beholds in London and Paris, to that apparent indifference, despite the
presence on the streets of crowds of soldiers to the existence of a war
of which one is ever aware. Yet, along with this, one is ever conscious
of pressure. The air is heavy; there is a corresponding lack of the
buoyancy of mind which is the normal American condition. Perhaps, if
German troops occupied New England and New York, our own mental barometer
might be lower. It is difficult to say. At any rate, after an ocean
voyage of nine days one's spirits rise perceptibly as the ship nears
Nantucket; and the icy-bright sunlight of New York harbour, the sight of
the buildings aspiring to blue skies restore the throbbing optimism which
with us is normal; and it was with an effort, when I talked to the
reporters on landing, that I was able to achieve and express the
pessimism and darkness out of which I had come. Pessimism is perhaps too
strong a word, and takes no account of the continued unimpaired morale
and determination of the greater part of the British and French peoples.
They expect much from us. Yet the impression was instantaneous, when I
set forth in the streets of New York, that we had not fully measured the
magnitude of our task--an impression that has been amply confirmed as the
weeks have passed.

The sense of relief I felt was not only the result of bright skies and a
high barometer, of the palpable self-confidence of the pedestrians, of
the white bread on the table and the knowledge that there was more, but
also of the ease of accomplishing things. I called for a telephone
number and got it cheerfully and instantly. I sent several telegrams,
and did not have to wait twenty minutes before a wicket while a
painstaking official multiplied and added and subtracted and paused to
talk with a friend; the speed of the express in which I flew down-town
seemed emblematic of America itself. I had been transported, in fact,
into another world--my world; and in order to realize again that from