An Englishman and an American, in the earlier stages of their acquaintance, are a complete mystery to one another. It seems incredible that two such different persons should speak the same tongue.

The points of difference are not fundamental, but superficial. However, things on the surface are always more conspicuous than things underneath. For instance, the Englishman and the American are both naturally warm-hearted. But when an American is glad to see you, he shakes your hand for quite a while, and possibly will continue to hold it until he has concluded his address of welcome. The Englishman shakes your hand vigorously, drops it like a hot potato, and murmurs some stereotyped greeting to his boots. He feels somehow that it would be indecent to go farther.

In the subsequent conversation the American speaks as he thinks, clearly and with cohesion, articulating every syllable in a well-rounded sentence. To an Englishman, a well-rounded sentence savours of pedantry; so he clothes what is sometimes a most interesting remark in a few staccato phrases and a "Don't you know?"

The chief thing that an Englishman dreads at the outset of an acquaintanceship is expansiveness. The more the stranger expands, the more the Englishman contracts. The only way to win his confidence is to show yourself as reticent and as perfunctory in conversation as himself. He will then recognize in you that rare and precious object, a kindred spirit, thaw rapidly, and unbosom himself to a surprising extent.

The characteristic of the Englishman which puzzles the American most is his apparent lack of interest in serious matters, and the carelessness or frivolity with which he refers to his own particular subject or specialty. The American, like the Athenian of old, is forever seeking for some new thing. And when he encounters that new thing, nothing can prevent him getting to the roots of it. Consequently, when an American finds himself in the company of a man who possesses certain special skill or knowledge, it seems right and natural for him to draw that man out upon his own subject. But when dealing with an Englishman he usually draws a blank. He is met either by a cold stare or a smiling evasion. The man may be a distinguished statesman, or soldier, or writer; but to judge from his responses—half awkward, half humorous—to your shrewdest and most searching queries, on the subject of politics, or war, or letters, you will be left with the impression that you have been conversing with a flippant and rather superficial amateur. To an American, who is accustomed to say his prayers to the gods of Knowledge and Efficiency, and who, to do him justice, is always willing to share knowledge with others, such conduct savours of childishness—nay, imbecility.

What the American does not realize—and one can hardly blame him—is this, that the average Englishman is reared up from schoolboyhood in the fear of two most awful and potent deities: "Side" and "Shop." It is "side" to talk about yourself, or your work, or your achievements, or your ambitions, or your wife, or anything that is yours. This is perhaps no bad thing, but it certainly handicaps you as a conversationalist, because naturally a man never talks so well as upon his own subject. The twin deity, "Shop," is an even more ruthless tyrant. Never, under any circumstances, may you discuss professional matters out of official hours. To talk "shop" is perhaps the most accursed crime in the English Secular Decalogue (set down hereafter). For instance, in an English military Mess, a junior officer who referred at table to matters connected with the life of the regiment would render himself liable to stern rebuke. At Oxford or Cambridge, an undergraduate who ventured, during dinner, upon a quotation from the Classics, would be fined pots of ale all around.

In short, the more highly you are qualified to speak on a subject, the more slightingly you refer to it; and the more passionately you are interested in a matter, the less you say about it.

However, perhaps it would be simpler to set down the Englishman's Secular Decalogue at length, appending thereto the appropriate comments of the proverbial Man from Missouri. Here it is.

The Englishman's Secular Decalogue

(1) Thou shalt own allegiance to no man, save The King. Thou shalt be deferential to those above thee in station, and considerate of those below thee. To those of thine own rank thou mayest behave as seemeth good to thee.

[The Man from Missouri: "I own allegiance to nothing on earth but the American flag. As a democrat, I recognize no man as being either above or below me in station."]

(2) Thou shalt worship thine ancestors and family connections.

[The Man from Missouri: "You got nothing on me there. We worship our Ancestors, too. Did you ever know an American who hadn't got his pedigree worked out to three places of decimals? Besides, that is why many of us have got such a soft spot for that funny old island of yours."]

(3) Thou shalt not talk "shop."

[The Man from Missouri: "That strikes me as punk. As a business man, without any mildewed delusions about ancestral acres, or the vulgarity of trade, my aim in life is to do business, and do it all the time, and never worry about hurting the feelings of the family ghost."]

(4) Thou shalt not put on side.

[The Man from Missouri: "But you do!"

The Englishman: "No, we don't! That stiffness of manner is due to shyness."

The Man from Missouri: "Very well, then. Let it go at that."]

(5) Thou shalt not speak aught but flippantly of matters that concern thee deeply.

[The Man from Missouri: "There you puzzle me to death. When I feel glad about anything, or bad about anything, or mad about anything—well, it seems only common sense to say so. Can't you see that?"

The Englishman: "No. It isn't done."]

(6) Thou shalt never make public thy domestic affairs. Above all, thou shalt never make open reference to thy women, in places where men gather together, such as the Club.

[The Man from Missouri: "Yes, that is sound. Still, I consider that as a nation you rather overdo the Secrets of the Harem proposition."]

(7) Thou shalt make War as a Sportsman. Thou shalt play the game. That is to say, thou shalt not study the science too laboriously beforehand, for that would savour of professionalism. And when thou dost fight thou shalt have strict regard for the rules, even if it be to thine own hurt. Moreover, thou shalt play for thy side and not for thyself. Thou shalt visit no personal affront upon thine enemy when thou dost capture him, for that is not the game.

[The Man from Missouri: "Yes, I'm with you there all the time. Perhaps a little more seriousness and a little less pipeclay might help your Army, but no one denies their clean fighting."]

(8) Thou shalt never be in a hurry. Thou shalt employ deliberation in thought.

[The Man from Missouri: "Yes, sir, I know all about that! It used to make me hot under the collar to sit and listen to an Englishman's mind working—on its first speed all the time. Now that I know you better, I am getting used to it; but I confess, right now, that there was a time when I regarded your entire nation as solid ivory from the ears up."]

(9) Thou shalt not enter into friendly relations with a stranger, least of all a foreigner, until thou shalt have made enquiry concerning him. When thou hast discovered a common bond, however slight, thou shalt take him to thy bosom.

[The Man from Missouri: "Yes, that's right. I once shared a ship-cabin with an Englishman on a seven-day trip. For three days we never got beyond 'Good morning,' although I could see by the look in his eye that he was kindly disposed, and was only held back by want of a reference. However, the fourth day out he asked me if I had ever been in Shropshire. I said no, but my sister had once visited there, with some people whose name I have now forgotten. But that was enough. It appeared that he knew the people; he was their vassal, or overlord, or mortgagee, or something. After that he wanted to adopt me."]

(10) Thou shalt render thyself inconspicuous. Thou shalt not wear unusual apparel, or thou shalt be committed to a special hell reserved for those who, knowing better, wear made-up ties, or who compass unlawful combinations of frock-coats, derby hats, and tan boots.

[The Man from Missouri: "Oh, you Clarence!"]

CHAPTER THREE