Well, I had the crowd with me right along.  Then Hughes came and he took American Spirit as his text, and he made it quite evident what his campaign is going to be; that it is going to be a charge, veiled and very poorly supported by facts, that we have not known where we were going, that we were vacillating, that we did not have any enthusiasm, that we did not arouse the people and make them feel proud that they were Americans.  How in the mischief he is going to get away with this, I do not understand.  Whom were we to be mad at—­England, or Germany, or everybody in the world?  Were we to war with the entire outfit?  He seems to be able to have satisfied the Providence Journal, which is run by an Australian who has been running the spy system for the British Embassy, and has been printing a lot ... about Germany and all the German press.  If he can get away with this he is some politician.  I see that Teddy has had an understanding with him.  Von Meyer was there yesterday to hold a conference with him.

But I do not think that we lost anything in the discussion of yesterday.  There were not any Democrats there who were not on their toes at the end of the meeting; but, of course, practically everybody in Rhode Island is a Republican.  It is the closest thing to a proprietary estate that I have ever seen.

...  I left at 6 o’clock and on my way back met President Vincent, of Minneapolis, and George Foster Peabody.  You knew that Frank Kellogg was nominated, [Footnote:  For the United States Senate.] didn’t you, Clapp running third? ...

FRANKLIN K. LANE

TO MRS. ADOLPH MILLER

Washington, July 4, 1916

...  I see you with blooming cheeks and star-lit eyes peeping out from under a sun-bonnet, enshrined in all the glories of the mountain redwoods, and I long to be with you if only to get some of the freshness and joy of the California mountains into my rather desolate soul.

How is the old clam?  Do his lips come together in that precise Prussian way, and does he order the universe about?  Or does a new spirit come over him when he gets with nature?  Is she a soothing mistress who smooths his stiff hair with her soft hand, and pats his cheek and nestles him in her arms, and with her cool breath makes him forget a federal, or any other kind, of reserve?

Why has nature been so unkind to me as to make me a lover but always from afar, never to come near her, never to compel me to a sweet surrender, never to give me peace and contentment, never to so surround me as to keep out the world of fools and follies and pharisees?

You know, I would like to write some servant girl novels.  I believe I could do it.  My love-making would either be rather tame and stiff or too intensely early Victorian.  But I should like to swing off into an ecstasy of large turgid words and let my mind hear the mushy housemaid cry, “Isn’t that just too sweet!” ...