It was an American journalist who was writing up England—or writing her down as the mood seized him. Sometimes he blamed and sometimes he praised, and the case-hardened old country actually went its way all the time quite oblivious of his approval or of his disfavour—being ready at all times, through some queer mental twist, to say more bitter things and more unjust ones about herself than any critic could ever venture upon. However, in the course of his many columns in the New York Clarion our journalist did at last get through somebody’s skin in the way that is here narrated.
It was a kindly enough article upon English country-house life in which he had described a visit paid for a week-end to Sir Henry Trustall’s. There was only a single critical passage in it, and it was one which he had written with a sense both of journalistic and of democratic satisfaction. In it he had sketched off the
lofty obsequiousness of the flunkey who had ministered to his needs. “He seemed to take a smug satisfaction in his own degradation,” said he. “Surely the last spark of manhood must have gone from the man who has so entirely lost his own individuality. He revelled in humility. He was an instrument of service—nothing more.”
Some months had passed and our American Pressman had recorded impressions from St. Petersburg to Madrid. He was on his homeward way when once again he found himself the guest of Sir Henry. He had returned from an afternoon’s shooting, and had finished dressing when there was a knock at the door and the footman entered. He was a large cleanly-built man, as is proper to a class who are chosen with a keener eye to physique than any crack regiment. The American supposed that the man had entered to perform some menial service, but to his surprise he softly closed the door behind him.
“Might I have a word with you, sir, if you can kindly give me a moment?” he said in the velvety voice which always got upon the visitor’s republican nerves.
“Well, what is it?” the journalist asked sharply.
“It’s this, sir.” The footman drew from his breast-pocket the copy of the Clarion. “A
friend over the water chanced to see this, sir, and he thought it would be of interest to me. So he sent it.”
“Well?”
“You wrote it, sir, I fancy.”