making the laws, and no man be troubled
about keeping them; let not our magistrates wear purple, nor our
judges ermine; if a man grow rich, let us take care that his
grandson be poor, and then we shall all keep equal; let every man
take care of himself, and if England should come to bother us
again, why then we will fight altogether."

Could any thing be better imagined than such a government for a
people so circumstanced? Or is it strange that they are
contented with it? Still less is it strange that those who have
lived in the repose of order, and felt secure that their country
could go on very well, and its business proceed without their
bawling and squalling, scratching and scrambling to help it,
should bless the gods that they are not republicans.

So far all is well. That they should prefer a constitution which
suits them so admirably, to one which would not suit them at all,
is surely no cause of quarrel on our part; nor should it be such
on theirs, if we feel no inclination to exchange the institutions
which have made us what we are, for any other on the face of the
earth.

But when a native of Europe visits America, a most extraordinary
species of tyranny is set in action against him; and as far as my
reading and experience have enabled me to judge, it is such as no
other country has ever exercised against strangers.

The Frenchman visits England; he is _abime d'ennui_ at our
stately dinners; shrugs his shoulders at our _corps de ballet_,
and laughs _a gorge deployee_ at our passion for driving, and
our partial affection for roast beef and plum pudding. The
Englishman returns the visit, and the first thing he does on
arriving at Paris, is to hasten to _le Theatre des Varietes_,
that he may see "_Les Anglaises pour rire_," and if among the
crowd of laughters, you hear a note of more cordial mirth than
the rest, seek out the person from whom it proceeds, and you
will find the Englishman.

The Italian comes to our green island, and groans at our climate;
he vows that the air which destroys a statue cannot be wholesome
for man; he sighs for orange trees, and maccaroni, and smiles at
the pretensions of a nation to poetry, while no epics are
chaunted through her streets. Yet we welcome the sensitive
southern with all kindness, listen to his complaints with
interest, cultivate our little orange trees, and teach our
children to lisp Tasso, in the hope of becoming more agreeable.

Yet we are not at all su