Perhaps one of the saddest evidences of a changed England is Mr. H. G. Wells's letter to Americans in _The Chronicle_ of August 24th. For an Englishman to _implore_ a foreign country to do or not to do anything, is new. Englishmen have not been used to beg weakly, with tears in their eyes. Whatever one may think of Mr. Wells's contention in this letter, the tone in which it is written is a lamentable evidence of panic. Panic has never been an English trait, and neither has whining servility. And the Americans are the last people in the world to be moved by it. We are a just people, and we admire valor. I think Mr. Wells need not have _stooped_ to ask us for justice or sympathy. After all, it purports little to point out the spots on the sun. England is still the mother-country of most Americans, even if that was a good while ago. And we love her. She has given us not only our blood, but our civilization. Since this war broke out she has harbored us and kept her ships running for us. In Paris, one must get a permit from the police to stay or leave. In England, one is free and unmolested. England has always been the refuge of oppressed peoples. Does she need to ask our sympathy now that she is, herself, oppressed? Neutral we must be, and neutral we shall be, but we are not a military nation, and despotism can never attract us. Every American would rather a bungling democracy than the wisest despot who ever breathed. [1] This condition has somewhat improved since above was written. Cause HELEN HOYT As the surprise of a woman When she knows that she is pregnant, Is the surprise of a murderer Beholding that he has killed. That so small a moment of time, That so slight an act should suffice! No plan, no purpose, ordained what befell, Only the wild urging blood and muscle And swift desire. These, In an instant, Beyond retraction, Could set in motion all the long inexorable processes of life: All the long inexorable processes of death. Could establish that which may not be effaced, Which alters the world. New Wars for Old CHARLES ASHLEIGH _The Mob_, by John Galsworthy. [Charles Scribner's Sons, New York.] I confess to a certain disappointment at this play. Not that it is a bad play. It would be hard for Galsworthy to write badly. But, both dramatically and philosophically, it might have been better, and, judging by Galsworthy's previous work, could easily have been better. _Justice_, _Strife_ and _The Pigeon_, for instance, are immeasurably superior to this play.