the day of the American woman in London, and, having been assured
that she is an entertaining personage, young John Bull is willing to
take it for granted so long as she does not try to marry him, and
even this pleasure he will allow her on occasion,--if well paid for
it.

The longer I live, the more I feel it an absurdity to label nations
with national traits, and then endeavour to make individuals conform
to the required standard. It is possible, I suppose, to draw
certain broad distinctions, though even these are subject to change;
but the habit of generalising from one particular, that mainstay of
the cheap and obvious essayist, has rooted many fictions in the
public mind. Nothing, for instance, can blot from my memory the
profound, searching, and exhaustive analysis of a great nation which
I learned in my small geography when I was a child, namely, 'The
French are a gay and polite people, fond of dancing and light
wines.'

One young Englishman whom I have met lately errs on the side of
over-appreciation. He laughs before, during, and after every remark
I make, unless it be a simple request for food or drink. This is an
acquaintance of Willie Beresford, the Honourable Arthur Ponsonby,
who was the 'whip' on our coach drive to Dorking,--dear, delightful,
adorable Dorking, of hen celebrity.

Salemina insisted on my taking the box seat, in the hope that the
Honourable Arthur would amuse me. She little knew him! He sapped
me of all my ideas, and gave me none in exchange. Anything so
unspeakably heavy I never encountered. It is very difficult for a
woman who doesn't know a nigh horse from an off one, nor the