I Left Boston With The Snow, And Returning To New York Found That
The Streets There Were Dry And That The Winter Was Nearly Over.
As
I had passed through New York to Boston the streets had been by no
means dry.
The snow had lain in small mountains over which the
omnibuses made their way down Broadway, till at the bottom of that
thoroughfare, between Trinity Church and Bowling Green, alp became
piled upon alp, and all traffic was full of danger. The cursed love
of gain still took men to Wall Street, but they had to fight their
way thither through physical difficulties which must have made even
the state of the money market a matter of indifference to them.
They do not seem to me to manage the winter in New York so well as
they do in Boston. But now, on my last return thither, the alps
were gone, the roads were clear, and one could travel through the
city with no other impediment than those of treading on women's
dresses if one walked, or having to look after women's band-boxes
and pay their fares and take their change if one used the omnibuses.
And now had come the end of my adventure, and as I set my foot once
more upon the deck of the Cunard steamer, I felt that my work was
done; whether it were done ill or well, or whether indeed any
approach to the doing of it had been attained, all had been done
that I could accomplish. No further opportunity remained to me of
seeing, hearing, or of speaking. I had come out thither, having
resolved to learn a little that I might if possible teach that
little to others; and now the lesson was learned, or must remain
unlearned. But in carrying out my resolution I had gradually risen
in my ambition, and had mounted from one stage of inquiry to
another, till at last I had found myself burdened with the task of
ascertaining whether or no the Americans were doing their work as a
nation well or ill; and now, if ever, I must be prepared to put
forth the result of my inquiry. As I walked up and down the deck of
the steamboat I confess I felt that I had been somewhat arrogant.
I had been a few days over six months in the States, and I was
engaged in writing a book of such a nature that a man might well
engage himself for six years, or perhaps for sixty, in obtaining the
materials for it. There was nothing in the form of government, or
legislature, or manners of the people as to which I had not taken
upon myself to say something. I was professing to understand their
strength and their weakness; and was daring to censure their faults
and to eulogize their virtues. "Who is he," an American would say,
"that he comes and judges us? His judgment is nothing." "Who is
he," an Englishman would say, "that he comes and teaches us?
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