ho, for the most
part, have not voyaged beyond the confines of the United States. All
of their attention upon affairs of State is cast inward upon their own
land, is absolutely self-centred. The resultant national policy is the
most selfish, but the most formidable in the world of nations.

American and Briton are alike co-heirs to the common Anglo-Saxon
heritage, but they are brothers who differ as materially in
temperament as in ambition and in creed. The Briton is daily becoming
more cosmopolitan, his outlook more world-wide. The shadow of the
village pump has departed from his statecraft, and his political
horizon girdles the earth. But the American remains intensely
introspective, suspicious of foreign influence, interested solely in
his world of the Western Hemisphere.

In Britain are Little Englanders who dread every step the nation makes
in outward expansion, but there are here no Little Americanders. The
Little Englanders doubt the nation's power to hold the nation's
possessions. Here, in the United States, are men who question the
advisability of penetrating into world politics, but no man among them
has doubt of the nation's power to keep whatever territory the Star
Spangled Banner once has floated over. They are merely jealous,
jealous of the absolute isolation of their commonwealth, quick to
resent any remotest possibility of interference with it.

In every American's ears rings the music of assured success, the
certainty of a rich inheritance laid up for him and his children's
children in the internal resources of his country. In many an
Englishman's ears sound only the doleful croakings of the prophets,
the sinister rumblings of approaching doom. Though his pessimism be in
great part born of his climate, it has had a very real effect upon his
statecraft. It has driven him outward to find hope and sunshine
abroad, in his colonies, and in India. It has made of the race a
nation of expansionists, reaping where they have not sown, gathering
where they have not strawed.

It is otherwise here with us under a sky that would make of Job an
optimist. All around are light and color, the evidences of life and
hope. Here the whites are white, and not a dirty drab. The streets
glisten clean in the sunlight, and every window is a reflector of glad
promise. In London, choked with fog, and grimy with soot-dust, the
Englishman cannot see the future for smoke, cannot extract a gleam of
hope from the sodden, mud-soaked