The Modest Immigrant
to scold us harshly, to rail at conditions she imperfectly understands, to reproach us for our ill-mannered children (whom we fear she must have met in Beacon Street), our slackness in duty, our failure to observe the precepts and fulfil the intentions of those pioneers whom she kindly, but confusedly, calls "our forefathers."
It is the hopeless old story of opposing races, of people unable to understand one another because they have no mutual standards, no common denominator. Mary Antin is perfectly sincere, and, from her point of view, justified, in bidding us remember that among the Harrison Avenue tenants, "who pitch rubbish through their windows," was the grocer whose kindness helped to keep her at school. And she adds with sublime because unconscious egotism, "Let the City Fathers strike the balance." But Elizabeth Robins Pennell is also sincere, and, from her point of view, justified, when she says with exceeding bitterness that,
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