country may come to mean for us, without ceasing to be our country.  Marcus Aurelius exhorted himself—­’The poet says, Dear city of Cecrops; shall not I pay, Dear city of God?’ But the city of God in which he wished to be was a city in which he would still live as ‘a Roman and an Antonine.’  The citizen of heaven knew that it was his duty to ‘hunt Sarmatians’ on earth, though he was not obliged to imbrue his hands with ‘Caesarism.’

Patriotism has two roots, the love of clan and the love of home.  In migratory tribes the former alone counts; in settled communities diversities of origin are often forgotten.  But the love of home, as we know it, is a gentler and more spiritual bond than clanship.  The word home is associated with all that makes life beautiful and sacred, with tender memories of joy and sorrow, and especially with the first eager outlook of the young mind upon a wonderful world.  A man does not as a rule feel much sentiment about his London house, still less about his office or factory.  It is for the home of his childhood, or of his ancestors, that a man will fight most readily, because he is bound to it by a spiritual and poetic tie.  Expanding from this centre, the sentiment of patriotism embraces one’s country as a whole.

Both forms of patriotism—­the local and the racial, are frequently alloyed with absurd, unworthy or barbarous motives.  The local patriot thinks that Peebles, and not Paris, is the place for pleasure, or asks whether any good thing can come out of Nazareth.  To the Chinaman all aliens are ‘outer barbarians’ or ‘foreign devils.’  Admiration for ourselves and our institutions is too often measured by our contempt and dislike for foreigners.  Our own nation has a peculiarly bad record in this respect.  In the reign of James I the Spanish ambassador was frequently insulted by the London crowd, as was the Russian ambassador in 1662; not, apparently, because we had a burning grievance against either of those nations, but because Spaniards and Russians are very unlike Englishmen.  That at least is the opinion of the sagacious Pepys on the later of these incidents.  ’Lord! to see the absurd nature of Englishmen, that cannot forbear laughing and jeering at anything that looks strange.’  Defoe says that the English are ’the most churlish people alive’ to foreigners, with the result that ’all men think an Englishman the devil.’  In the 17th and 18th centuries Scotland seems to have ranked as a foreign country, and the presence of Scots in London was much resented.  Cleveland thought it witty to write:—­

    Had Cain been Scot, God would have changed his doom;
    Not forced him wander, but confined him home.

And we all remember Dr. Johnson’s gibes.

British patriotic arrogance culminated in the 18th and in the first half of the 19th century; in Lord Palmerston it found a champion at the head of the government.  Goldsmith describes the bearing of the Englishman of his day:—­