know the reason why, and no considerations of what is politic will prevent me from returning a blow. I know that some people think I'm almost to be pitied because (as they put it) I have hopelessly thrown away a position which no one but myself could have destroyed. They think I am politically done for. We shall see. However it be, I shall not forget the wild joy of battle that the events of the past year have purchased for me. I like it best with my back to the wall in the House of Commons, when my old friends jeer and howl at me, and the rapturous cheers of the Conservatives testify their pleasure at seeing me of all men playing their game--as they think. I confess things at the moment are not from any point of view very bright. But I can afford to wait, strong in the assurance that I can do better without the Liberal Party than the Liberal Party can do without me. They call me a Dissentient, which reminds me of a story I once heard about an aboriginal resident in the great country whither I am now hastening. A red man was found wandering in the depths of the forest with signs of perturbation manifest beneath his manfully calm exterior. "Are you lost?" he was asked. "No," he answered, "me no lost. Me here. Wigwam lost." It is not I that am a Dissentient Liberal; it is the Liberal Party that is the Dissentient. Now here is the Mayor come to say that luncheon's ready, and so, dropping into poetry again, I will say good-bye, With a sigh to those who love me, And a smile to those who hate, And, whatever sky's above me, Here's a heart for every fate. Yours faithfully, J. CH-MB-RL-N. * * * * * BOUNTIES TO FOREIGNERS. _First Passenger (in Underground Railway)._ We're such a frightfully _insular_ nation! Ignorant, exclusive, say-nothing-to-nobody sort of people! Think there's nothing beyond Straits of Dover--or Atlantic Ocean. _Second Ditto (agreeing out of politeness)._ Horrible? By the bye, that's a nice picture of the Paris Hippodrome, isn't it? _First Passenger (indifferently)._ Is it? But, as I was saying, insularity is our---- _Second Ditto (startled)._ Hullo! By Jove!--no, it can't be true! Yes, it is--here's an English newspaper taken to giving a column, a whole column, of French news _in French!_ (_Humorously._) Very insular, isn't it? _First Passenger (not understanding the point)._ Very. And, as I was saying, it's our besetting sin. We hide our heads like ostriches, and refuse to recognise the existence of foreigners. Then what does this insularity mean? It means we're _isolated_--cut off from Europe--hated by everybody.