the aristocratic incubus. The nervous fluid so characteristic of
America in general flows briskly in the veins of its social organism;
the feeling is abroad that what is worth doing is worth doing well.
There is a more general ability than we possess to talk brightly on
the topics of the moment; there is less lingering over one subject;
there is a constant savour of the humorous view of life. The more even
distribution of comfort in the United States (becoming, alas! daily
less characteristic) adds largely to the pleasantness of society by
minimising the semi-conscious feeling of remorse in playing while the
"other half" starves. The inherent inability of the American to
understand that there is any "higher" social order than his own
minimises the feeling of envy of those "above" him. "How dreadful,"
says the Englishman to the American girl, "to be governed by men to
whom you would not speak!" "Yes," is the rejoinder, "and how
delightful to be governed by men who won't speak to you!" From this
latter form of delight American society is free. Henry James strikes a
true note when he makes Miranda Hope (in "A Bundle of Letters")
describe the fashionable girl she met at a Paris pension as "like the
people they call 'haughty' in books," and then go on to say, "I have
never seen anyone like that before--anyone that wanted to make a
difference." And her feeling of impersonal interest in the phenomenon
is equally characteristic. "She seemed to me so like a proud young
lady in a novel. I kept saying to myself all day, 'haughty, haughty,'
and I wished she would keep on so." Too much stress cannot easily be
laid on this feeling of equality in the air as a potent enhancer of
the pleasure of society. To feel yourself patronised--even, perhaps
especially, when you know yourself to be in all respects the superior
of the patroniser--may tickle your sense of humour for a while, but in
the long run it is distinctly dispiriting. The philosopher, no doubt,
is or should be able to disregard the petty annoyances arising from an