ll civilised
peoples. It must surely be so, for the records of murders, robberies,
and outrages unspeakable suffered without warning, without provocation
by a prosperous and inoffensive people, will be a textbook of
inhumanity and wrong for generations to come.

The passing of wounded Belgian soldiers in English streets sadly
reminded us of what had happened in their unhappy country; of cities,
towns, and villages looted and left in ashes; and of the devil let
loose in Arcady. Only to think of it! In the summer of 1914 you
might, as it were to-night, dine in London, travel luxuriously by the
Harwich express, cross the North Sea, survey promising scenes of
industry and agriculture from the railway carriage, glance at Brussels
and Namur on the way, see the Mayflies dancing over a lovely trout
stream, have driven over miles of sweet woodland road, gone out in the
boat and caught your first fish, and slept in the absolute repose of a
charming rural retreat. Just in such a fashion did my old friend Sir
W. Treloar and I in a bygone June gain the Chalet du Lac, on the skirts
of the Belgian Ardennes, to enjoy the hospitality of our English host,
Mr. F. Walton, of lincustrian fame. All this was suddenly cut off from
the outer world and overrun by barbarian hordes, who feared not God,
neither regarded the rights of man. The Arcady had become a stricken
land of desolation. It is close on twenty years since we visited that
beautiful spot, but the memory of it abides. Here are impressions set
down at the time:

"Soon after leaving Namur the train passes through beautiful forest
scenery. You are nearing the Ardennes, and for miles you follow the
course of a typical trout stream, ever rushing and gliding from cool
woods to greet you. There were on that seventh day of June Mayflies in
the air, but the glaring sun and clear water revealed no sign of a
rising trout in any of the pools that came under observation.
Something after five o'clock of the afternoon on this particular
week-end outing the railway was done with, and right pleasant was the
change to an open carriage and the shaded five miles woodland drive to
the Chalet du Lac, built by my host on a lake of some fifty acres. The
supports of the veranda were, in fact, piles driven into the bed of the
lake, and the house was not only charmingly situated, but, having been
designed by its owner, a practical man of great artistic taste, was
charming in itself. The eye in