new and old.

So with our modern fashions and our ceaseless garrulity the ancient standard of life and manners is fast changing. Traditions are dying, and none Pantomimes knows what tricks or antics will take their place. And with our manners we change our amusements. Time was when Christmas was incomplete without its pantomime-a curious medley of chalk and red paint, of monsters and fairyland, of flimsy yet lustrous backcloths, and reckless, irresistible puns. Above all, it was usual in these saturnalia to jibe at the year's absurdities, and to touch off, as is still done in the French revue, the scandals of the world or the follies of politicians. But nothing is left us of the pantomime but its name—no acting, no jest, no clown, no transformation scene-nothing. Processions we have in plenty, our eyes are always dazzled with the glitter of changing lights; yet the clown is reduced to his very lowest terms, the pantaloon is no longer the genial dupe of our childhood, and if the harlequin does flourish a wooden sword, it is only for an instant, and by way of an apology. What, then, is put in the place of the old enchantments? The endless manoeuvring of half-drilled women, and inapposite patriotism. The patriot is the noblest of men, when he does not degenerate into a patriotard. But we confess that we do not want to hear of England's grandeur from behind the footlights, nor do we bear with patience a lesson in politics delivered by a young lady whose pink tights are obviously too small for her. This kind of hysteria may attract pennies to the tambourine: it does not increase the dignity of our country nor the courage of our citizens. But the climax is reached when, in a certain pantomime, a dozen dancing-girls turn violent somersaults in order that, as they stand upon their heads, the union-jack may be seen emblazoned in their petticoats! 'Tis a sorry spectacle, and, if it were characteristic, we might take it for a symptom of the nation's decadence.

The tradition of the East.

But tradition lingers longer in the east than in the west, and while the fashionable pantomimes are composted of music - hall airs and undesigned insults to our flag, there are distant theatres which still respect the older fashion. Go to Hoxton, if perchance you can find your way through the devious wilderness of the city, and you will find at the Britannia a perfect vision of the past. There can be very little of the music-hall in a theatre whose orchestra does not disdain that forgotten melody, "Spring, Spring, Beautiful Spring!" But that is the note of the Britannia-it is just thirty years behind these prosaic times. So that the traveller to Hoxton may rejoice his eyes with the dear, dead conventions of the past. He may see the whole strength of the company line up while the transformation scene is being prepared, until each has contributed his little song and dance, and they have all "walked round" unnumbered times. He may hear the pleasant old jests about pawnshops and mothers-in-law, which should æstivate (so to say) but which should still enjoy the freedom of the winter months. He may see fairies, suspended on obvious wires, float elegantly through the air; he may see such a transformation scene of painted cloth and lamps as would evoke a sigh of satisfied surprise from a curmudgeon. Above all, he may see a real clown and a real pantaloon, and if the red-hot poker was lacking this year, we shall look out in twelve months for its restoration to popularity. Yet Hoxton, too, has been persuaded to cheapen the emotion of patriotism: the vice, in truth, is universal; but the taste of Hoxton is miles ahead of Piccadilly; and the Britannia, at least, need not sadden us with the reflection that London is approaching Paris in sentiment and behaviour. If the speech of the Boulevards could project bullets, no nations save the French would live an hour; and if the pantomimes of London were translated into fact, a small, compact army

of ballet-girls, wrapped round with the union-jack, would even now be marching to the conquest of the world. But we are persuaded that our patriotism and courage are deeper than the doggerel of the music-halls, and that when once the unaccustomed panic be past we shall return again to quieter manners and a juster sentiment of life and war.

The patriotism of Fleet Street.

In Fleet

Such is our persuasion; yet we confess the weight of argument is against us. We are all patriots-of that there can be no doubt. All the journalists are patriots: they profess their patriotism in every article which they publish. Short of marching to the front, they are ready for every sacrifice so they say. But there is one sacrifice, the easiest of all to make, from which the journalists recoil in horror-the sacrifice of garrulity. Street alone there are at least five hundred persons competent to supplant Lord Salisbury and the Commanderin-Chief; and as these five hundred are gentlemen who do not know the vice of reticence, it is not their fault if the whole world is not by this time aware of Sir Redvers Buller's incompetence, and Lord Roberts' wicked censorship of news. They are dogmatic-are these journalists; they have no doubts; they think they have mastered the whole art of war; but they would rather see their country ruined than themselves behind in the race for news. That is the sacrifice which not one of them is prepared to make, and their vanity is the sorriest spectacle of modern times.

Now, it is necessary to remind the press that a war is not conducted merely for its peculiar use and benefit. When we accepted the challenge hurled at us by President Kruger, we were not moved by the reflection that a campaign in South Africa would mean credit for Fleet Street, and glory for the war correspondents. Fleet Street and the war correspondents are no more essential to the empire than the parasites who hope to loot our

camps; and Fleet Street and the war correspondents are the most dangerous camp-followers of all. Being servants, they mistake themselves for masters; being paid to disseminate news, they think they have a right not only to know everything that takes place, but also to comment upon it in such terms as seems good to them. And when news fails them, they turn about to abuse the War Office or the Government or the generals, or anybody or anything that comes near to their hand. They know nothing: yet their pose is omniscience; they write leading articles, which contain three or four mutually destructive statements: yet the statements are in print, and their only begetters swell with dignity. One day the Boer force amounts to 30,000. The next day any man is worse than a criminal who did not divine at the very first that the Boer force was 100,000. Fortunately the editor has a short memory, and he is careful not to charge himself with the incompetence that he hurls in the teeth of all the world. But he excites some few, poor, foolish persons in the provinces, and if only he hammers on long enough he creates a half-opinion out of manifold ignorance.

He does more than this. By collecting every scrap of news, by defying the censor, by printing the letters of private soldiers, he is able to prove himself the staunchest ally of his country's enemies. So long as he has full licence, it is idle to close Delagoa Bay. He prints the news; the spies of Kruger telegraph it hot-hand to Pretoria; and our enemies within twenty-four hours are forewarned and forearmed. What cares the journalist? He has sold another thousand copies of his paper, and so long as his circulation is secure, he will cheerfully witness the world in ashes. But even, when he has given valuable aid to the Boers, he is not content. It is still his privilege to discourage the soldiers of his Queen. can invite complaints from every Dick, Tom, and Harry who serves in the ranks. He can collect the foolish,

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miserable letters written in camp, and print them with the authority which his circulation gives him. So we have heard that a certain general has lost the confidence of his men; that after a certain engagement he narrowly escaped death at the hand of mutineers; that in future no soldier would respect his orders, &c. Now, this sent back to Africa becomes a positive incentive to mutiny. The poor fellow who wrote the letter we may forgive : he wrote in anger and discomfort. But what can we say of the editor, who, in the cool atmosphere of a comfortable room, initials this infamous piece of gossip for the printer? The journalist, in truth, desires to take all the part he can in the conduct of the war. Yet he is not amenable to the Army Act. If he were, he might receive a short shrift, for the punishment of his offence-discouragement of our soldiers-should be death.

Again, he is never so happy as when he is stirring up small jealousies. Here is a little gem, which one journal deemed it right and proper to print: "I have come to the conclusion that the English generals are lacking in They affect to despise the Volunteers, who are probably the best men they have got, and it is a fact that the Volunteers have to wait for their meals until the Regulars have been served." This jewel of gossip is signed "Shrewd Observer," and it is plain that the epithet is well-chosen. It is "shrewd," indeed, to invent a foolish grievance, and send it broadcast over the world. Poor Volunteers! Do they really wait for their dinner? Of course they don't; and if they did they would be strong enough to bear the delay; but "Shrewd Observer," who ought to edit a journal, fancies a grievance, and who knows, with good luck he may have inspired half-a-dozen of our volunteers to discontent.

Of course we are a democracy, and we must act in public. But we believe that in this matter the people is higher-minded than the press. We believe that the most of our citizens would rather wait for their news than risk