the two very good men whom I have put in charge there and who have never suspected him.  How on earth they found this out simply passes my understanding.  Fortunately it doesn’t bring any embarrassment to us; he was not in our pay and he was left by the German Ambassador with the British Government’s consent, to take care of the house.  Again, when the German Chancellor made a statement two days ago about the causes of the war, in a few hours Sir Edward Grey issued a statement showing that the Chancellor had misstated every important historic fact.—­The other day a commercial telegram was sent (or started) by Mr. Bryan for some bank or trading concern in the United States, managed by Germans, to some correspondent of theirs in Germany.  It contained the words, “Where is Harry?” The censor here stopped it.  It was brought to me with the explanation that “Harry” is one of the most notorious of German spies—­whom they would like to catch.  The English were slow in getting into full action, but now they never miss a trick, little or big.

The Germans have far more than their match in resources and in shrewdness and—­in character.  As the bloody drama unfolds itself, the hollow pretence and essential barbarity of Prussian militarism become plainer and plainer:  there is no doubt of that.  And so does the invincibility of this race.  A well-known Englishman told me to-day that his three sons, his son-in-law, and half his office men are in the military service, “where they belong in a time like this.”  The lady who once so sharply criticized this gentleman to Mrs. Page has a son and a brother in the army in France.  It makes you take a fresh grip on your eyelids to hear either of these talk.  In fact the strain on one’s emotions, day in and day out, makes one wonder if the world is real—­or is this a vast dream?  From sheer emotional exhaustion I slept almost all day last Sunday, though I had not for several days lost sleep at all.  Many persons tell me of their similar experiences.  The universe seems muffled.  There is a ghostly silence in London (so it seems); and only dim street lights are lighted at night.  No experience seems normal.  A vast organization is working day and night down town receiving Belgian refugees.  They become the guests of the English.  They are assigned to people’s homes, to boarding houses, to institutions.  They are taking care of them—­this government and this people are.  I do not recall when one nation ever did another whole nation just such a hospitable service as this.  You can’t see that work going on and remain unmoved.  An old woman who has an income of $15 a week decided that she could live on $7.50.  She buys milk with the other $7.50 and goes to meet every train at one of the big stations with a basket filled with baby bottles, and she gives milk to every hungry-looking baby she sees.  Our American committeeman, Hoover, saw her in trouble the other day and asked her what was the matter.  She explained that