hospitality!" "It's Hell, but it's fine," an artist told me. "El
Cuspidorado," remarked an Oxford man, brilliantly. But one wiser than
all the rest wrote: "Think gently of the Americans. They are so very
young; and so very anxious to appear grown-up; and so very lovable."
This was more generous than the unvarying comment of ordinary English
friends when they heard of my purpose, "My God!" And it was more precise
than those nineteen several Americans, to each of whom I said, "I am
going to visit America," and each of whom replied, after long
reflection, "Wal! it's a great country!"

Travelling by the ordinary routes, you meet the American people a week
before you meet America. And my excitement to discover what, precisely,
this nation was _at_, was inflamed rather than damped by the
attitude of a charming American youth who crossed by the same boat. That
simplicity that is not far down in any American was very beautifully on
the delightful surface with him. The second day out he sidled shyly up
to me. "Of what nationality _are_ you?" he asked. His face
showed bewilderment when he heard. "I thought all Englishmen had
moustaches," he said. I told him of the infinite variety, within the
homogeneity, of our race. He did not listen, but settled down near me
with the eager kindliness of a child. "You know," he said, "you'll never
understand America. No, Sir. No Englishman can understand America. I've
been in London. In your Houses of Parliament there is one door for peers
to go in at, and one for ordinary people. Did I laugh some when I saw
that? You bet your, America's not like that. In America one man's just
as good as another. You'll never understand America." I was all
humility. His theme and his friendliness fired him. He rose with a
splendour which, I had to confess to myself, England could never have
given to him. "Would you like to hear me re-cite to you the Declaration
of Independence?" he asked. And he did.