Americans came. Servants ceased to be what they were; butlers were
hopelessly damaged; hotel porters became a wreck; taxi-drivers turned
out thieves; curates could no longer be trusted to handle money;
peers sold their daughters at a million dollars a piece or three for
two. In fact the whole kingdom began to deteriorate till it got where
it is now. At present after a rich American has stayed in any English
country house, its owners find that they can do nothing with the
butler; a wildness has come over the man. There is a restlessness in
his demeanour and a strange wistful look in his eye as if seeking for
something. In many cases, so I understand, after an American has
stayed in a country house the butler goes insane. He is found in his
pantry counting over the sixpence given to him by a Duke, and
laughing to himself. He has to be taken in charge by the police. With
him generally go the chauffeur, whose mind has broken down from
driving a rich American twenty miles; and the gardener, who is found
tearing up raspberry bushes by the roots to see if there is any money
under them; and the local curate whose brain has collapsed or
expanded, I forget which, when a rich American gave him fifty dollars
for his soup kitchen.

There are, it is true, a few classes that have escaped this contagion,
shepherds living in the hills, drovers, sailors, fishermen and such
like. I remember the first time I went into the English country-side
being struck with the clean, honest look in the people's faces. I
realised exactly where they got it: they had never seen any Americans.
I remember speaking to an aged peasant down in Somerset. "Have you
ever seen any Americans?" "Nah," he said, "uz eeard a mowt o' 'em,
zir, but uz zeen nowt o' 'em." It was clear that the noble fellow
was quite undamaged by American contact.