Chapter XVIII: Through Pennsylvania 219 (4)

I would not dare to say this to some of my American friends because they would know, as I knew, that underlying their criticism of England there is often a very deep devotion to the British Empire. The Germans have known this all along, and we can thank fortune that it still exists in spite of our failure to foster it. We established an _entente cordiale_ with France our hereditary foe, thank goodness, and we succeeded because many of us are bad at French and consequently unable to insult the French people. We have never seriously attempted the same thing with America. It is the underlying devotion of many Americans for the home country, as some of them still call our land, which has prevented the rudeness of some of our people from doing permanent harm. The Germans have tried to remove this devotion, but they have not succeeded amongst the educated classes, because, like us, intelligent American people don't quite like the Boche until he has settled in the country for over a hundred years.

But they have succeeded with the poorer classes, who sometimes dislike us intensely. The average American working man regards his brother in England as a poor fool who is ground down by the fellow who wears a high hat. He also regards John Bull as a wicked, land-grabbing old fellow--America's only enemy.

I share an office at the moment with a couple of American boys, both married. At first I shared Dnul's office with him, but as it is necessary for him to keep up diplomatic relations with all inspectors I felt that I would be in his way, so I retired, against his will, to the office next to him. It is better so.

The boys with me are interesting. One was a National Guard captain and looks the part. He was a Canadian once, so cannot be president of the United States. It is a great pity. The other is very clever at drawings and although only twenty-seven has made the world cheerier by being the father of eight children. I have arranged to inspect them some day and he is getting them drilled. He witnessed my signature to the publisher's contract for my first book on the day of his last baby's birth. Books and babies have always been mixed in my mind since I first heard the story of St. Columba's quarrel over the manuscript belonging to some other saint which he had copied. You remember the story. The archbishop or some very superior person looked into the matter, and said: "To every cow belongs its own calf." I believe that I am quoting correctly. I hoped that this friend's signature would be a good omen.

The other fellow, he of the National Guard, has but one baby. I manage to get along very well with them both.

There are an awful lot of stenographers about; a galaxy of beauty. I hear that they are very well paid, and judging by their very smart appearance they must be. I think that they are even better looking and more smartly turned out than the young ladies employed in the machine tool department at the Ministry in London.

I met old Sir Francis N---- one day going up the stairs at the Hotel Metropole in London after it became Armament Hall, and he said that really one did not know these days whether to raise one's hat or to wink when one met a young lady on the stairs. I always maintain a sympathetic neutrality. It is better thus.

I found, at first, letter writing a little difficult. One dictates everything and one must never forget to file one's letters. In business it is considered an awful thing to insult a person in a letter. Insult him to his face, by all means, if necessary; but never write rude things. I found it difficult to distrust firmly the intelligence of the person receiving the letter. Everything must be perfectly plain and you have to imagine that the person receiving the letter knows nothing about the subject. If writing a business letter to a friend I invariably became too personal. Cold blooded though polite things are business letters. They are immortal, too, and live in files for centuries and are liable to strike back at any moment like a boomerang. If you are insulting a third person it is always good to put before your more cutting statements, "In my opinion, I think." This will save you much trouble because it is taken that you are humble, and that your opinion is not worth very much. Nevertheless it will cause the person to whom you are writing to look into the matter, whereas if you say straight out, and crudely, that Jones is an entirely useless person or that Biggs is inefficient (it is better to say inadequate, since it means the same), the person receiving the letter will at once mutter, "Newspaper talk," and will forget the matter, although he may look into your own actions with a coldly discerning eye.

It seems to be different in the army where people write most unpleasant, suggestive things to one another. I don't think that they keep files so well in the army. However, I am learning fast and am very careful.

There are many wonderful contrivances over here for the saving of labour. They do not always save time, it is true, but many of them are useful, nevertheless. It is sometimes an interesting thing to see a fellow waiting several minutes for an elevator to take him down one flight of stairs. People seldom walk anywhere, as far as I can see; but this fact does not seem to affect the national physique which is usually splendid.

Quite large numbers of men wear spectacles, not your intellectual-looking gold-rimmed pince-nez, but great horn-rimmed goggles that certainly give a man a whimsical look. It all depends upon the appearance of the fellow. If he is thin and wiry these great goggles make him look like a polite tadpole. The theatrical folk realize this and in every comic show one of the comedians generally appears in these spectacles.

Desiring to use a swimming pool open only to the students of Lehigh University, I decided to take a course of lectures on metallurgy. I shuddered when I heard that these lectures took place from eight until nine A.M. How would one fit in breakfast? However, I arrived one Monday morning and found myself with twenty other fellows sitting at the feet of a large St. Bernard dog, and a very learned professor. I looked with interest at the men around me. They all seemed pale and haggard and "By Jove, these American students must work hard!" I thought. However, after several weeks I felt very much the same on Monday mornings, because many of the fellows became my friends and we spent our week ends together in fervent study at more than one extremely diverting country club. Perhaps, however, this is unfair.

The American university man is alleged to be a hard worker. He certainly has some very stiff examinations to pass. As a matter of fact, the man who desires to get on well in the business or intellectual world has to work jolly hard at the university over here. It is possible for a man, I have heard, to work his way through college without receiving a penny from his father. A fellow may even earn money by collecting laundry from his fellow students. The glorious part about this lies in the fact that his men friends do not supply him with kindly pity, but they sincerely admire him. If he is a good sort, that's all that matters.

As far as I can glean, the average American varsity man is a great hero worshiper. One is constantly meeting fellows who are regarded by their friends as regular "princes," and the thing that draws the greatest amount of admiration is well developed personality which in America is generally allied to kindliness. These "princes" are always humble, and invariably the same in their treatment of both ordinary people, and, what we called at Cambridge "rabbits" or undergraduates of the dormouse breed.

Sometimes people over here have pointed out to me that it is impossible for an undergraduate to work his way through our older universities. I have, of course, told them that while it would be very awkward to have a fellow undergraduate calling for one's soiled linen in England, still we had a way whereby a man could work his way through any university and especially the older ones. I told them that at my college there were always at least twenty men who received no money from home, but by comparatively hard work they were able to win scholarships and exhibitions. So that really things are much the same, the only difference lying in the fact that as our colleges are much older, people have had time to die in greater numbers and consequently there have been more bequests. I cannot say that I have had much opportunity to study the person called here a "lounge lizard." Like his brother in England, he at once joined up and is now learning to be a soldier.

I must admit that the American university man is very like his brother in England, just as irresponsible, just as charming and often possessed with the same firm determination to do as little work as possible under the circumstances. The only difference lies in the fact that after leaving college he is sucked into a whirlpool of exciting business and sometimes he finds himself floating down a strong flowing river of wealth wondering if it has really been worth while.

"You know how to live in England," they often say to me. "We don't. We work too hard, and we play too hard, and we haven't the remotest idea how to rest." Perhaps they are right, but it seems to me that a little American vim introduced to an English graduate would be an excellent thing; for after he has left college and is making an ass of himself in the city he has to learn that while a Cambridge or an Oxford hall mark is an excellent thing in the vicarage drawing room, it causes its possessor some sad moments in the business world of London or of anywhere else.

Perhaps this is a bit rough on the graduate from Oxford and Cambridge; but I think most of them will admit that there is a certain amount of truth in what I say. Of course, in my experience throughout the Empire I have found the varsity man a magnificent type of Britisher, but it is obvious that he has got to learn a few lessons, and lessons are sometimes hard things to learn.

X

SUBMARINES

BETHLEHEM, U. S. A., August 30, 1917.

The other day Dicky C---- and I went to Atlantic City for the week end. So many of my Bethlehem friends go to this place every year, that I felt my American experience would not be complete without a visit. We left this town at about three o'clock; we ought to have left sooner. The chauffeur developed caution to an almost unlimited extent and this worried Dicky, a furious driver himself. He told me with some pride the number of times he had been arrested on the White Horse Pike. The caution of the chauffeur was responsible for our arrival at our destination at about ten o'clock at night.

Being Saturday night, of course, it was impossible for a time to get either rooms or food. At the hotel where Dicky usually stopped we were turned down. His Majesty, the clerk, disliked the shape of our noses or our clothing or something. We spent one dollar fifty in telephone calls trying to get some hotel to take us in.

We started with the good ones, but even the fifth class houses were full. I therefore approached the clerk and explained that I was a British officer with nowhere except the sands upon which to sleep. This worked like magic.

We were shown into what was called a club room near the top of the building, where twelve beds were arranged hospital fashion. Our fellow guests were not there then, so we decided to sleep on the balcony in case any of them snored. The building is a beautiful one, having wonderful sort of battlements, and we fixed our beds out on one of these.

Then we sought food. We tried one fashionable place, but the head waiter was not impressed. He certainly looked at our noses and at our clothes. About these clothes--I had on a very good sort of golf kit. I almost know the sheep on the Island of Harris off of which the wool forming the material came. My stockings were thick and home made in the Highlands, and my brogues were made by Mr. Maxwell in Dover Street. Dicky was turned out similarly and being a big handsome sort of chap looked fine. Perhaps if we had given that waiter ten dollars as his usual patrons do, we would have been ushered in with much bowing, but we preferred to starve rather than to give him a cent.

We sought restaurant after restaurant, but could get nothing, not even a poached egg. Dicky was getting crabby. After an hour we at last got into a hot cheery sort of cabaret and drank small beer and ate all sorts of grills, also clams. After this Dicky became brighter, and I also felt more kindly, so we hired a comfy chair on wheels and spent an hour on the Board Walk, while the chairman told us with much enjoyment of all the sin and wickedness existing in Atlantic City. His stories, very lurid, were mixed up with automatic "pianners" into which one put a nickel.

Upon returning we found most of our fellow guests of the club room in bed, so we stole out on to the battlement and soon were sound asleep.

I awoke in the morning to find a terrific sun shining on my head threatening to melt my brain. I looked up towards the hotel and noted that we were sleeping on a balcony above which were roughly about eight stories. Immediately above us stretched a line of windows marking a staircase, and out of each window looked a head. It was really a study in black and white. There were black maids, and white maids, and they were all interested in Dicky as he lay there with the sun turning his light coloured hair into gold. I awoke him, and we both got inside and dressed.

After breakfast, and as it was a table d'hote we were not at all sparing in our choice of food, we sat for a time on a charming balcony overlooking the Board Walk. It was interesting to watch the people. I made a tremendous discovery, which was perhaps a little disappointing. I had always hoped that the British Empire contained the lost tribes of Israel. It does not. The United States of America has that honour.

We then sought a dressing room, and after removing our clothes and donning "fashionable bathing things" we sought the sand. It was all very thrilling and I was further confirmed in my discovery. There was a continuous procession of persons clad in bathing things, thousands of them. Few went into the water. There was much that was really beautiful. There were men burnt a rich shade of copper, beautifully built, with clean cut, good looking faces, walking along enjoying their youth. There were some priceless looking girls well decorated. I dislike women's bathing suits. They are theoretically meant for bathing in, but why on earth should they wear those extraordinary hideous garments: They look awful when they return from the water. Their stockings are all dragged round their legs and if they are shoeless the toe part of the stockings seems to escape and hangs over. However, most of the ladies had no intention of swimming. Their faces were often powdered and painted and their hair arranged in a most engaging way. Still many were delightful to look upon, notwithstanding their attire. I believe there are very strict rules about women's costumes at Atlantic City. My landlady assures me that she has seen the policemen measuring the length of a girl's swimming skirt!

I saw some magnificent looking fellows walking along. American men's dress often seems designed to spoil a fellow's appearance. His breeches are sometimes a little tight and the sleeves of his coat are short, displaying a good looking silk shirt; and sometimes as the breeches are low at the waist, the shirt sticks out in an untidy bulge. When he places on his good looking head the felt hat in vogue the destruction of his personal appearance is quite complete. But on the beach at Atlantic City all this is changed, and one realizes that the standard of manly physical beauty in this country is a very high one.

The bathing suit here in America is exactly like the kit we wear for Rugby football. Perhaps it would be better for swimming if it were lighter, and in one piece, but as much time is spent promenading, it is obviously better that it should be as it is.

Of course, quite a number were not beautiful to look upon. There were thousands of men and women who had reached the unlovely stage of their existence. Large portly men walked about unashamed and women with large stout legs encased sometimes in green stockings could be seen. As one walked along the beach the society seemed to change. Towards the poorer part of the town the people were a little older and less interesting. We came to one section where most of the bathers and promenaders were coloured people. I must say at once that the effect was singularly diverting. The young coloured ladies and gentlemen were smartly turned out. These American negroes look like awfully nice people. One would see a young coloured lady with an expensive and sometimes a beautiful swimming suit walking beside a fine handsome coloured boy. They seemed so happy. I was thrilled with the little ones as they dashed about with their strong little limbs. Unfortunately we had little time for observation because Dicky had seen a huge fat man at another part of the beach in a bathing costume, the sort of fellow that one sees at a country fair, and he insisted upon returning to have another look. This fat man sat there with his huge fearful limbs partially exposed while a crowd stood and looked at him. He seemed to like it, too. Human egotism is truly wonderful. The whole morning was enjoyable. I loved the open air, the sea breezes and all that sort of thing.

I had heard a lot about the Board Walk. As a thing of use it is delightful. One can walk for miles along its length, seeing a strange procession of human beings, but its new look, the fact that it is made of wood, tends to give Atlantic City an uncertain and unstable foundation. It spoiled the effect of our hotel with its magnificent architecture. Still it provides a very restful way to walk, and I suppose it has its uses. I am a little astonished that Americans should come to this strange place and turn themselves into money fountains and, upon running dry, return to business; though of course it is fine to be with a crowd of cheerful people.

I have never visited any of our seaside resorts during the summer season, so I cannot well compare Atlantic City with any of them. I don't think that a similar place would be popular in England. Of course, we were there at a rather difficult time. I have been told that prices go up about twenty-five per cent. or even more during August.

Atlantic City seems to be a long thin town stretching for several miles along the Atlantic coast. The hotels are truly beautiful. Apart from their architecture they are beautifully decorated inside. Our hotel has a place called the Submarine Grill. The idea the artist wishes to convey is that the diners are spending a hectic time at the bottom of the sea. The general effect is rather lovely and the colouring suggests the inside of a very rich Mohammedan mosque, in spite of the sea idea. Perhaps the mermaids of Atlantic City make up for this; and there are many. However, we all go down, pay the head waiter a large sum for three bows and a continuous smile and are ushered to the best seats, under the circumstances. The food is beautifully cooked, but the bill grows very large, and one leaves quite happy but poorer.

Dicky and I had had about fifty dollars between us, but the price for our sleeping places had been small, and it looked as though we would return with about two dollars between us, until we met the chauffeur, and asked him for his expense account. Having paid it--it was one dollar more than my bill at the hotel, we possessed about three shillings, or seventy-five cents. This obviously left us but little money for food at Philadelphia upon our return, but we went into a mysterious automat eating house and managed to subtract a little nourishment from its shelves. We returned to Bethlehem owing the chauffeur about three dollars. I must say that I enjoyed the whole thing, but I have no intention and no desire to return.

It was the touch of nature that made the day enjoyable for me--the people, black and white, and the sea. But I objected to the hardly-veiled begging displayed by the numerous lackeys. I suppose they have got to live, "_mais je n'en vois pas la necessite_," as some philosopher remarked.

When passing through the hotel on the Saturday evening I saw a lady quietly but beautifully dressed. She looked about twenty. I was certain that I knew her well, had met her in Washington or somewhere. I went over and said: "How d'ye do." We chatted for a time, but in spite of all my efforts I could not place her. Having rejoined Dicky, I remembered. She was the prim demure little lady from whom I have bought my "movie" tickets for the last six months. American girls are truly wonderful. We arrived at Bethlehem at about midnight.

XI

AN OFFENSIVE BOMBARDMENT

There is one phrase over here that one is constantly hearing--"Rule for the people by the people." Of course, Abraham Lincoln, our great American, now beloved by all, used it on the occasion of his famous speech at Gettysburg. As far as I can see, Lincoln gave that thing called democracy a great big lift. He evidently fought a big spiritual battle for the United States, and won.

Of course, I did not come to the United States to learn about Abraham Lincoln. In my childhood's memory, he, George Washington, King Arthur, King Alfred, and the great figure called Gladstone are all safely enshrined. These were all mixed with Moses and the prophets, but Lincoln's log cabin seemed a reality. Away out in New Zealand I learnt about Abraham Lincoln from an old, old soldier who had fought the Maoris, and had seen the first two sparrows arrive in a cage from England. I wish they hadn't.

Since my arrival in America I have heard a great deal about Lincoln. He and his words are held up as a shield against all potential enemies outside the United States. Always are the words "Rule for the people by the people" hurled from the lips of that type of orator who talks about "red blooded Americans," and who contrasts the red blooded with him of yellow blood. But only are these wonderful words hurled against enemies without. No one ever applies them to the more deadly type that lurks within the national household. And so Lincoln's great words sometimes seem to be wasted upon all our cousins who are not newspaper editors.

Let me explain: The American people don't rule the country as far as I can see. Things go along smoothly and the mob spirit is kept at bay because, owing to the greatness of the country, its happy climate, its wonderful natural resources, the opportunities for expansion supplied to all the people, no one gets sufficiently worked up to accomplish any foolishness. The country seems to be ruled by a certain set of men who make politics their business.

I have never yet met a young man under twenty-five who was in the faintest degree interested in the rule of his country. He has so many other things to think about. Although I don't think he works harder, really, than his cousin in England, his hours spent at business are very long and there don't seem to be more than about two holidays in the year. His life is tense. He starts school with games that bring out all his enthusiasm. He dislikes cricket. Baseball suits his temperament. Even football has developed into a form of trench warfare, sometimes not without frightfulness. Then he enters business with one object--to get on, to push ahead. So his life is spent thinking out business schemes. In the evenings he is called upon by all kinds of seedy looking gentlemen who put up to him schemes of insurance and what not. He must have a car of some sort, though a Henry Ford suits him well. He never seems able to rest, at work or at play, and so he carries on, brimming over with enthusiasm. One is always seeing it.

Here in Bethlehem we wanted money for a bridge. It was essential that the people should subscribe, so a week was spent in what amounted to a "drive." There were processions, alarums, and excursions. Men rushed about in dirty looking automobiles and made quite willing people subscribe. Luncheons were held each day. The collectors were divided into small companies, each with a captain and a separate table. The tables vied with one another in their efforts to collect the most money. It was a wonderful scheme and it worked well. I rather loved it. One heard young men, old men, fat men, thin men all worked up bursting into song. Even the church helped. Of course, we got the money all right. If a man wants to accomplish anything he must arouse enthusiasm.

So the life of a decent American boy is often one long exciting tense existence. Now I think in some ways that this is admirable, but this enthusiastic existence has formed a national trait. A man must get there. He doesn't always, but he must think he is getting there. He does not care if the day coach he is riding in on a train is ugly and often dirty; it is nothing to him if the locomotive is not spotlessly clean as long as it draws him along. He is not concerned for more than five minutes if the railroad company dashes locomotives through his city killing a few people _en route_ because they have not time or inclination to raise their road or sink it in order to avoid deadly level crossings. It has not occurred to him to realize that a dirty locomotive uncleaned by careful hands will not get him there really. Seldom is an American train on time. Some are, of course, but I have often waited from an hour to several hours for a train.

So the men who make politics their business take advantage of this--not wickedly, I think, but nevertheless they appeal to this national enthusiasm, and they get away with it. No man is perfect, and politicians always seem to me the least perfect of men. The results are obvious. The political machine works in jumps and often breaks down at a critical moment. It is not the machine's fault really. It is the fault of the people who refuse to supervise its work. The people have responded to the political enthusiasm around election time and then they are finished. Of course, I think it is all wrong.

One looks for the guiding hand of the people and one cannot find it. It ought to be displayed in the press, but of all powerless institutions the American press is the most powerless. It can rage against a politician until it is hoarse, but it accomplishes little. And yet the American press is truly very fine. I read every word of the _New York Times_, the _New York Sun_, and the _Public Ledger_ every day and they are entirely admirable. I meet the editors, sometimes, of leading papers and they are delightful people. They combine often the delightful American boyishness with the sober mien of men of learning. Still they know the national characteristic of enthusiasm, and if they are to sell their papers they must appeal to it; so even the papers I have mentioned often display flamboyant headings about nothing in particular.

At election time, of course, the papers have a wide influence, but during the time when the laws of the country are being made they always seem to me to be entirely ineffective. They ought to be the leaders of the people. A cabinet with the disapproval of the press ought not to last a week. They try, of course, valiantly, but if they display disapproval, backed up with proofs, no one believes them. It is merely described as "newspaper talk."

And then the police! You know as well as I do that if a mere suspicion is breathed against an English policeman by a good newspaper, the thing is thoroughly investigated and if the charge is well founded the policeman disappears. The police in England are our friends and we look after them, but they must do their duty well. I don't quite understand the system here, but, as far as I can gather, the police official of rank is appointed by the mayor. The mayor is elected, not soberly and carefully, but in the most hectic manner imaginable. He has a regular campaign for his position. Of course, there is no objection in the world to this, but the decisions of the people are given in moments of enthusiasm. They are worked up to a high pitch by the satellites of the prospective mayor. The newspapers help him or they don't; but whatever they do, they do it in a flamboyant manner. Charges are sometimes brought against a prospective mayor that would cause an English newspaper to be suppressed for libel. As far as I can see, the head police officials are dependent for their positions upon the retention of the mayor in office. A mayor may be a clever, good, conscientious man, but you know as well as I do, that the tribe spirit is merely dormant in us mortals, and the very best of us like to help our friends. And then the police officials are always being criticised by the newspapers. Sometimes they are praised in a most extravagant manner, and, a few weeks after, they get slanged to bits. Criticise your members of parliament, tear to pieces the character of the prime minister, but surely it is foolish to criticise the cop.

I am not going to talk about graft amongst the police because I don't know anything about it. But one hears very strange stories.

If the people ruled this country, instead of allowing their national trait of enthusiasm to rule them, I suppose it would be all right. As a matter of fact, things go along quite smoothly. The American folk are awfully good natured and never worry about anything in particular. Hence they don't mind if Broadway continues to suggest a particularly unpleasant line of trenches in Flanders. They don't mind if the telephone lines in a small town all collapse during a storm, not because of the fury of the elements, but because the telephone company has laid its wires carelessly and untidily.

An American young man sometimes does not even know the name of his congressman--he never reads what the said gentleman says before the House. He just doesn't care. He fails sometimes to realize his duty as a citizen of a very great nation whose men have died for the privilege of ruling their own country. When anyone expresses annoyance with a particularly bad road, he remarks: "These damn politicians!"

It is a pity in some ways. He builds his bridge. It will carry him and his family well. The next man finds it wanting, so he patches it. A concourse of persons passing over soon afterward all fall into the elements below. Someone else then arrives and builds another one just as flimsy, just as weak and just as beautiful to look upon as the first fellow's effort. And an American thinks he is "getting there."

These remarks, perhaps a little unfair, do not apply to the West or the Middle West.

And, of course, he does get there, but it all is owing to the great big background to his character which he inherits from his ancestors, and his natural efficiency allied to good health.

Of course, some will urge that this country is still a melting pot. That may be true, but as far as I can see the immigrant of the first generation has little influence. Great big things are ahead for this country, but the people will have to suffer a great deal first. I can see millions of young men returning from the war in Europe with an inquiring mind. These men will have realized the value, the effectiveness of discipline, and they will apply it to their servants, the gentlemen in Washington. The press will be the mouthpiece. The police will also be their servants, not their masters, and a cop will not have to worry about elections and rude remarks in the papers unless he deserves them.

The open air life, the freedom of the battlefield, the time supplied for reflection will mould the national character. Things will then change for hotel clerks, head waiters, and all the million other satellites, that prey upon the wonderful good nature and kindliness of our cousins.

Americans will also become a little more lazy and will realise that it profits a man nothing in this wonderful world if he gains five million dollars and gets a nervous breakdown. An American man never seems able to be elegantly lazy. I suppose it is the climate. Slow country life bores him to desperation; he cannot enjoy the supervision of a large estate until he has reached a great age.

Criticism is so easy. If my friends read this they would say: "_Et tu Brute_; are you so perfect?" I could only reply: "We are a good deal worse, but our confounded papers guard us a little and we do stand by our cops. Go thou and do likewise."

XII

SIX DAYS' LEAVE

BETHLEHEM, U. S. A., September 30, 1917.

I am now awaiting my orders to return to my regiment. Towards the beginning of the month I felt that it would be a good idea to try and see some fellows I knew. Things were getting impossible here, and I was feeling a little lonely, so I asked my chief in New York if he would allow me to visit some friends for a few days. He agreed and so I decided to visit the commodore and his wife on the "Reina Mercedes" at Annapolis. The "Reina Mercedes" was captured by the American Navy at Santiago. Her own crew sank her hoping to block the channel at the entrance to the bay. She was easily raised and now all snowy white, possessing an absurd little funnel, and a couple of thin masts, she acts as a receiving ship at the Academy. She suggests a beautiful houseboat, and the captain possesses very comfortable quarters for his wife and family.

I left Bethlehem at 3 P.M., arrived at Philadelphia somewhere around five o'clock and decided to get into uniform sometime during the evening before catching the midnight train for Washington.

While the kit of a mounted officer in the British army has certain attractions for the wearer in England and France, its leather field boots, Bedford cord breeches, and whip cord tunic make one feel very hot and uncomfortable on a warm midsummer's night in Philadelphia. At eleven o'clock, with still an hour to wait for my train, an iced drink became a necessity, so I descended to the cafe and suggested to the waiter that he should supply me with an iced drink as large as possible. I thought that orangeade might meet the case, but the waiter mentioned a mint julep. The drink was unfamiliar, but it sounded good, and American people make the most wonderful soft drinks in the world. The very word "mint" suggested coolness, and the fragrant smell of the upper river at Cambridge on a summer's day came back to my mind as I sat behind a large column in the cafe. Hence I said: "Right O! Bring me a mint julep." He did, curse him! With a large chicken sandwich it arrived. The glass was all frosted, filled with mushy ice, while a dainty little bunch of green mint with its stems piercing the ice floated on the top. I was more thirsty than hungry, and I was very hungry.

I drank the mint julep at once. It was delicious, a trifle dry perhaps, but delicious. For a soft drink the effect was decidedly interesting. My first sensation was a nice singing, advancing sound in my head. I felt myself to be drifting along a smooth stream with overhanging willows and masses of mint growing on the banks. I felt that delightful sensation that one feels when a tooth has been removed with the aid of gas and one is just returning to consciousness. It is a jar to one's nerves when the dentist's voice is first heard and the attending lady in the uniform of a nurse hands one a glass of water, and the world, with all its troubles and dentists returns to one's consciousness.

This pleasing feeling continued for a little while, and then I could see the panelled walls of the room, and I heard what seemed a still small voice talking in extremely bad French to the waiter who answered in what must have been good French. The voice using the bad French was very familiar and then I realized that it was my own. I promptly switched to English, but the voice was still far distant. Finally full consciousness returned, also a realization of the situation. Then the voice in the distance said: "Waiter, your d---- mint julep has gone to my head and I must catch a train in exactly half an hour." The waiter's voice expressed sorrow and suggested much water and more sandwiches. I drank water and I ate sandwiches, and the vision of Mr. Pickwick in the wheelbarrow came upon me with full force. I was thankful that, in spite of all, I could see my watch; but if the waiter had not been firm I should have missed my train. The water and sandwiches were successful. A faint knowledge of Christian Science picked up from my chief in New York helped and in a perfectly stately manner I walked out of the hotel and along the road and caught my train.

I would advise all foreigners arriving in America to avoid mint juleps. I am not going to say that the experience was not pleasurable. It was extremely pleasant, almost delightful, but a mint julep taken several hours after a meal when one drinks but little at any time is extremely potent. I have been told since that just after a meal a mint julep is comparatively harmless and that it is _not_ a soft drink. Frankly I will never touch one again as long as I live. There were too many possibilities lurking in its icy depths.

I arrived in Washington safely and found that my uniform acted as a wonderful talisman. Every officer of the U. S. A. that I met desired to show kindness in some way. It was impossible to pay for a meal.

I put up at a hotel and, with the aid of the telephone, commenced to accumulate friends from certain officers' training stations around. Most of them had not had time to buy uniforms of their own, but were dressed in the sort supplied by the quartermaster's store--good material, but badly fitting. However this fact could not in the slightest alter the effect produced by the glowing health that seemed to characterize all of them.

Their eyes were clear and bright like the eyes of a thoroughbred in perfect condition. One or two had lost a little weight, with some advantage perhaps. In a word, good looking, handsome fellows though they had been before the war, military training, plain good food, and an entire absence of mint juleps had worked magic.

We had all lived together in Bethlehem and coming so recently from that town that both they and I had grown to love, we commenced that form of conversation which consists of many questions and no answers. You know the sort--everybody pleased with everybody else and everybody talking at once. I forgot most of it, but as far as I remember it consisted of, "Gee! Mac, but you do look fine in the English uniform. Have you been over to see Lucy lately? How's Lock? Are 'yer' getting your guns a bit quicker? How's 'Sally?' Does Curly still serve funny drinks? We're all on the wagon now even when we get the chance. It makes you feel fitter. We hope to get over soon. Don't forget to let us have those addresses soon. Gee! but we'll all have _some_ parties in London some day. We've got to work awful hard, but its fine, and we've never felt better in our lives."

Finally we all rushed out to buy equipment and uniforms. Young officers always get smitten with a very pleasing disease which makes them rush about any city buying every conceivable form of equipment and uniform. They'll buy anything. They'll extract from a pleased though overworked tailor promises that he can seldom keep. If he does keep them he ought to spend many hours in bitter remorse for supplying clothing and uniform that would have been spurned by a well turned out Sammee or Tommy in the days of the great peace.

It is part of the fun of the thing, this disease. We all had it in England in the latter days of 1914 and the early days of 1915. We also caused expressions of horror and dismay to creep over the well-bred faces of the regular officers we found at our barracks.

However we all rushed about Washington enjoying the process of being saluted and saluting. We assaulted a department store and descended to the basement, where a worn-out clerk and his employer, especially the latter, did what he could for us. He was interested in what he called the "goods" which formed my tunic. He regretted that Uncle Sam had not adopted our uniform with its large pockets and comfortable collar. I've often wondered about this myself, but I suppose that stiff collar looks smarter, although I am sure that it must choke a fellow.

These fellows are going to make wonderful officers, I am sure. The whole thing brought back to me the wonderful early days of the war when we were all longing to get over to have a whack at the Boche. We still enjoy fighting him since he is such a blighter, but nowadays it is slightly different. It has become a business minus mad enthusiasm, for we know what we are up against.

Of course when you first get over there the chances of getting knocked out seem one in fifty, but after six months it becomes "fifty-fifty." After nine months or a year the chances of getting scuppered seem to grow greater, and the deadly monotony becomes unbearable. It is then time to get a "Blighty" and a rest in hospital.

A visit to Washington on a Saturday afternoon is well worth while, merely to see the young officers going about. They are very careful about saluting. I suppose war is a bad thing from every aspect, but it seems bearable in the capital city, when one sees the effect of military life on the many men walking about the streets.

One thing seemed unusual to me, and that was the number of junior officers who were over thirty. It would seem that this in America were a good thing. I wonder. The respect and affection shown to the young junior officer by his men is a very fine thing. We find in our army that the subaltern of immature age gets this much more easily than anyone else. Affection is more powerful than respect, and when it comes to the actual difficult, dangerous work, the leading of a charge, for instance, the youngster can sometimes carry it off with less effort than the older man. Of course, he has not the same sanity of judgment possessed by the older chap. Possibly he will attempt the most impossible kind of stunts. However, time will tell and it is useless to compare British experience in this respect with American.

In our army it is only the subaltern and the field marshal who can afford to be undignified. A little lack of dignity on the part of both is often effective. A man just over thirty is apt to overdo dignity. He is like a second year man at a university--just a little difficult to manage. In our army, the men seem to take a fatherly interest in their platoon commander and will follow him to hell, if necessary. Of course, when you become a captain or a major or something equally great, then it is a different matter, but the subaltern has so much personal intercourse with his men, that if you can introduce a personal feeling of love and affection to this relation it is a great help on a nasty, rainy, miserable night in the trenches. The subaltern forms a connecting link between the men and the more superior officers, and that link becomes very strong when the junior officer is an enthusiastic youth who makes a few unimportant mistakes sometimes, but with all is a very proper little gentleman, who understands when a fellow makes a break occasionally. There's nothing greater in this world than love, and in my experience there's nothing finer over there in France than the affection, and protective interest shown by the dear old British Tommy for the youth, not long out of school, who is his "orficer" and a "proper torf" into the bargain, or what the Sammee would call a "reg'lar feller."

After dining at the hotel I had to leave my friends, and catching a slightly unclean trolley car found myself dashing along to Annapolis.

At the academy gates I was met by a coloured steward who, after feeling the weight of my bag, asked if I were going to stay a week. Secretly I hoped so, but merely laughed lightly. At the "Reina" I was received cheerily by the commodore and his wife, and their two nieces R---- and M----. They are both ripping girls of entirely different types. R---- is what we would call in England a typical American girl--original, bright, happy-go-lucky, a delightful companion; while M---- represents an international type of young womanhood; sympathetic, the sort of girl that makes a priceless friend, as the newsboy says: "One wat knows all abawt yer and yet likes yer."

The next day after lunch, dear old Eddy came on board full of enthusiasm and witty remarks, that would come out, in spite of his efforts to keep them back, or to reserve them for more fitting occasions. I was very glad to see him. His father, a naval officer of rank, had lived at Annapolis during his son's boyhood. Here Edward established a reputation for being the "baddest" boy in America. He was brimming over with mischief and was the terror of the young midshipmen who had attained sufficient seniority to be allowed to walk out with young persons.

He is still full of mischief and loves to tease people, but the person being "ragged" always enjoys the process. I met him first at a large steel plant. For two years he had worked very hard, practically as a laborer, refusing to go about with the young people of the town. Finally, however, he got promotion and found himself in the sales department. He now burst upon our local society and no party was complete without him. He is very much a man's man. He says more witty, droll things in one week than most people say in five years.

As soon as war broke out he joined the Navy as a "gob," in other words an ordinary seaman. However, he got a commission, and was soon sent to Annapolis for a short course of intensive training.

We all chatted for a time and then walked round the city of Annapolis. Annapolis is very like Cambridge, apparently quite as old fashioned, and has numbers of nice old red brick houses rather like Queen Anne houses in England. It seemed sound asleep.

We sought a movie show, and went in to see some star alleged to be good looking, playing in a piece called "The Snake's Tooth." There were no serpents, and the star seemed to me to be a little fat and bourgeois looking, but she wore some stunning frocks for her more agonizing scenes. There was a handsome looking fellow moving about the screen very well dressed. I tried to sleep, but couldn't because the chair was not meant for sleeping in.

After the show we went to a party given by one Peter, which was a great success. We were the first to arrive, but soon numbers of other people came in. I enjoyed this party very much and fell in love with both my host and hostess. Mademoiselle, Peter's sister and our hostess, told me that she loved my countrymen; and I told her that it would be impossible for all my countrymen not to love her, which remark seemed to please her. They've got a ripping little house all filled with old china, prints, and daintily wrought silver. We were a very cheery party. All the men were in uniform and everybody knew everybody else and I was quite sorry when we had to return to the "Reina Mercedes" for dinner.

However, after dinner we went to the local inn and danced, but unfortunately, I wounded a lady's frock with my spurs so we sought the grill room, an underground place suggesting the vault of a royal prince in a fashionable mausoleum.

The next day we all set off in launches to visit some friends who have a charming country house on the Severn. There were about twenty of us and we decided to form a club called the Reina Club. There are no rules or regulations to our club but as we form a mutual admiration society it is impossible to remain a member unless you like or are liked by the other members. We made the Commodore president and his wife vice-president.

We had a wonderful day which consisted of golf, swimming, boating, dancing, and all sorts of other amusing things. Our host and hostess had engaged the services of a darky band which seemed to follow us about everywhere even while we were all swimming. I have never tried to swim to music before.

The Severn is a beautiful wide river. I have heard people in Australia boasting about Sydney Harbour; I have heard New Zealanders singing the praises of the Waitemata; I have heard Tasmanians observing that there is no place in the world like the Derwent River; but I have never yet heard an American say a great deal about the Severn River. And yet I cannot imagine anything more lovely than this wide stream which winds its stately way through the low lying hills of Maryland.

The few houses that appear amidst the foliage help to add beauty to the whole effect, and when the stream reaches the grounds of the academy, with first the hospital buildings, then the pretty wee cemetery, and finally the main group of buildings, the effect is just wonderful. You should be there on a summer's afternoon when the river is literally covered with the sailing craft in which the midshipmen practice seamanship. Some of them man long-boats and dash past with long sweeps crashing into the blue water, keeping perfect time. They all wear little round caps edged with white, a superior edition of the head-gear worn by the ordinary seaman.