ten about England's "splendid
isolation," the phrase has grown so familiar to English eyes and ears,
that the political and social attitude which it represents is a
source of pride to thousands of Englishmen who are intelligent enough
to know what isolation costs. "It is of the utmost importance," says
the "Spectator," "that we should understand that the temper with
which England regards the other states of Europe, and the temper with
which those states regard her, is absolutely different." And then,
with ill-concealed elation, the writer adds: "The English are the
most universally disliked nation on the face of the earth."

Diplomatically, this may be true, though it is hard to see why.
Socially and individually, it is not true at all. The English possess
too many agreeable traits to permit them to be as much disliked as
they think and hope they are. Even on the Continent, even in that
strange tourist world where hostilities grow apace, where the
courtesies of life are relaxed, and where every nationality presents
its least lovable aspect, the English can never aspire to the prize
of unpopularity. They are too silent, too clean, too handsome, too
fond of fresh air, too schooled in the laws of justice which compel
them to acknowledge--however reluctantly--the rights of other men.
They are certainly uncivil, but that is a matter of no great moment.
We do not demand that our fellow tourists should be urbane, but that
they should evince a sense of propriety in their behaviour, that they
should be decently reluctant to annoy. There is distinction in the
Englishman's quietude, and in his innate respect for order.

But why should he covet alienation? Why should he dread popularity,
lest it imply that he resembles other men? When the tide of fortune
turned in the South African war, and the news of the relief of
Mafeking drove London mad with joy, there were Englishmen who
expressed grave alarm at the fervid demonstrations of the populace.
England, they said, was wont to take her defeats without despondency,
and her victories without elation. They feared the national
character was changing, and becoming more like the character of
Frenchmen and Americans.

This apprehension--happily unfounded--was very insular and very
English. National traits are, as a matter of fact, as enduring as
the mountain-tops. They survive all change of policies, all shifting
of boundary lines, all expansion and contraction of dominion. When
Froissa