Germany, many American women made scenes of confusion and vociferation.

About England and the blast of Fate which had struck her they had nothing
to say, but crowded and wailed of their own discomforts, meals, rooms,

every paltry personal inconvenience to which they were subjected, or
feared that they were going to be subjected. Under the unprecedented

stress this was, perhaps, not unnatural; but it would have seemed less
displeasing had they also occasionally showed concern for England's

plight and peril.
An American, this time a man (our crudities are not limited to the sex)

stood up in a theatre, disputing the sixpence which you always have to
pay for your program in the London theatres. He disputed so long that

many people had to stand waiting to be shown their seats.
During deals at a game of bridge on a Cunard steamer, the talk had turned

upon a certain historic house in an English county. The talk was
friendly, everything had been friendly each day.

"Well," said a very rich American to his English partner in the game,
"those big estates will all be ours pretty soon. We're going to buy them

up and turn your island into our summer resort." No doubt this
millionaire intended to be playfully humorous.

At a table where several British and one American--an officer--sat during
another ocean voyage between Liverpool and Halifax in June, 1919, the

officer expressed satisfaction to be getting home again. He had gone
over, he said, to "clean up the mess the British had made."

To a company of Americans who had never heard it before, was told the
well-known exploit of an American girl in Europe. In an ancient church

she was shown the tomb of a soldier who had been killed in battle three
centuries ago. In his honor and memory, because he lost his life bravely

in a great cause, his family had kept a little glimmering lamp alight
ever since. It hung there, beside the tomb.

"And that's never gone out in all this time?" asked the American girl.
"Never," she was told.

"Well, it's out now, anyway," and she blew it out.
All the Americans who heard this were shocked all but one, who said:

"Well, I think she was right."
There you are! There you have us at our very worst! And with this plump

specimen of the American in Europe at his very worst, I turn back to the
English: only, pray do not fail to give those other Americans who were

shocked by the outrage of the lamp their due. How wide of the mark would
you be if you judged us all by the one who approved of that horrible

vandal girl's act! It cannot be too often repeated that we must never
condemn a whole people for what some of the people do.

In the two-and-a-half anecdotes which follow, you must watch out for
something which lies beneath their very obvious surface.

An American sat at lunch with a great English lady in her country-house.
Although she had seen him but once before, she began a conversation like

this:
Did the American know the van Squibbers?

He did not.
Well, the van Squibbers, his hostess explained, were Americans who lived

in London and went everywhere. One certainly did see them everywhere.
They were almost too extraordinary.

Now the American knew quite all about these van Squibbers. He knew also
that in New York, and Boston, and Philadelphia, and in many other places

where existed a society with still some ragged remnants of decency and
decorum left, one would not meet this highly star-spangled family

"everywhere."
The hostess kept it up. Did the American know the Butteredbuns? No? Well,

one met the Butteredbuns everywhere too. They were rather more
extraordinary than the van Squibbers. And then there were the Cakewalks,

and the Smith-Trapezes' Mrs. Smith-Trapeze wasn't as extraordinary as her
daughter--the one that put the live frog in Lord Meldon's soup--and of

course neither of them were "talked about" in the same way that the
eldest Cakewalk girl was talked about. Everybody went to them, of course,

because one really never knew what one might miss if one didn't go.
At length the American said:

"You must correct me if I am wrong in an impression I have received.
Vulgar Americans seem to me to get on very well in London."

The hostess paused for a moment, and then she said:
"That is perfectly true."

This acknowledgment was complete, and perfectly friendly, and after that
all went better than it had gone before.

The half anecdote is a part of this one, and happened a few weeks later
at table--dinner this time.

Sitting next to the same American was an English lady whose conversation
led him to repeat to her what he had said to his hostess at lunch:

"Vulgar Americans seem to get on very well in London society."
"They do," said the lady, "and I will tell you why. We English--I mean

that set of English--are blase. We see each other too much, we are all
alike in our ways, and we are awfully tired of it. Therefore it refreshes

us and amuses us to see something new and different."
"Then," said the American, "you accept these hideous people's

invitations, and go to their houses, and eat their food, and drink their
champagne, and it's just like going to see the monkeys at the Zoo?"

"It is," returned the lady.
"But," the American asked, "isn't that awfully low down of you?" (He

smiled as he said it.)
Immediately the English lady assented; and grew more cordial. When next

day the party came to break up, she contrived in the manner of her
farewell to make the American understand that because of their

conversation she bore him not ill will but good will.
Once more, the scene of my anecdote is at table, a long table in a club,

where men came to lunch. All were Englishmen, except a single stranger.
He was an American, who through the kindness of one beloved member of

that club, no longer living now, had received a card to the club. The
American, upon sitting down alone in this company, felt what I suppose

that many of us feel in like circumstances: he wished there were somebody
there who knew him and could nod to him. Nevertheless, he was spoken to,

asked questions about various of his fellow countrymen, and made at home.
Presently, however, an elderly member who had been silent and whom I will

designate as being of the Dr. Samuel Johnson type, said: "You seem to be
having trouble in your packing houses over in America? "

We were.
"Very disgraceful, those exposures."

They were. It was May, 1906.
"Your Government seems to be doing something about it. It's certainly

scandalous. Such abuses should never have been possible in the first
place. It oughtn't to require your Government to stop it. It shouldn't

have started."
"I fancy the facts aren't quite so bad as that sensational novel about

Chicago makes them out," said the American. "At least I have been told
so."

"It all sounds characteristic to me," said the Sam Johnson. "It's quite
the sort of thing one expects to hear from the States."

"It is characteristic," said the American. "In spite of all the years
that the sea has separated us, we're still inveterately like you, a

bullying, dishonest lot--though we've had nothing quite so bad yet as
your opium trade with China."

The Sam Johnson said no more.
At a ranch in Wyoming were a number of Americans and one Englishman, a

man of note, bearing a celebrated name. He was telling the company what
one could do in the way of amusement in the evening in London.

"And if there's nothing at the theatres and everything else fails, you
can always go to one of the restaurants and hear the Americans eat."

There you have them, my anecdotes. They are chosen from many. I hope and
believe that, between them all, they cover the ground; that, taken

together as I want you to take them after you have taken them singly,
they make my several points clear. As I see it, they reveal the chief