LETTERS FROM ABROAD
will not lose heart at this, but employ all their energies in the service of their country in a spirit of indomitable courage and determination. The late events have conclusively proved that our true salvation lies in our own hands; that a nation's greatness can never find its foundation in half-hearted concessions of contemptuous niggardliness. It is the sign of feeble character to seek for a short-cut to fulfilment through the favour of those whose interest it is to keep it barred; the one path to it is the difficult path of suffering and self-sacrifice. All great boons only come to us through the power of the immortal spirit we have within us, and that spirit only proves itself by its defiance of danger and loss.
I find it very difficult to write letters; my mind barricades itself against the pressure of the hustling world, and refuses to surrender itself to me when its help is needed. It is taking its revenge for being dragged away from its shelter.
LONDON, August 1, 1920.
We live on the topmost floor of this house far away from the surging life of the town. Only the crest of the swell of the London street noise reaches me, gently undulating like those clustering tree-tops of Kensington Gardens, that I watch from my window. The long and persistent spell of bad weather seems to have exhausted its spite and the
