The Irish standard., 1906-08-25

If were to live a hundred years in
England, 1 could never forget that 1
was a stranger in a strange land,
writes an American, long resident in
England in the August Critic. I might
not always be thinking of it. Indeed.
already, I have lived long enough in
the country to think of it less continu-
ally than in the bewildering days Of
arrival. But not always to be think
ing of thing does not mean to for
get it and time has only convinced me
that nowhere is it so hard for the
American to feel at home as in Eng.
land.
Till within the last few years, it sell
dom entered the head Of the English
thing else. What could We have in
common with him, or our country with
his? His attitude towards us was
frankly antagonistic. In ours toward
him, however, were certain reserva-
tions. For if it was our agreeable hab-
it to twist the British lions tail until
the lion roared. we could not help a
sneaking sentiment for England and
for people who were brought up to
speak the same language and whose
literature was ours. We knew the
country by heart, or thought we did,
before we set foot in it. We knew
what it meant to want to be in Eng
land now that Aprils there; we knew
how the nightingale sings of summer
in full-throated ease, how the lark
is heard to begin his flight how the
owl "tuwhoos' when iciclas hang by
the wall. Already, for US, many a
time had the fowery frost of May COW
cred the hedges, the heather clothed
the moors with purple glory, the sun
wrapped itself in its golden haze. Bri-
tain was our island of Cytherea for
which we embarked with books for ball
last and the wind of romance in our
sails.
Sometimes this wind drove us
straight to the town, and there was
not post in Fleet street we had not
touched with DR.. Johnson, not shop
window in the motley Strand we had
not looked into with Lamb, not den
in Seven Dials we had not raided
with Dickens, not a court in the Tenn
pie nor club in Pail Mall we had not
passed at the heels Of Pendennis. 1t
was all ours-ours by birthright-town
and country alike, pied meadows and
smoky walls. And in some emotional
corner of OUR brain lurked always
that old idea of the Mother Country
the dear old Mother Island" Lowell
could call it, even while he slashed
and slew the Islanders with his sar-
casm. The idea was too deep-rooted
in our literary and family traditions
to be lightly set aside. Our illusions
might fall about us, thick as leaves in
Vallambrosa, and it survived. strong
and unshaken. To Washington Irving
though when first he stepped upon
British soil he could not but feel a
stranger. England was still the land
of his forefathers. To Hawthorne,
though he offended the English beyond
forgiveness by telling them what he
thought Of them, it was still "Our Old
Home" Only yesterday, to Mr.. How
ellis, though the Briton had long been
the red rag to his wrath, it was still
consecrated ground-the grave of our
ancestors. To every American, indeed
every American, that is. who does
not come from Judea, or from Africa,
Or speak in foreign tongues-his as
sociations with England, when not Bit
ter, are so many reasons for sympathy
and sentiment.
The American has not come by his
reputation for shrewdness without rea-
son. and he is not to be taken in by
pretty speeches or by brand-new re-
lation thrust upon his unready shoul-
ders. But the trouble is that this We
neer of friendship, or relationship
threatens the simplicity Of the old mis-
understanding. We have now got to
see through John Bulls disguise, be-
fore we begin to see through John
Bull himself. The disguise is not very
hard to see through-except for those