When we were at war with Russia, the feeling of the States was strongly against us.  All their wishes were with our enemies.  When the Indian mutiny was at its worst, the feeling of France was equally adverse to us.  The joy expressed by the French newspapers was almost ecstatic.  But I do not think that on either occasion we bemoaned ourselves sadly on the want of sympathy shown by our friends.  On each occasion we took the opinion expressed for what it was worth, and managed to live it down.  We listened to what was said, and let it pass by.  When in each case we had been successful, there was an end of our friends’ croakings.

But in the Northern States of America the bitterness against England has amounted almost to a passion.  The players—­those chroniclers of the time—­have had no hits so sure as those which have been aimed at Englishmen as cowards, fools, and liars.  No paper has dared to say that England has been true in her American policy.  The name of an Englishman has been made a by-word for reproach.  In private intercourse private amenities have remained.  I, at any rate, may boast that such has been the case as regards myself.  But, even in private life, I have been unable to keep down the feeling that I have always been walking over smothered ashes.

It may be that, when the civil war in America is over, all this will pass by, and there will be nothing left of international bitterness but its memory.  It is sincerely to be hoped that this may be so—­that even the memory of the existing feeling may fade away and become unreal.  I for one cannot think that two nations situated as are the States and England should permanently quarrel and avoid each other.  But words have been spoken which will, I fear, long sound in men’s ears, and thoughts have sprung up which will not easily allow themselves to be extinguished.

CHAPTER XIV.

NEW YORK.

Speaking of New York as a traveler, I have two faults to find with it.  In the first place, there is nothing to see; and, in the second place, there is no mode of getting about to see anything.  Nevertheless, New York is a most interesting city.  It is the third biggest city in the known world, for those Chinese congregations of unwinged ants are not cities in the known world.  In no other city is there a population so mixed and cosmopolitan in their modes of life.  And yet in no other city that I have seen are there such strong and ever visible characteristics of the social and political bearings of the nation to which it belongs.  New York appears to me as infinitely more American than Boston, Chicago, or Washington.  It has no peculiar attribute of its own, as have those three cities—­Boston in its literature and accomplished intelligence, Chicago in its internal trade, and Washington in its Congressional and State politics.  New York has its literary aspirations, its commercial grandeur, and, Heaven knows, it has