On which again follows very high praise of the quality of the men now coming out under the Military Service Act.  “Yet they are conscripts,” says one of us, in some surprise, “and the rest were volunteers.”  “No doubt.  But these are the men—­many of them—­who had to balance duties—­who had wives and children to leave, and businesses which depended on them personally.  Compulsion has cut the knot and eased their consciences.  They’ll make fine soldiers!  But we want more—­more!” And then follows talk on the wonderful developments of training—­even since last year; and some amusing reminiscences of the early days of England’s astounding effort, by which vast mobs of eager recruits without guns, uniforms, or teachers, have been turned into the magnificent armies now fighting in France.

The War Office has lately issued privately some extremely interesting notes on the growth and training of the New Armies, of which it is only now possible to make public use.  From these it is clear that in the Great Experiment of the first two years of war all phases of intellect and capacity have played their part.  The widely trained mind, taking large views as to the responsibility of the Army towards the nation delivered into its hands, so that not only should it be disciplined for war but made fitter for peace; and the practical inventive gifts of individuals who, in seeking to meet a special need, stumble on something universal, both forces have been constantly at work.  Discipline and initiative have been the twin conquerors, and the ablest men in the Army, to use a homely phrase, have been out for both.  Many a fresh, and valuable bit of training has been due to some individual officer struck with a new idea, and patiently working it out.  The special “schools,” which are now daily increasing the efficiency of the Army, if you ask how they arose, you will generally be able to trace them back to some eager young man starting a modest experiment in his spare time for the teaching of himself and some of his friends, and so developing it that the thing is finally recognised, enlarged, and made the parent of similar efforts elsewhere.

Let me describe one such “school”—­to me a thrilling one, as I saw it on a clear March afternoon.  A year ago no such thing existed.  Now each of our Armies possesses one.

But this letter is already too long!

No. 3

Easter Eve, 1917.

DEAR MR. ROOSEVELT,—­Since I finished my last letter to you, before the meeting of Congress, great days have come and gone.

America is with us!

At last, we English folk can say that to each other, without reserve or qualification, and into England’s mood of ceaseless effort and anxiety there has come a sudden relaxation, a breath of something canning and sustaining.  What your action may be—­whether it will shorten the war, and how much, no one here yet knows.  But when in some great strain a friend steps to your side, you don’t begin with questions.  He is there.  Your cause, your effort, are his.  Details will come.  Discussion will come.  But there is a breathing space first, in which feeling rests upon itself before it rushes out in action.  Such a breathing space for England are these Easter days!