“And what will England do for cotton?  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.