"The Statue of Liberty," answered Craighouse with the tone of a 4th of July orator. "That is the spirit of America--equality for all, freedom of thought and action, liberty for every one." "Oh yes--splendid," commented the Englishman politely. There was silence for a moment, and then, in a burst of inexcusable chauvinism, Craighouse said, "You haven't anything like that in England, have you?" "No," said the English officer casually; "but we had an army in France two weeks after war was declared. I say, do come and have a drink." III Three months later the editor of the _New York Monthly Journal_ received a letter from Craighouse. Adjusting his glasses, he settled comfortably into his chair and read it. "MY DEAR PATRON,--I hope you have not been disappointed at my lack of articles, but, to be candid, I have not struck the proper mental balance yet. "England is delightful; England is absurd. I was on a bus yesterday, and the conductress gave the signal to go ahead by hammering the side with the fare-box. It fascinated me. Incidentally, the girls have wonderful complexions over here, but they do not dress as cleverly as ours. I know you will say it is war-time, but nothing is powerful enough to interfere with anything so fundamental as a woman's clothes." ("A bit labored, but quite good," muttered the editor.) "The country, as you know, is like a garden, with all a garden's charm and limitations. I don't feel yet that I can take a deep breath. There are woods; but the trees seem to huddle together for want of space, and one always feels that just the other side of the woods there is a town or a village. England is lovely, but I feel the lack of immensity. To me, the whole effect is that the country is complete; there is nothing more to do. Everything that can be built has been built." ("And well built, too," muttered Mr. Townsend.) "In fact, I don't see what there is over here to employ to the full the brains, the nerves, and the imagination of a full-blooded _homo_. Again I return to the garden simile. Is the task of maintenance big enough for the splendid specimens of manhood that England rears? "I feel that there is something wrong with the public-school system. Not that it is inefficient, but rather that it is too thorough in its results. Judging superficially, of course, it seems that the public school ignores the fact that every one is born an individual, and proceeds to produce a type. To use a vulgarism, it is a high-class scholastic sausage-machine. It takes in variegated ingredients, and turns out uniformity of product. It instructs the youth of the land in the manly virtues of past ages, but appears to ignore the creative instinct. Public-school men are the Greek chorus of England's national drama; they seldom provide either the dramatist or the principal actors.