THE years had gone round and Henry James still
found himself a stranger in a strange land. Long
before--shortly after his arrival, indeed--he had met an
observant German who had made his home in England.
"I know nothing of the English," this man had re-
marked. "I have lived here too long--twenty years.
The first year I really knew a great deal. But I have
lost it!" Had not something of the same sort happened
in James's case? He had submitted himself, as he said,
without reserve, to the "Londonizing process," but had
he become an "insider" in any other than "that limited
sense" (to quote him again) "in which an American
can ever do so"? His first impressions, his "recogni-
tions," had been so poignant, so clear, so deep; he had
felt as his Passionate Pilgrim had felt, that he had
truly come into his own. How was it in reality? "I am
getting to know English life better than American," he
wrote in 1888, "and to understand the English char-
acter, or at least the mind, as well as if I had invented
it." So he encouraged himself to believe--he was com-
pelled to believe it. The fact remained, nevertheless,
and it became more evident every day in his work, that
he had failed to take root in the English world.

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