[Footnote 22:  Sir William Tyrrell, private secretary to Sir Edward Grey.]

CHAPTER XVII

CHRISTMAS IN ENGLAND, 1915

     To Edward M. House
     London, December 7, 1915.

     MY DEAR HOUSE: 

I hear you are stroking down the Tammany tiger—­an easier job than I have with the British lion.  You can find out exactly who your tiger is, you know the house he lives in, the liquor he drinks, the company he goes with.  The British lion isn’t so easy to find.  At times in English history he has dwelt in Downing Street—­not so now.  So far as our struggle with him is concerned, he’s all over the Kingdom; for he is public opinion.  The governing crowd in usual times and on usual subjects can here overrun public opinion—­can make it, turn it, down it, dodge it.  But it isn’t so now—­as it affects us.  Every mother’s son of ’em has made up his mind that Germany must and shall be starved out, and even Sir Edward’s scalp isn’t safe when they suspect that he wishes to be lenient in that matter.  They keep trying to drive him out, on two counts:  (1) he lets goods out of Germany for the United States “and thereby handicaps the fleet”; and (2) he failed in the Balkans.  Sir Edward is too much of a gentleman for this business of rough-riding over all neutral rights and for bribing those Balkan bandits.

     I went to see him to-day about the Hocking, etc.  He asked me:  “Do
     you know that the ships of this line are really owned, in good
     faith, by Americans?”

     “I’ll answer your question,” said I, “if I may then ask you one. 
     No, I don’t know of my own knowledge.  Now, do you know that they
     are not owned by Americans?”

     He had to confess that he, of his own knowledge, didn’t know.

     “Then,” I said, “for the relief of us both, I pray you hurry up
     your prize court.”

When we’d got done quarrelling about ships and I started to go, he asked me how I liked Wordsworth’s war poems.  “The best of all war poems,” said he, “because they don’t glorify war but have to do with its philosophy.”  Then he told me that some friend of his had just got out a little volume of these war poems selected from Wordsworth; “and I’m going to send you a copy.”

     “Just in time,” said I, “for I have a copy of ’The Life and Letters
     of John Hay’[23] that I’m sending to you.”

He’s coming to dine with me in a night or two:  he’ll do anything but discuss our Note with me.  And he’s the only member of the Government who, I think, would like to meet our views; and he can’t.  To use the language of Lowell about the campaign of Governor Kent—­these British are hell-bent on starving the Germans out, and neutrals have mighty few rights till that job’s done.