service in a Buddhist Temple. I have spent a good deal of time with
Lord Rayleigh, who is the Chancellor of Cambridge University. He
never goes there. If he were to enter the town, all the men in the
university would have to stop their work, get on their parade-day
gowns, line-up by precedent and rank and go to meet him and go
through days of ceremony and incantations. I think the old man has
been there once in five years. Now this mediaevalism must go--or be
modified. You fellers who have universities must work a real
alliance--a big job here. But to go on.

The best informed English opinion is ripe for a complete working
understanding with us. We've got to work up our end--get rid of our
ignorance of foreign affairs, our shirt-sleeve, complaining kind of
diplomacy, our sport of twisting the lion's tail and such things
and fall to and bring the English out. It's the _one_ race in this
world that's got the guts.

Hear this in confirmation: I suppose 1,000 English women have been
to see me--as a last hope--to ask me to have inquiries made in
Germany about their "missing" sons or husbands, generally sons.
They are of every class and rank and kind, from marchioness to
scrubwoman. Every one tells her story with the same dignity of
grief, the same marvellous self-restraint, the same courtesy and
deference and sorrowful pride. Not one has whimpered--but one. And
it turned out that she was a Belgian. It's the breed. Spartan
mothers were theatrical and pinchbeck compared to these women.

I know a lady of title, very well to do, who for a year got up at
5:30 and drove herself in her own automobile from her home in
London to Woolwich where she worked all day long in a shell factory
as a volunteer and got home at 8 o'clock at night. At the end of a
year they wanted her to work in a London place where they keep the
records of the Woolwich work. "Think of it," said she, as she shook
her enormous diamond ear-rings as I sat next to her at dinner one
Sunday night not long ago, "think of it--what an easy time I now
have. I don't have to start till half-past seven and I get home at
half-past six!"

I could fill forty pages with stories like these. This very Sunday
I went to see a bedridden old lady who sent me word that she had
something to tell me. Here it