finement of the white races, as distinct from the
Anglo-Saxon variety, can only be achieved by the active support
and close alliance of the American people. These people are to-day,
unhappily republicans and free men, and have no ill-will for Germany
and a positive distaste for imperialism. It is not really in their
blood. That blood is mainly Irish and German, the blood of men not
distinguished in the past for successful piracy and addicted rather to
the ways of peace. The wars that Germany has waged have been wars of
defence, or wars to accomplish the unity of her people. Irish wars
have been only against one enemy, and ending always in material
disaster they have conferred always a moral gain. Their memory uplifts
the Irish heart; for no nation, no people, can reproach Ireland with
having wronged them. She has injured no man.

And now, to-day, it is the great free race of this common origin
of peace-loving peoples, filling another continent, that is being
appealed to by every agency of crafty diplomacy, in every garb but
that of truth, to aid the enemy of both and the arch-disturber of
the old world. The jailer of Ireland seeks Irish-American support
to keep Ireland in prison; the intriguer against Germany would win
German-American good-will against its parent stock. There can be no
peace for mankind, no limit to the intrigues set on foot to assure
Great Britain "the mastery of the seas."

If "America" will but see things aright, as a good "Anglo-Saxon"
people should, she will take her place beside, nay, even a little in
front of John Bull in the plunder of the earth. Were the "Anglo-Saxon
Alliance" ever consummated it would be the biggest crime in human
history. That alliance is meant by the chief party seeking it to be
a perpetual threat to the peoples of Europe, nay, to the whole of
mankind outside the allied ranks. And instead of bringing peace it
must assuredly bring the most distracting and disastrous conflict that
has ever stained the world with blood.

John Bull has now become the great variety artist, one in truth whose
infinite variety detention cannot stale any more than Customs officers
can arrest the artist's baggage.

At one moment the "Shirt King," being prosecuted for the sale of cheap
cottons as "Irish Linen" in London; the next he lands the "Bloater
King" in New York, offering small fish as something very like a whale.
And the offer in both cases is made in the tongue of Shakespeare.

The tong