When the pilgrim from Kansas arrives at an ancient English inn he feels
that he must be on his good behavior. Boots in his green apron is a
lesson to him. He is not like a Western hotel bell-boy on the way to
becoming something else. He knows his place. Everybody, he imagines, in
this country knows his place, and there is no unseemly crowding and
pushing. And what stronger proof can there be that this is a land where
law is reverenced than the demeanor of a London policeman. There is no
truculence about him, no show of physical force. He is so mild-eyed and
soft of speech that one feels that he has been shielded from rude
contact with the world. He represents the Law in a land where law is
sacred. He is instinctively obeyed. He has but to wave his hand and
traffic stops.

When the traveler is told that in the vicinity of the House of Commons
traffic is stopped to allow a Member to cross the street, his admiration
increases. Fancy a Congressman being treated with such respect! But the
argument which, on the whole, makes the deepest impression is the
deferential manners of the tradesmen with their habit of saying, "Thank
you," apropos of nothing at all. It seems an indication of perpetual
gratitude over the fact that things are as they are.

But when one comes to listen to the talk of the day one is surprised to
find a surprising lack of docility. I doubt whether the Englishman has
the veneration for the abstract idea of Law which is common among
Americans. Indeed, he is accustomed to treat most abstractions with
scant courtesy. There is nothing quite corresponding to the average
American's feeling about a decision of the Supreme Court. The Law has
spoken, let all the land keep silent. It seems like treason to criticize
it, like anarchy to defy it.