June 10, 1918.
The Germans continue to gain ground in France--more slowly, but
still they gain. The French and British papers now give space to
plans for the final defense--the desperate defense--of Paris. The
Germans are only forty miles away. Slocum, military attaché, thinks
they will get it and he reports the same opinion at the War
Office--because the Germans have taken such a large number of guns
and so much ammunition. Some of these guns were meant for the
American troops, and they cannot now be replaced in time if the
German advance continues. But I do not know enough facts at first
hand to form an opinion. But, if Paris be taken, the war will go on
a long time--unless the English-speaking rulers make a compromise.
And, then, in another form--and forms--it'll go on
indefinitely.--There has been no more perilous or uncertain or
anxious time than now.

The United States too late, too late, too late: what if it should
turn out so?

*       *       *       *       *

But it did not turn out so. Even while Page was penning these lines
great events were taking place in France and the American troops were
having a large share in them. In June the Americans stopped the German
troops at Belleau Wood--a battle which proved the mettle of these fresh
levies not only for the benefit of the Germans but of the Allies as
well. Thus Page had the great satisfaction of returning to London while
the city was ringing with the praise of these achievements. He found
that the atmosphere had materially changed since he had last been in the
British capital; when he had left for Sandwich there had been a general
expectation that the Germans would get Paris or the Channel ports; now,
however, there was every confidence of victory. Greatly as Page rejoiced
over the new prospect, however, the fight at Belleau Wood brought him
his last great sorrow. His nephew, Allison M. Page, of Aberdeen, North
Carolina, the son of his youngest brother, Frank, lost his life in that
engagement. At first the young man was reported "missing"; the
investigation set afoot by the Ambassador for some time brought no
definite information. One of the most pathetic of Page's papers is a
brief note addressed by him to Allison Page, asking him for news: "It's
been a long time since we heard from you," Page wrote his nephew. "Write
how it goes with you. Affectionately, Uncle Wat." After travelling over
a considerable part of France, this note found its way back to the
Embassy. The boy--he was only 19--had been killed in action near Belleau
Wood, on June 25th, while leading his detachment in an attack on a
machine gun. Citations and decorations for gallantry in action were
given posthumously by General Pershing, Marshal Pétain, Major-General
Omar Bundy, and Major-General John A. LeJeune.

And now the shadows began to close in rapidly on Page. In early July
Major Frank C. Page, the Ambassador's youngest son, came over from
France. A brief glance at his father convinced him that he was dying. By
this time the Ambassador had ceased to go to the Chancery, but was
transacting the most imperative business propped up in a chair at home.
His mind was possessed by two yearnings: one was to remain in London
until the end of the war, the other was to get back to his childhood
home in North Carolina. Young Page urged his father to resign, but the
weary invalid insisted on sticking to his post. On this point it seemed
impossible to move him. Knowing that his brother Arthur had great
influence with his father, Frank Page cabled, asking him to come to
England immediately. Arthur took the first boat, reaching London late in
July.

The Ambassador's two sons then gently pressed upon their father the fact
that he must resign. Weak as he was, the Ambassador was still obdurate.

"No," he said. "It's quitting on the job. I must see the war through. I
can't quit until it's over."

But Sir William Osler, Page's physician and devoted friend, exercised
his professional authority and insisted on the resignation. Finally Page
consented.

_To the President_

American Embassy, London,
August 1, 1918.

MY DEAR MR. PRESIDENT:

I have been struggling for a number of months against the necessity
to write you this note; for my doctors now advise me to give up all
work for a period--my London doctor says for six months. I have a
progressive digestive trouble which does not yield to the usual
treatment. It's the war, five London winters, and the unceasing
labour which is now the common lot. I am ashamed to say that these
have brought me to something near a breakdown. I have had Sir
William Osler as well as two distinguished London physicians for
several months. The digestive trouble has brought other ills in its
train; and I am assured that they will yield to freedom from
responsibility and complete rest for a time in a dry, warm climate
and that they are not likely to yield to anything else.

I see nothing else to do then but to bow to the inevitable and to
ask you to be kind enough to relieve me and to accept my
resignation to take effect as soon as I can go to Washington and
make a somewhat extended report on the work here, which, I hope,
will be of some use to the Department; and I ought to go as soon as
possible--say, in September. I cannot tell you how great my
disappointment is that this request has become necessary.

If the world and its work were so organized that we could do what
we should like to do, I should like a leave of absence till winter
be broken and then to take up my duties here again till the war
end. But that, of course, is impracticable. And it is now a better
time to change Ambassadors than at any time since the war began. My
five years' service has had two main phases--the difficult period
of our neutrality and the far easier period since we came into the
war. But when the war ends, I fear that there will be again more or
less troublesome tasks arising out of commercial difficulties.

But for any reasonable period the Embassy's work fortunately can
now go on perfectly well with Mr. Laughlin as Chargé--until my
successor can get here. The Foreign Office like him, he is _persona
grata_ to all other Departments of the Government, and he has had
a long experience; and he is most conscientious and capable. And
the organization is in excellent condition.

I venture to ask you to have a cable message sent to me (to be
deciphered by me alone). It will require quite a little time to
pack up and to get away.

I send this, Mr. President, with more regret than I can express and
only after a struggle of more than six months to avoid it.

Yours sincerely,
WALTER H. PAGE.

Arthur Page took his father to Banff, in Scotland, for a little rest in
preparation for the voyage. From this place came Page's last letter to
his wife:

_To Mrs. Page_

Duff House, Banff, Scotland.
Sunday, September 2, 1918.

MY DEAR:

... I've put the period of our life in London, in my mind, as
closed. That epoch is ended. And I am glad. It was time it ended.
My job (_that_ job) is done. From the letters that Shoecraft has
sent me and from what the papers say, I think I couldn't have ended
it more happily--or at a better time. I find myself thinking of the
winter down South--of a Thanksgiving Day dinner for the older folks
of our family, of a Christmas tree for the kids, of frolics of all
sorts, of Rest, of some writing (perhaps not much), going over my
papers with Ralph--that's what he wants, you know; etc., etc.,
etc.--

And I've got to eat more. I myself come into my thinking and
planning in only two ways--(1) I'm going to have a suit like old
Lord N.'s and (2) I'm going to get all the good things to eat that
there are!

Meantime, my dear, how are you? Don't you let this getting ready
wear you out. Let something go undone rather. Work Miss Latimer and
the boys and the moving and packing men, and Petherick and the
servants. Take it very easy yourself.

Nine and a half more days here--may they speed swiftly. Comfortable
as I am, I'm mortal tired of being away from you--dead tired.

Praise God it's only 9-1/2 days. If it were 9-3/4, I should not
stand it, but break for home prematurely.

Yours, dear Allie, with all my love,
W.H.P.

On August 24th came the President's reply:

I have received your communication of August 1st. It caused me
great regret that the condition of your health makes it necessary
for you to resign. Under the circumstances I do not feel I have the
right to insist on such a sacrifice as your remaining in London.
Your resignation is therefore accepted. As you request it will take
effect when you report to Washington. Accept my congratulations
that you have no reason to fear a permanent impairment of your
health and that you can resign knowing that you have performed your
difficult duties with distinguished success.

WOODROW WILSON.

The news of Page's resignation inspired tributes from the British press
and from British public men such as have been bestowed upon few
Americans. The London _Times_ headed its leader "A Great Ambassador" and
this note was echoed in all sections of Great Britain. The part of
Page's career which Englishmen chiefly recalled was his attitude during
the period of neutrality. This, the newspapers declared, was Page's
great contribution to the cause. The fact that it had had such
far-reaching influences on history was the one especially insisted on.
His conciliatory and skillful behaviour had kept the United States and
Great Britain friends at a time when a less tactful ambassador might
easily have made them enemies; the result was that, when the time came,
the United States could join forces against the common enemy, with
results that were then daily unfolding on the battlefields of France. "I
really believe," wrote the Marquess of Crewe, "that there were several
occasions when we might have made it finally impossible for America to
join us in the war; that these passed by may have been partly due to
some glimmering of common sense on our part, with Grey as its main
exponent; but it was more largely owing to your patience and courtesy
and to the certainty which the Foreign Office always enjoyed that its
action would be set before the Secretary of State in as favourable a
light as it conscientiously could be." That, then, was Page's
contribution to the statesmanship of this crisis--that of holding the
two countries together so that, when the time came, the United States
could join the Allies. A mass of private letters, all breathing the same
sentiment, began to pour in on Page. There was hardly an illustrious
name in Great Britain that was not represented among these
leave-takings. As illustrating the character and spirit animating them,
the following selections are made:

_From the King_

The information communicated to me yesterday through Mr. Laughlin
of Your Excellency's resignation of the Post of Ambassador and the
cause of this step fill me with the keenest regret. During your
term of office in days of peace and of war your influence has done
much to strengthen the ties of friendship and good-will which unite
the two English-speaking nations of the world. I trust your health
will soon be restored and that we may have the pleasure of seeing
you and Mrs. Page before your departure.

GEORGE R.I.

_From the Prime Minister_

10, Downing Street, Whitehall, S.W. 1.
30th August, 1918.

MY DEAR AMBASSADOR:

It is with the deepest regret that my colleagues and I have
received the news that you have been forced by ill health to resign
your office and that the President has consented to your
relinquishing your ambassadorial duties. We are sorry that you are
leaving us, all the more because your tenure of office has
coincided with one of the greatest epochs in the history of our two
countries and of the world, and because your influence and counsel
throughout this difficult time have been of the utmost value to us
all.

The power for good or evil which can be exerted by the occupant of
your high position is at all times necessarily very great. That our
peoples are now fighting side by side in the cause of human freedom
and that they are manifesting an ever growing feeling of cordiality
to one another is largely attributable to the exceptional wisdom
and good-will with which you have discharged your duties. For the
part you have played during the past five years in bringing about
this happy result we owe you our lasting gratitude.

May I add that while you have always firmly presented the point of
view of your own country, you have succeeded in winning, not only
the respect and admiration of official circles, but the confidence,
and I can say without hesitation, the affection of all sections of
our people? It will be with universal regret that they will learn
that, owing to the strain of the great responsibilities you have
borne, you are no longer to remain among us. I earnestly trust that
a well-earned rest will speedily restore you to complete health,
and that you have many years of public service still in store for
you.

I should like also to say how much we shall miss Mrs. Page. She has
won a real place in all our hearts. Through her unfailing tact, her
genuine kindliness, and her unvarying readiness to respond to any
call upon her time and energy, she has greatly contributed to the
success of your ambassadorship.

Ever sincerely,
D. LLOYD GEORGE.

_From Viscount Grey of Fallodon_

Glen Innerleithen, Scotland.
September 2, 1918.

DEAR MR. PAGE:

I have been out of touch with current events for a few days, but
yesterday I read the two articles in the _Times_ on your
retirement. I am very grieved to think that you are going. There
was not a word of eulogy in the _Times_ articles that was not under
rather than over-stated, and reflecting thus I thought how rare it
is in public life to have an occasion that justifies the best that
can be said. But it is so now, and I am filled with deep regret
that you are going and with deep gratitude that you came to us and
were here when the war broke out and subsequently. If the United
States had been represented here by any one less decided as to the
right and wrong of the war and less firm and courageous than
yourself, the whole of the relations between your country and ours
would have been in peril. And if the two countries had gone apart
instead of coming together the whole fate of the world would be
very different from what I hope it will now be.

I have often thought that the forces behind public affairs are so
tremendous that individuals have little real, even when much
apparent, influence upon the course of events. But in the early
years of the war I think everything might have gone wrong if it had
not been that certain men of strong moral conviction were in
certain places. And you were preëminently one of these. President
Wilson I am sure was another, though I know him only through you
and Colonel House and his own public utterances. Even so your
influence must have counted in his action, by your friendship with
him as well as by the fact of your being the channel through which
communications passed between him and us.

I cannot adequately express what it was to me personally in the
dark days of 1914, 1915, and 1916 to know how you felt about the
great issues involved in the war.

I go to Fallodon at the end of this week and come to London the
first week of September--if you and Mrs. Page have not left by then
I hope I may see you. I long to do so before you go. I wish you may
recover perfect health. My eyesight continues to fail and I shall
soon be absolutely dependent upon other eyes for reading print.
Otherwise I feel as well as a schoolboy, but it is depressing to be
so well and yet so crippled in sight.

Please do not trouble to answer this letter--you must have too many
letters of the kind to be able to reply to them separately--but if
there is a chance of my seeing you before you go please let me
have a message to say when and where.

Yours sincerely,
GREY OF F.

A few months before his resignation Page had received a letter from
Theodore Roosevelt, who was more familiar than most Americans with
Page's work in London. This summed up what will be probably the judgment
of history upon his ambassadorship. The letter was in reply to one
written to the Ex-President, asking him to show hospitality to the
Archbishop of York[78], who was about to visit the United States.

(Office of the Metropolitan Magazine)
342 Fourth Ave., New York,
March 1st, 1918.

MY DEAR MR. AMBASSADOR:

I am very much pleased with your letter, and as soon as the
Archbishop arrives, he will be addressed by me with all his titles,
and I will get him to lunch with me or dine with me, or do anything
else he wishes! I shall do it for his own sake, and still more, my
dear fellow, I shall do it for the sake of the Ambassador who has
represented America in London during these trying years as no other
Ambassador in London has ever represented us, with the exception of
Charles Francis Adams, during the Civil War.

Faithfully yours,
THEODORE ROOSEVELT.

The seriousness of Page's condition was not understood in London;
consequently there were many attempts to do him honour in which he was
unable to participate. Custom demands that a retiring Ambassador shall
go to Windsor Castle to dine and to sleep; but King George, who was very
solicitous about Page's health, offered to spare the Ambassador this
trip and to come himself to London for this leave-taking. However, Page
insisted on carrying out the usual programme; but the visit greatly
tired him and he found it impossible personally to take part in any
further official farewells. The last ceremony was a visit from the Lord
Mayor and Council of Plymouth, who came to the Ambassador's house in
September to present the freedom of the city. Ever since Page's speech
of August 4, 1917, Plymouth had been planning to do him this honour;
when the Council heard that the Ambassador's health would make it
impossible for him to visit Plymouth, they asked if they might not come
to London. The proceeding was most impressive and touching and the
Ambassador's five-minute speech, the last one which he made in England,
had all his old earnestness and mental power, though the physical
weakness of the man saddened everybody present. The Lord Mayor presented
the freedom of the ancient borough in a temporary holder, explaining
that a more permanent receptacle would follow the Ambassador to America.
When this arrived, it proved to be a beautiful silver model of the
_Mayflower_. Certainly there could have been no more appropriate
farewell gift to Page from the English town whose name so closely links
the old country with the United States.

The last scene took place at Waterloo Station. Sir Arthur Walsh came
representing the King, while Mr. Balfour, Lord Robert Cecil, and other
ministers represented the cabinet. The Government had provided a special
railway carriage, and this was stationed at a convenient place as Page's
motor drew up. So weak was the Ambassador that it was with difficulty
that his companions, the ever devoted Mr. Laughlin, on one side, and
Page's secretary, Mr. Shoecraft, on the other, succeeded in supporting
him to his chair. Mr. Balfour, Lord Robert Cecil and the others then
entered the carriage, and, with all that sympathetic dignity in which
Englishmen of this type excel, said a few gracious and affectionate
words of good-bye. They all stood, with uncovered heads, as the train
slowly pulled out of the station, and caught their final glimpse of Page
as he smiled at them and faintly waved his hand.

*       *       *       *       *

Perhaps the man most affected by this leave-taking was Mr. Balfour. He
knew, as did the others, that that frail and emaciated figure had been
one of the greatest friends that Britain had had at the most dreadful
crisis in her history. He has many times told of this parting scene at
Waterloo Station and always with emotion.

"I loved that man," he once said to an American friend, recalling this
event. "I almost wept when he left England."

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 75: Of Aberdeen, N.C., the Ambassador's sister.]

[Footnote 76: "Dramatic Moments in American Diplomacy," by Ralph W.
Page, 1918.]

[Footnote 77: The reference is to a letter written in 1823 by Thomas
Jefferson to President Monroe at the time when the Holy Alliance was
threatening the independence of South America. "With Great Britain,"
Jefferson wrote, "we should most sedulously cherish a cordial friendship
and nothing would tend more to knit our affections than to be fighting
once more, side by side, in the same cause."]

[Footnote 78: See Vol. II, page 307.]




CHAPTER XXVII

THE END


Page came home only to die. In fact, at one time it seemed improbable
that he would live to reach the United States. The voyage of the
_Olympic_, on which he sailed, was literally a race with death. The
great-hearted Captain, Sir Bertram Hayes, hearing of the Ambassador's
yearning to reach his North Carolina home, put the highest pressure upon
his ship, which almost leaped through the waves. But for a considerable
part of the trip Page was too ill to have much consciousness of his
surroundings. At times he was delirious; once more he lived over the
long period of "neutrality"; again he was discussing intercepted cargoes
and "notes" with Sir Edward Grey; from this his mind would revert to his
English literary friends, and then again he was a boy in North Carolina.
The _Olympic_ reached New York more than a day ahead of schedule; Page
was carried down the gangplank on a stretcher, propped up with pillows;
and since he was too weak then to be taken to his Southern home, he was
placed temporarily in St. Luke's Hospital. Page arrived on a beautiful
sunshiny October day; Fifth Avenue had changed its name in honour of the
new Liberty Loan and had become the "Avenue of the Allies"; each block,
from Forty-second Street north, was decorated with the colours of one of
the nations engaged in the battle against Germany; the street was full
of Red Cross workers and other picturesquely clad enthusiasts selling
Liberty Bonds; in its animated beauty and in its inspiring significance
it formed an appropriate setting for Page's homecoming.

The American air seemed to act like a tonic on Page; in a short time he
showed such improvement that his recovery seemed not impossible. So far
as his spirits and his mind were concerned, he became his old familiar
self. He was able to see several of his old friends, he read the
newspapers and discussed the international situation with his customary
liveliness. With the assistance of his daughter, Mrs. Loring, he even
kept track of his correspondence. Evidently the serious nature of his
illness was not understood, for invitations to speak poured in from all
quarters. Most of these letters Mrs. Loring answered, but there was one
that Page insisted on attending to himself. The City of Cleveland was
organizing some kind of a meeting dedicated to closer relations with
Great Britain, and the Mayor wrote Page asking him to speak. The last
thing which Page wrote with his own hand was his reply to this
invitation; and it is an impressive fact that his final written word
should have dealt with the subject that had been so close to his heart
for the preceding five years.

_To Harry L. Davis, Mayor of Cleveland, Ohio_

I deeply regret my health will not permit me to attend any public
function for some time to come; for I deeply appreciate your
invitation on behalf of the City of Cleveland for the meeting on
December 7th, and have a profound sympathy with its purpose to
bring the two great English-speaking worlds as close together as
possible, so that each shall thoroughly understand the courage and
sacrifice and ideals of the other. This is the greatest political
task of the future. For such a complete and lasting understanding
is the only basis for the continued, progress of civilization. I
am proud to be associated in your thought, Mr. Mayor, with so
fitting and happy an occasion, and only physical inability could
cause absence.

Sincerely,
WALTER H. PAGE.

Page's improvement was only temporary; a day or two after this letter
was written he began to sink rapidly; it was therefore decided to grant
his strongest wish and take him to North Carolina. He arrived in
Pinehurst on December 12th, so weak that his son Frank had to carry him
in his arms from the train.

"Well, Frank," said Page, with a slightly triumphant smile, "I did get
here after all, didn't I?"

He lingered for a few days and died, at eight o'clock in the evening, on
December 21st, in his sixty-fourth year. He suffered no pain. He was
buried in the Page family plot in the Bethesda Cemetery near Aberdeen.

He was as much of a war casualty as was his nephew Allison Page, who
lost his life with his face to the German machine guns in Belleau Wood.


THE END




APPENDIX

SCRAPS FROM UNFINISHED DIARIES


Page was not methodical in keeping diaries. His documents, however,
reveal that he took many praiseworthy resolutions in this direction.
They include a large number of bulky books, each labelled "Diary" and
inscribed with the year whose events were to be recorded. The outlook is
a promising one; but when the books are opened they reveal only
fragmentary good intentions. Entries are kept up for a few days, and
then the work comes to an end. These volumes contain many scraps of
interesting writing, however, which are worth preserving; some of them
are herewith presented in haphazard fashion, with no attempt at order in
subject matter.


1913

PETHERICK

Petherick: may he be immortal; for he is a man who has made of a humble
task a high calling; and without knowing it he has caused a man of a
high calling to degrade it to a mean level. Now Petherick is a humble
Englishman, whose father many years ago enjoyed the distinction of
carrying the mail pouch to and from the post office for the American
Embassy in London. As father, so son. Petherick succeeded Petherick. In
this remote period (_the_ Petherick must now be 60) Governments had
"despatch agents," men who distributed mail and whatnot, sent it on
from capital to capital--were a sort of general "forwarding" factotums.
The office is really out of date now. Telegraph companies, express
companies, railway companies, the excellent mail service and the like
out-despatch any conceivable agent--except Petherick. Petherick has
qualities that defy change, such as an unfailing courtesy, a genuine joy
in serving his fellows, the very genius of helpfulness. Well, since a
governmental office once established acquires qualities of perpetuity,
three United States despatch agents have survived the development of
modern communication, one in London, one in New York, and the third (I
think) in San Francisco. At any rate, the London agent remains.

Now in the beginning the London despatch agent was a mail messenger (as
I understand) for the Embassy. He still takes the pouch to the post
office, and brings it back. In ordinary times, that's all he does for
the Embassy, for which his salary of about ---- is paid by the State
Department--too high a salary for the labour done, but none too high for
the trustworthy qualities required. If this had been all that Petherick
did, he would probably have long ago gone to the scrap heap. It is one
mark of a man of genius that he always makes his job. So Petherick. The
American Navy came into being and parts of it come to this side of the
world. Naval officers need help when they come ashore. Petherick was
always on hand with despatches and mail for them, and Petherick was a
handy man. Did the Captain want a cab? Petherick had one waiting. Did
the Captain want rooms? Such-and-such a hotel was the proper one for
him. Rooms were engaged. Did the Captain's wife need a maid? Petherick
had thought of that, too. Then a Secretary from some continental
legation wished to know a good London tailor. He sought Petherick. An
American Ambassador from the continent came to London. London yielded
Petherick for his guidance and his wants. Petherick became omni-present,
universally useful--an American institution in fact. A naval officer who
had been in Asiatic waters was steaming westward to the Mediterranean.
His wife and three babies came to London, where she was to meet her
husband, who was to spend several weeks here. A telegram to Petherick:
they needed to do nothing else. When the lady arrived a furnished flat,
a maid and a nurse and a cook and toys awaited her. When her husband
arrived, a pair of boots awaited him from the same last that his last
pair had been made on, in London, five years before. At some thoughtful
moment $1,000 was added to Petherick's salary by the Navy Department;
and a few years ago a handsome present was made to Petherick by the
United States Naval Officers all over the world.

But Petherick, with all his virtues, is merely an Englishman, and it is
not usual for an Englishman to hold a $3,000 office under appointment
from the United States Government. The office of despatch agent,
therefore, has been nominally held by an American citizen in London.
This American citizen for a good many years has been Mr. Crane, a
barrister, who simply turns over the salary to Petherick; and all the
world, except the Secretary of State, knows that Petherick is Petherick
and there is none other but him.

Now comes the story: Mr. Bryan, looking around the world for offices for
his henchmen, finds that one Crane has been despatch agent in London for
many years, and he writes me a personal and confidential letter, asking
if this be not a good office for some Democrat!

I tell the story to the Naval Attaché! He becomes riotous. He'll have
to employ half a dozen clerks to do for the Navy ill what Petherick does
well with ease, if he's removed. Life would not be worth living anyhow.
I uncover Petherick to the Secretary and show him in his glory. It must
be said to the Secretary's credit that he has said nothing more about
it. Petherick, let us hope, will live forever. The Secretary's
petty-spoils mind now works on grand plans for Peace, holy Peace, having
unsuccessfully attacked poor Petherick. And Petherick knows nothing
about it and never dreams of an enemy in all the world, and in all naval
and diplomatic life he has only fast friends. If Mr. Bryan had removed
him, he might have made a temporary friend of one Democrat from
Oklahoma, and lasting enemies of all that Democrat's rivals and of the
whole naval and diplomatic service.


_November, 1914._

We have to get away from it--or try to--a minute at a time; and the
comic gods sometimes help us. Squier[79] has a junior officer here to
hold his desk down when he's gone. He's a West Point Lieutenant with a
German name. His study is ordnance. A new kind of bomb gives him the
same sort of joy that a new species would have given Darwin. He was over
in France--where the armies had passed to and from Paris--and one day he
found an unexploded German bomb of a new sort. The thing weighed half a
ton or thereabouts, and it was loaded. Somehow he got it to London--I
never did hear how. He wrapped it in blankets and put it under his bed.
He went out of town to study some other infernal contraption and the
police found this thing under his bed. The War Office took it and began
to look for him--to shoot him, the bomb-harbouring German! They soon
discovered, of course, that he was one of our men and an officer in the
United States Army. Then I heard of it for the first time. Here came a
profuse letter of apology from the Government; they had not known the
owner was one of my attachés. Pardon, pardon--a thousand apologies. But
while this letter was being delivered to me one of the under-secretaries
of the Government was asking one of our secretaries, "In Heaven's name,
what's the Ambassador going to do about it? We have no right to molest
the property of one of your attachés, but this man's room is less than
100 yards from Westminster Abbey: it might blow up half of London. We
can't give the thing back to him!" They had taken it to the Duck Pond,
wherever that is. About that time the Lieutenant came back. His pet bomb
gone--what was I going to do about it?

The fellow actually wanted to bring it to his office in the Embassy!

"Look here, Lieutenant, besides the possibility of blow-up this building
and killing every mother's son of us, consider the scandal of the
American Embassy in London blown up by a German bomb. That would go down
in the school histories of the United States. Don't you see?" No, he
didn't see instantly--he does so love a bomb! I had to threaten to
disown him and let him be shot before he was content to go and tell them
to unload it--he _would_ have it, unloaded, if not loaded.

Well, I had to write half a dozen letters before the thing was done for.
He thinks me a chicken-livered old coward and I know much more about him
than I knew before; and we are at peace. The newspapers never got the
story, but his friends about town still laugh at him for trying first to
blow up Westminster Abbey and then his own Ambassador. He was at my
house at dinner the other night and one of the ladies asked him:
"Lieutenant, have you any darling little pet lyddite cartridges in your
pocket?" Think of a young fellow who just loves bombs! Has loaded bombs
for pets! How I misspent my youth!


_February, 1915._

This is among the day's stories: The British took a ship that had a
cargo of 100,000 busts of Von Hindenburg--filled with copper.

Another: When Frederick Watts was painting Lord Minto he found it hard
to make the portrait please him. When he was told that Lord Minto liked
it and Lady Minto didn't and that So-and-So praised it, he exclaimed: "I
don't care a d--n what anyone thinks about it--except a fellow named
Sargent."

And the King said (about the wedding[80]): "I have the regulation of the
dress to be worn at all functions in the Chapel Royal. I, therefore,
declare that the American Ambassador may have any dress worn that he
pleases!"

E.M. House went to Paris this morning, having no peace message from this
Kingdom whatever. This kind of talk here now was spoken of by the Prime
Minister the other day "as the twittering of a sparrow in a tumult that
shakes the world."

Lady P. remarked to me to-day, as many persons do, that I am very
fortunate to be Ambassador here at this particular time. Perhaps; but it
isn't easy to point out precisely wherein the good fortune consists.
This much is certain: it is surely a hazardous occupation now. Henry
James remarked, too, that nobody could afford to miss the experience of
being here--nobody who could be here. Perhaps true, again; but I confess
to enough shock and horror to keep me from being so very sure of that.
Yet no other phenomenon is more noticeable than the wish of every sort
of an American to be here. I sometimes wonder whether the really
well-balanced American does. Most of them are of the overwrought and
excitable kinds.

A conservative lady, quite conscientious, was taken down to dinner by
Winston Churchill. Said she, to be quite frank and fair: "Mr. Churchill,
I must tell you that I don't like your politics. Yet we must get on
together. You may say, if you like, that this is merely a matter of