That word has no application in this context. "Pretty" and "ugly"--why
should we for ever carry about these æsthetic labels in our pockets, and
insist on dabbing them down on everything that comes in our way? If we
cannot get, with Nietzsche, _Jenseits von Gut und Böse_, we might at
least allow our souls an occasional breathing-space in a region "Back of
the Beautiful and the Ugly," as they say in President's English. While I
am trying to formulate my feelings with regard to this deputation of
giants which the giant Republic sends down to the waterside to welcome
us, behold, we have crept up abreast of the Cunard wharf, and there
stands a little crowd of human welcomers, waving handkerchiefs and
American flags. An energetic tug-boat butts her head gallantly into the
flank of the huge liner, in order to help her round. She glides up to
her berth, the gangway is run out, and at last I set foot upon
American--lumber.

What are my emotions? I have only one; single, simple, easily-expressed:
dread of the United States Custom House. Its terrors and its tyrannies
have been depicted in such lurid colours on the other side that I am
almost surprised to observe no manifest ogres in uniform caps, but only,
it would seem, ordinary human beings. And, on closer acquaintanceship,
they prove to be civil and even helpful human beings, with none of the
lazy superciliousness which so often characterises the European
toll-taker. At first the scene is chaotic enough, but, by aid of an
arrangement in alphabetical groups, cosmos soon emerges. The system by
which you declare your dutiable goods and are assigned an examiner, and
if necessary an appraiser, is admirably simple and free from red-tape. I
shall not describe it, for it would be more tedious in description than
in act. Enough that the whole thing is conducted, so far as I could see,
promptly, efficiently, and with perfect good temper. One brief
discussion I heard, between an official and an American citizen, who was