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162 Communists were "boring" the English oak until her glorious foliage had begun to wither and fall; the Irish had lopped off her trigger finger; her empire was disintegrating! As for the English themselves—they had lost faith, they had forsaken God, they had forgotten their heroes, they no longer knew how to dream; they had become listless, spineless, nerveless, disunited—and so on.

And I had always looked upon England as the world's—at least the Anglo-Saxon world's—stalwart, and Rock of Gibraltar. In fearing for England, I feared for America.

To-day, I no longer doubt England, my fears have vanished, I recall again her half-forgotten history. And all I have done to be thus reassured has been to pass with her through the great recurrent ordeal. Part of what I have here recorded of that experience is sheer fantasy, I know. But behind that fantasy lies a living fact, and if it be fact, then underlying it is the truth.

My going away over to the Southwark (quaintly pronounced "Sutthuck") Cathedral to attend the memorial service for England's fallen in the World War was, I must confess, a more or less casual adventure. The London Symphony Orchestra, I had heard, was going to play Brahms's "Requiem" accompanied by 150 voices. That settled it.

I found the cathedral already crowded to the