The immense superiority of the American to the British navy was a constant theme, and to this I always listened, as nearly as possible, in silence.  I repeatedly heard it stated, (so often, indeed, and from such various quarters, that I think there must be some truth in it), that the American sailors fire with a certainty of slaughter, whereas our shots are sent very nearly at random.  “This, " said a naval officer of high reputation, “is the blessed effect of your game laws; your sailors never fire at a mark; whilst our free tars, from their practice in pursuit of game, can any of them split a hair.”  But the favourite, the constant, the universal sneer that met me every where, was on our old-fashioned attachments to things obsolete.  Had they a little wit among them, I am certain they would have given us the cognomen of “My Grandmother, the British,” for that is the tone they take, and it is thus they reconcile themselves to the crude newness of every thing around them.

“I wonder you are not sick of kings, chancellors, and archbishops, and all your fustian of wigs and gowns,” said a very clever gentleman to me once, with an affected yawn, “I protest the very sound almost sets me to sleep.”

It is amusing to observe how soothing the idea seems, that they are more modern, more advanced than England.  Our classic literature, our princely dignities, our noble institutions, are all gone-by relics of the dark ages.

This, and the vastness of their naked territory, make up the flattering unction which is laid upon the soul, as an antidote to the little misgiving which from time to time arises, lest their large country be not of quite so much importance among the nations, as a certain paltry old-fashioned little place that they wot of.

I was once sitting with a party of ladies, among whom were one or two young girls, whose curiosity was greater than their patriotism, and they asked me many questions respecting the splendour and extent of London.  I was endeavouring to satisfy them by the best description I could give, when we were interrupted by another lady, who exclaimed, “Do hold your tongues, girls, about London; if you want to know what a beautiful city is, look at Philadelphia; when Mrs. Trollope has been there, I think she will allow that it is better worth talking about than that great overgrown collection of nasty, filthy, dirty streets, that they call London.”

Once in Ohio, and once in the district of Columbia, I had an atlas displayed before me, that I might be convinced by the evidence of my own eyes what a very contemptible little country I came from.  I shall never forget the gravity with which, on the latter occasion, a gentleman drew out his graduated pencil-case, and shewed me past contradiction, that the whole of the British dominions did not equal in size one of their least important states; nor the air with which, after the demonstration, he placed his feet upon the chimney-piece, considerably higher than his head, and whistled Yankee Doodle.