it figures in the English school-book, with equal correctness, as a single regrettable incident in England’s long and variegated Colonial history.  It is well to bear these two points of view in mind.  Naturally all this makes for degrees of comparison in America’s attitude toward the Allies.  One might extend the comparison to Russia, and more especially to Japan; but that, mercifully, is outside the scope of our present inquiry.

To America, friendship with France is an historic tradition, as the Statue of Liberty attests, and rests upon the solid foundation of a common ideal—­Republicanism.  The tie between America and Great Britain is the tie of a common (but rapidly diminishing) blood-relationship; and, as every large family knows, blood-relationship carries with it the right to speak one’s mind with refreshing freedom whenever differences of opinion arise within the family circle.  But our idealists have persistently overlooked this handicap.  They cling tenaciously to the notion that it is easier to be friendly with your relations than with your friends; and that in dealing with your own kin, tact may be economized.  “Blood is thicker than water,” we proclaim to one another across the sea; “and we can therefore afford to be as rude to one another as we please.”  This principle suits the Briton admirably, because he belongs to the elder and more thick-skinned branch of the clan.  But it bears hardly upon a young, self-conscious, and adolescent nation, which has not yet “found” itself as a whole; and which, though its native genius and genuine promise carry it far, still experiences a certain youthful diffidence under the supercilious condescension of the Old World.

Our mutual relations are further complicated by the possession of a common language.

In theory, a common tongue should be a bond of union between nations—­a channel for the interchange of great thoughts and friendly sentiments.  In practice, what is it?

Let us take a concrete example.  Supposing an American woman and a Dutch woman live next door to one another in a New York suburb.  As a rule they maintain friendly relations; but if at any time these relations become strained—­say, over the encroachments of depredatory chickens, or the obstruction of some one’s ancient lights by the over-exuberance of some one else’s laundry—­the two ladies are enabled to say the most dreadful things to one another without any one being a penny the worse. They do not understand one another’s language. But if they speak a common tongue, the words which pass when the most ephemeral squabble arises stick and rankle.

Again, for many years the people of Great Britain were extremely critical of Russia.  Well-meaning stay-at-home gentlemen constantly rose to their feet in the House of Commons and made withering remarks on the subject of knouts, and Cossacks, and vodka.  But they did no harm.  The Russian people do not understand English.  In the same way, Russians were probably accustomed to utter equally reliable criticisms of the home-life of Great Britain—­land-grabbing, and hypocrisy, and whiskey, and so on.  But we knew nothing of all this, and all was well.  There was not the slightest difficulty, when the great world-crash came, in forming the warmest alliance with Russia.