Is it not the fact that Lord
John Russell, with his professed neutrality, intends to express
sympathy with the
South - intends to pave the way for the advent of
Southern cotton?" "You ought to love us," so say men in Boston,
"because we have been with you in heart and spirit for long, long
years. But your trade has eaten into your souls, and you love
American cotton better than American loyalty and American
fellowship." This I found to be unfair, and in what politest
language I could use I said so. I had not any special knowledge of
the minds of English statesmen on this matter; but I knew as well
as Americans could do what our statesmen had said and done
respecting it. That cotton, if it came from the South, would be
made very welcome in Liverpool, of course I knew. If private
enterprise could bring it, it might be brought. But the very
declaration made by Lord John Russell was the surest pledge that
England, as a nation, would not interfere even to supply her own
wants. It may easily be imagined what eager words all this would
bring about; but I never found that eager words led to feelings
which were personally hostile.
All the world has heard of Newport, in Rhode Island, as being the
Brighton, and Tenby, and Scarborough of New England. And the glory
of Newport is by no means confined to New England, but is shared by
New York and Washington, and in ordinary years by the extreme
South. It is the habit of Americans to go to some watering-place
every summer - that is, to some place either of sea water or of
inland waters. This is done much in England, more in Ireland than
in England, but I think more in the States than even in Ireland.
But of all such summer haunts, Newport is supposed to be in many
ways the most captivating. In the first place, it is certainly the
most fashionable, and, in the next place, it is said to be the most
beautiful. We decided on going to Newport - led thither by the
latter reputation rather than the former. As we were still in the
early part of September, we expected to find the place full, but in
this we were disappointed - disappointed, I say, rather than
gratified, although a crowded house at such a place is certainly a
nuisance. But a house which is prepared to make up six hundred
beds, and which is called on to make up only twenty-five, becomes,
after awhile, somewhat melancholy. The natural depression of the
landlord communicates itself to his servants, and from the servants
it descends to the twenty-five guests, who wander about the long
passages and deserted balconies like the ghosts of those of the
summer visitors, who cannot rest quietly in their graves at home.
In England we know nothing of hotels prepared for six hundred
visitors, all of whom are expected to live in common.
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