The quandary which a ship finds herself in, sailing from Great Britain to the United States, is laughable. John Bull demands, under his democratic laws, made for freemen, that a certain amount of brandy be a part of every cargo; whilst Uncle Sam, a tyrant now--refuses to permit even a single jug of ale to enter the sacred three-mile limit. Between Scylla and Charibdis the hardy mariner finds himself. On what reefs of the mind a captain plunges as, dazedly trying to obey both laws, he reads first one ruling and then the other. If he follows John, he is out with Sam; if he sticks to Sam, he is the laughing-stock of John. This might be the sad song of any sea-captain these days: Tweedledum and Tweedledee, Battledore and Shuttlecock! Alack! alas! no more at sea Is one allowed his rolling-stock! But the end is not yet. Of course there will be concessions, many wise shakings of the head, a profound slumber over tangled legal documents, and then--perhaps--an awakening to the fact that after all a holier-than-thou attitude scarcely pays in these times of human frailty. We may realize, with our native intelligence, that we have made a foolish, a terrible, a hideous mistake. Worse than being hated by other nations is being laughed at by other nations. Can America stand up against the mirth of Europe over our pig-headedness and smug sanctimoniousness? If laughter has killed politicians, can it not kill nations? If ridicule can end a career, can it not end national nonsense? But somehow, despite heavy mandates and injunctions on the part of the drys, something tells me that the ocean is going to remain indubitably, irremediably, habitually, irritatingly and everlastingly wet. No one seems to know just where we are destined, as a nation, to take our way. We fuss and fume and fret. In the race of life, we put endless obstructions along the track, and leap the hurdles clumsily, falling now and then, picking ourselves up, falling again and otherwise behaving rather ridiculously. What it all means no one seems to know. Instead of letting well enough alone, we seem obsessed with the idea of interfering incessantly with goodly folk. Suppression is in the air. The skies are clear, but we put clouds in them--clouds that rise from the earth because they are of our making. The dust of the world shuts out the clean prospect ahead of us. We run about in circles, when, so simply, we could march on a straight line. We are very, very stupid; and though we know it now, we are afraid to admit it to ourselves. Again our hypocrisy. Unable to respect ourselves and our own institutions, how can we ask other peoples to do so?