In New York, when I started for the seat of war, three banks in which for years I had kept a modest balance refused me a hundred dollars in gold, or a check, or a letter of credit.  They simply put up the shutters and crawled under the bed.  So in Europe, where there actually was war, the women tourists, with nothing but a worthless letter of credit between them and sleeping in a park, had every reason to be panic-stricken.  But to explain the hysteria of the hundred thousand other Americans is difficult—­so difficult that while they live they will still be explaining.  The worst that could have happened to them was temporary discomfort offset by adventures.  Of those they experienced they have not yet ceased boasting.

On August 5th, one day after England declared war, the American Government announced that it would send the Tennessee with a cargo of gold.  In Rome and in Paris Thomas Nelson Page and Myron T. Herrick were assisting every American who applied to them, and committees of Americans to care for their fellow countrymen had been organized.  All that was asked of the stranded Americans was to keep cool and, like true sports, suffer inconvenience.  Around them were the French and English, facing the greatest tragedy of centuries, and meeting it calmly and with noble self-sacrifice.  The men were marching to meet death, and in the streets, shops, and fields the women were taking up the burden the men had dropped.  And in the Rue Scribe and in Cockspur Street thousands of Americans were struggling in panic-stricken groups, bewailing the loss of a hat-box, and protesting at having to return home second-class.  Their suffering was something terrible.  In London, in the Ritz and Carlton restaurants, American refugees, loaded down with fat pearls and seated at tables loaded with fat food, besought your pity.  The imperial suite, which on the fast German liner was always reserved for them, “except when Prince Henry was using it,” was no longer available, and they were subjected to the indignity of returning home on a nine-day boat and in the captain’s cabin.  It made their blue blood boil; and the thought that their emigrant ancestors had come over in the steerage did not help a bit.

The experiences of Judge Richard William Irwin, of the Superior Court of Massachusetts, and his party, as related in the Paris Herald, were heartrending.  On leaving Switzerland for France they were forced to carry their own luggage, all the porters apparently having selfishly marched off to die for their country, and the train was not lighted, nor did any one collect their tickets.  “We have them yet!” says Judge Irwin.  He makes no complaint, he does not write to the Public-Service Commission about it, but he states the fact.  No one came to collect his ticket, and he has it yet.  Something should be done.  Merely because France is at war Judge Irwin should not be condemned to go through life clinging to a first-class ticket.

In another interview Judge George A. Carpenter, of the United States Court of Chicago, takes a more cheerful view.  “I can’t see anything for Americans to get hysterical about,” he says.  “They seem to think their little delays and difficulties are more important than all the troubles of Europe.  For my part, I should think these people would be glad to settle down in Paris.”  A wise judge!