Does anybody in the United States take the Prime Minister, Mr. Asquith, to be a great man?  His wife is a brilliant woman; and she has kept a diary ever since he became Prime Minister; and he now has passed the longest single term in English history.  Mr. Dent thinks he’s the biggest man alive, and Dent has some mighty good instincts.

Talk about troubles!  Think of poor Northcliffe.  He thinks he’s saved the nation from its miserable government, and the government now openly abuses him in the House of Commons.  Northcliffe puts on his brass knuckles and turns the Times building upside down and sets all the Daily Mail machine guns going, and has to go to bed to rest his nerves, while the row spreads and deepens.  The Government keeps hell in the prayer-book because without it they wouldn’t know what to do with Northcliffe; and Northcliffe is just as sure that he has saved England as he is sure the Duke of Wellington did.

To come back to the war. (We always do.) Since I wrote the first part of this letter, I spent an evening with a member of the Cabinet and he told me so much bad military news, which they prevent the papers from publishing or even hearing, that to-night I almost share this man’s opinion that the war will last till 1918.  That isn’t impossible.  If that happens the offer that I heard a noble old buck make to a group of ladies the other night may be accepted.  This old codger is about seventy-five, ruddy and saucy yet.  “My dear ladies,” said he, “if the war goes on and on we shall have no young men left.  A double duty will fall on the old fellows.  I shall be ready, when the need comes, to take four extra wives, and I daresay there are others of my generation who are as patriotic as I am.”

All of which is only my long-winded, round-about diplomatic way of wishing you every one and every one of yours and all the folk in the office, their assigns, superiors, dependents, companions in labour—­all, everyone and sundry, the happiest of Christmases; and when you take stock of your manifold blessings, don’t forget to be thankful for the Atlantic Ocean.  That’s the best asset of safety that we have.

     Affectionately yours,

     W.H.P.

     To Mrs. Charles G. Loring

     6 Grosvenor Square,

     London, December 7, 1915.

     DEAR KITTY: 

This is my Christmas letter to you and Chud—­a poor thing, but the best I have to give you.  At least it carries my love, dear, and my wishes that every Christmas under your own roof will be happier than the preceding one.  Since your starting point is on the high level of your first Christmas in your own home—­that’s a good wish:  isn’t it?

I’m beginning to think a good