mer pride,
more than our old self-reliance. America was forgotten, the old love
for America was gone; how could we remember our former affections
when, at the very time when our need was the sorest, when every ship,
every soldier, every sailor that we could find, was wanted to break
down the power of the man who had subjugated the whole of Europe,
except Russia and Great Britain, the United States--the very Land of
Liberty--did her best to cripple the Armies of Liberty by proclaiming
war against us? And now, indeed, there was nothing left at all of the
old romance. It was quite, quite dead. In the popular imagination all
was forgotten, except that on the other side of the Atlantic lived an
implacable enemy, whose rancour--it then seemed to our people--was
even greater than their boasted love of liberty.

I take it that the very worst time in the history of the relation of
the United States with this country was the first half of this
century. There was very little intercourse between the countries;
there were very few travellers; there was ignorance on both sides,
with misunderstandings, wilful misrepresentations and deliberate
exaggerations. Remember how Nathaniel Hawthorne speaks about the
English people among whom he lived; read how Thoreau speaks of us when
he visits Quebec. Is that time past? Hardly. Among the better class of
Americans one seldom finds any trace of hatred to Great Britain. I
think that, with the exception of Mr. W.D. Howells, I have never found
any American gentleman who would manifest such a passion. But, as
regards the lower class of Americans, it is reported that there still
survives a meaningless, smouldering hostility. The going and the
coming, to and fro, are increasing and multiplying; arbitration seems
to be established as the best way of terminating international
disputes; if the tone of the press is not always gracious, it is not
often openly hostile; we may, perhaps, begin to hope, at last, that
the future of the world will be secured for freedom by the
confederation of all the English-speaking nations.

The old romance is dead. Yet--yet--as Kingsley cried, when he landed
on a West Indian island, 'At last!' so I, also, when I found myself in
New England, was ready to cry. 'At last!' The old romance is not
everywhere dead, since there can be found one Englishman who, when he
stands for the first time on New England soil, feels that one more
desire of his life has been satisfied. To see