After lunch Harry Dana rescued me and took me to his aunt’s house where he lives, and which is called “Longfellow House.” It is of historic interest as having been the residence of Washington and also of Longfellow whose grandson Harry Dana is. The house was quaintly and attractively Georgian and full of dead memories, marble busts and musty laurel wreaths. We retired to his book lined sanctum and with us was an Indian, a follower of Gandhi, who was lecturing at Harvard. We lit a fire and sat before it on the floor while the follower of Gandhi talked to us of Eastern philosophy and oriental serenity. He was not calm in spite of all he said about it, but his restlessness was not the impatient unrest of the West, it had the dignity of the tiger. As he paced back and forth, talking the while, his talk was full of poetry and imagery. I realised what had been lacking in the composition of one’s days: Here there is no poetry (with apologies to Johnny Weaver!). There is not time, they say, and dreams are not for practical people. But the follower of Gandhi combined all the practicability and all the activity, restlessness and humor of the West with the force of Eastern imagery. They are great artists, the descendants of a great culture. They, not we, know how to live, and how to love life. Incidentally I gathered that a hot place to be in, next December, is India! This Indian revolution interests me very much. I believe that before long all eyes will be turned on India. If Gandhi’s methods of passive resistance are successful, and India is liberated by a comparatively bloodless revolution, it may mark the epoch of a new era and a new religion. To-day, the majority of people one meets are expressing the desire that Jews and Bolsheviks, and Germans, too, should be wiped out. The Christian peoples whose religion is based on forgiveness, love and tolerance, have been killing each other mercilessly. It is just possible that Christianity is over, that it “went out” in blood and war. Maybe the renaissance of the world will come in the Orient. Spirit is unquenchable and inextinguishable. When crushed in one part of the world it will reappear elsewhere. I make no pretense of prophecy. I only say: Watch India! I spent the week-end in the family circle and was overwhelmed with kindness and hospitality. I, who have grown socialistic and Bohemian, suddenly went back to being a perfect lady, and as a novelty enjoyed it. What beautiful manners they had, the Bostonians I met, just naturally beautiful old world manners. They seemed like those well bred people one knows in Europe who are so absolutely “placés,” so deep rootedly aristocratic, that they can afford to be tolerant without fear of losing caste.