NEWPORT--RHODE ISLAND.
We--the we consisting of my wife and myself--left Liverpool for
Boston on the 24th August, 1861, in the "Arabia," one of Cunard's
North American mail packets. We had determined that my wife should
return alone at the beginning of winter, when I intended to go to a
part of the country in which, under the existing circumstances of the
war, a lady might not feel herself altogether comfortable. I proposed
staying in America over the winter, and returning in the spring; and
this programme I have carried out with sufficient exactness.
The "Arabia" touched at Halifax; and as the touch extended from 11
A.M. to 6 P.M. we had an opportunity of seeing a good deal of that
colony;--not quite sufficient to justify me at this critical age in
writing a chapter of travels in Nova Scotia, but enough perhaps to
warrant a paragraph. It chanced that a cousin of mine was then in
command of the troops there, so that we saw the fort with all the
honours. A dinner on shore was, I think, a greater treat to us even
than this. We also inspected sundry specimens of the gold which is
now being found for the first time in Nova Scotia,--as to the glory
and probable profits of which the Nova Scotians seemed to be fully
alive. But still, I think, the dinner on shore took rank with us as
the most memorable and meritorious of all that we did and saw at
Halifax. At seven o'clock on the morning but one after that, we were
landed at Boston.
At Boston I found friends ready to receive us with open arms, though
they were friends we had never known before. I own that I felt myself
burdened with much nervous anxiety at my first introduction to men
and women in Boston. I knew what the feeling there was with reference
to England, and I knew also how impossible it is for an Englishman
to hold his tongue and submit to dispraise of England. As for going
among a people whose whole minds were filled with affairs of the
war, and saying nothing about the war,--I knew that no resolution
to such an effect could be carried out. If one could not trust
oneself to speak, one should have stayed at home in England. I will
here state that I always did speak out openly what I thought and
felt, and that though I encountered very strong--sometimes almost
fierce--opposition, I never was subjected to anything that was
personally disagreeable to me.
In September we did not stay above a week in Boston, having been
fairly driven out of it by the mosquitoes. I had been told that I
should find nobody in Boston whom I cared to see, as everybody was
habitually out of town during the heat of the latter summer and early
autumn; but this was not so. The war and attendant turmoils of war
had made the season of vacation shorter than usual, and most of those
for whom I asked were back at their posts. I know no place at which
an Englishman may drop down suddenly among a pleasanter circle of
acquaintance, or find himself with a more clever set of men, than he
can do at Boston. I confess that in this respect I think that but few
towns are at present more fortunately circumstanced than the capital
of the Bay State, as Massachusetts is called, and that very few towns
make a better use of their advantages. Boston has a right to be proud
of what it has done for the world of letters. It is proud; but I have
not found that its pride was carried too far.
Boston is not in itself a fine city, but it is a very pleasant city.
They say that the harbour is very grand and very beautiful. It
certainly is not so fine as that of Portland in a nautical point of
view, and as certainly it is not as beautiful. It is the entrance
from the sea into Boston of which people say so much; but I did not
think it quite worthy of all I had heard. In such matters, however,
much depends on the peculiar light in which scenery is seen. An
evening light is generally the best for all landscapes; and I did not
see the entrance to Boston harbour by an evening light. It was not
the beauty of the harbour of which I thought the most, but of the tea
that had been sunk there, and of all that came of that successful
speculation. Few towns now standing have a right to be more proud of
their antecedents than Boston.
But as I have said, it is not specially interesting to the eye--what
new town, or even what simply adult town, can be so? There is an
Athenæum, and a State Hall, and a fashionable street,--Beacon Street,
very like Piccadilly as it runs along the Green Park,--and there is
the Green Park opposite to this Piccadilly, called Boston Common.
Beacon Street and Boston Common are very pleasant. Excellent houses
there are, and large churches, and enormous hotels; but of such
things as these a man can write nothing that is worth the reading.
The traveller who desires to tell his experience of North America
must write of people rather than of things.
As I have said, I found myself instantly involved in discussions on
American politics, and the bearing of England upon those politics.
"What do you think, you in England--what do you all believe will
be the upshot of this war?" That was the question always asked in
those or other words. "Secession, certainly," I always said, but not
speaking quite with that abruptness. "And you believe, then, that the
South will beat the North?" I explained that I, personally, had never
so thought, and that I did not believe that to be the general idea.
Men's opinions in England, however, were too divided to enable me to
say that there was any prevailing conviction on the matter. My own
impression was, and is, that the North will, in a military point of
view, have the best of the contest,--will beat the South; but that
the Northerners will not prevent secession, let their success be what
it may. Should the North prevail after a two years' conflict, the
North will not admit the South to an equal participation of good
things with themselves, even though each separate rebellious State
should return suppliant, like a prodigal son, kneeling on the floor
of Congress, each with a separate rope of humiliation round its neck.
Such was my idea as expressed then, and I do not know that I have
since had much cause to change it.
"We will never give it up," one gentleman said to me--and, indeed,
many have said the same,--"till the whole territory is again united
from the Bay to the Gulf! It is impossible that we should allow
of two nationalities within those limits." "And do you think it
possible," I asked, "that you should receive back into your bosom
this people which you now hate with so deep a hatred, and receive
them again into your arms as brothers on equal terms? Is it in
accordance with experience that a conquered people should be so
treated--and that, too, a people whose every habit of life is at
variance with the habits of their presumed conquerors? When you have
flogged them into a return of fraternal affection, are they to keep
their slaves or are they to abolish them?" "No," said my friend; "it
may not be practicable to put those rebellious States at once on an
equality with ourselves. For a time they will probably be treated as
the Territories are now treated." (The Territories are vast outlying
districts belonging to the Union, but not as yet endowed with State
governments, or a participation in the United States Congress.) "For
a time they must, perhaps, lose their full privileges; but the Union
will be anxious to readmit them at the earliest possible period."
"And as to the slaves?" I asked again. "Let them emigrate to Liberia:
back to their own country." I could not say that I thought much of
the solution of the difficulty. It would, I suggested, overtask even
the energy of America to send out an emigration of four million
souls, to provide for their wants in a new and uncultivated country,
and to provide after that for the terrible gap made in the labour
market of the Southern States. "The Israelites went back from
bondage," said my friend. But a way was opened for them by a miracle
across the sea, and food was sent to them from heaven, and they had
among them a Moses for a leader and a Joshua to fight their battles.
I could not but express my fear that the days of such immigrations
were over. This plan of sending back the negroes to Africa did not
reach me only from one or from two mouths; and it was suggested by
men whose opinions respecting their country have weight at home and
are entitled to weight abroad. I mention this merely to show how
insurmountable would be the difficulty of preventing secession, let
which side win that may.
"We will never abandon the right to the mouth of the Mississippi."
That in all such arguments is a strong point with men of the Northern
States;--perhaps the point to which they all return with the greatest
firmness. It is that on which Mr. Everett insists in the last
paragraph of the oration which he made in New York on the 4th of
July, 1861. "The Missouri and the Mississippi rivers," he says, "with
their hundred tributaries give to the great central basin of our
continent its character and destiny. The outlet of this system lies
between the States of Tennessee and Missouri, of Mississippi and
Arkansas, and through the State of Louisiana. The ancient province
so called, the proudest monument of the mighty monarch whose
name it bears, passed from the jurisdiction of France to that of
Spain in 1763. Spain coveted it; not that she might fill it with
prosperous colonies and rising States, but that it might stretch
as a broad waste barrier, infested with warlike tribes, between
the Anglo-American power and the silver mines of Mexico. With the
independence of the United States, the fear of a still more dangerous
neighbour grew upon Spain; and in the insane expectation of checking
the progress of the Union westward, she threatened, and at times
attempted, to close the mouth of the Mississippi on the rapidly
increasing trade of the West. The bare suggestion of such a
policy roused the population upon the banks of the Ohio, then
inconsiderable, as one man. Their confidence in Washington scarcely
restrained them from rushing to the seizure of New Orleans, when
the treaty of San Lorenzo El Real, in 1795, stipulated for them a
precarious right of navigating the noble river to the sea, with a
right of deposit at New Orleans. This subject was for years the
turning-point of the politics of the West; and it was perfectly well
understood that, sooner or later, she would be content with nothing
less than the sovereign control of the mighty stream from its
head-spring to its outlet in the Gulf. _And that is as true now as it
was then._"
This is well put. It describes with force the desires, ambition,
and necessities of a great nation, and it tells with historical truth
the story of the success of that nation. It was a great thing done
when the purchase of the whole of Louisiana was completed by the
United States,--that cession by France, however, having been made
at the instance of Napoleon, and not in consequence of any demand
made by the States. The district then called Louisiana included
the present State of that name, and the States of Missouri and
Arkansas;--included also the right to possess, if not the absolute
possession of, all that enormous expanse of country running from
thence back to the Pacific; a huge amount of territory of which the
most fertile portion is watered by the Mississippi and its vast
tributaries. That river and those tributaries are navigable through
the whole centre of the American continent up to Wisconsin and
Minnesota. To the United States the navigation of the Mississippi
was, we may say, indispensable; and to the States when no longer
united the navigation will be equally indispensable. But the days are
gone when any country, such as Spain was, can interfere to stop the
highways of the world with the all but avowed intention of arresting
the progress of civilization. It may be that the North and the South
can never again be friends as the component parts of one nation. Such
I take it is the belief of all politicians in Europe, and of many of
those who live across the water. But as separate nations they may yet
live together in amity, and share between them the great water-ways
which God has given them for their enrichment. The Rhine is free to
Prussia and to Holland. The Danube is not closed against Austria. It
will be said that the Danube has in fact been closed against Austria,
in spite of treaties to the contrary. But the faults of bad and weak
governments are made known as cautions to the world, and not as facts
to copy. The free use of the waters of a common river between two
nations is an affair for treaty; and it has not yet come to that that
treaties must necessarily be null and void through the falseness of
politicians.
"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 a while, 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.
In England we know nothing of hotels prepared for six hundred
visitors, all of whom are expected to live in common. Domestic
architects would be frightened at the dimensions which are needed,
and at the number of apartments which are required to be clustered
under one roof. We went to the Ocean Hotel at Newport, and fancied,
as we first entered the hall under a verandah as high as the house,
and made our way into the passage, that we had been taken to a
well-arranged barrack. "Have you rooms?" I asked, as a man always
does ask on first reaching his inn. "Rooms enough," the clerk
said. "We have only fifty here." But that fifty dwindled down to
twenty-five during the next day or two.
We were a melancholy set, the ladies appearing to be afflicted in
this way worse than the gentlemen, on account of their enforced
abstinence from tobacco. What can twelve ladies do scattered about
a drawing-room, so-called, intended for the accommodation of two
hundred? The drawing-room at the Ocean Hotel, Newport, is not as big
as Westminster Hall, but would, I should think, make a very good
House of Commons for the British nation. Fancy the feelings of a lady
when she walks into such a room intending to spend her evening there,
and finds six or seven other ladies located on various sofas at
terrible distances,--all strangers to her. She has come to Newport
probably to enjoy herself; and as, in accordance with the customs of
the place, she has dined at two, she has nothing before her for the
evening but the society of that huge furnished cavern. Her husband,
if she have one, or her father, or her lover, has probably entered
the room with her. But a man has never the courage to endure such a
position long. He sidles out with some muttered excuse, and seeks
solace with a cigar. The lady, after half an hour of contemplation,
creeps silently near some companion in the desert, and suggests in a
whisper that Newport does not seem to be very full at present.
We stayed there for a week, and were very melancholy; but in our
melancholy we still talked of the war. Americans are said to be given
to bragging, and it is a sin of which I cannot altogether acquit
them. But I have constantly been surprised at hearing the Northern
men speak of their own military achievements with anything but
self-praise. "We've been whipped, sir; and we shall be whipped again
before we've done; uncommon well whipped we shall be." "We began
cowardly, and were afraid to send our own regiments through one of
our own cities." This alluded to a demand that had been made on
the Government, that troops going to Washington should not be sent
through Baltimore, because of the strong feeling for rebellion which
was known to exist in that city. President Lincoln complied with this
request, thinking it well to avoid a collision between the mob and
the soldiers. "We began cowardly, and now we're going on cowardly,
and darn't attack them. Well; when we've been whipped often enough,
then we shall learn the trade." Now all this,--and I heard much of
such a nature,--could not be called boasting. But yet with it all
there was a substratum of confidence. I have heard northern gentlemen
complaining of the President, complaining of all his ministers one
after another, complaining of the contractors who were robbing the
army, of the commanders who did not know how to command the army,
and of the army itself which did not know how to obey; but I do not
remember that I have discussed the matter with any Northerner who
would admit a doubt as to ultimate success.
We were certainly rather melancholy at Newport, and the empty house
may perhaps have given its tone to the discussions on the war.
I confess that I could not stand the drawing-room--the ladies'
drawing-room as such-like rooms are always called at the hotels,--and
that I basely deserted my wife. I could not stand it either here or
elsewhere, and it seemed to me that other husbands,--ay, and even
lovers,--were as hard pressed as myself. I protest that there is no
spot on the earth's surface so dear to me as my own drawing-room,
or rather my wife's drawing-room at home; that I am not a man
given hugely to clubs, but one rather rejoicing in the rustle of
petticoats. I like to have women in the same room with me. But at
these hotels I found myself driven away,--propelled as it were by
some unknown force,--to absent myself from the feminine haunts.
Anything was more palatable than them; even "liquoring up" at a
nasty bar, or smoking in a comfortless reading-room among a deluge
of American newspapers. And I protest also,--hoping as I do so
that I may say much in these volumes to prove the truth of such
protestation,--that this comes from no fault of the American women.
They are as lovely as our own women. Taken generally, they are better
instructed--though perhaps not better educated. They are seldom
troubled with _mauvaise honte_,--I do not say it in irony, but
begging that the words may be taken at their proper meaning. They
can always talk, and very often can talk well. But when assembled
together in these vast, cavernous, would-be luxurious, but in truth
horribly comfortless hotel drawing-rooms,--they are unapproachable.
I have seen lovers, whom I have known to be lovers, unable to remain
five minutes in the same cavern with their beloved ones.
And then the music! There is always a piano in an hotel drawing-room,
on which, of course, some one of the forlorn ladies is generally
employed. I do not suppose that these pianos are in fact, as a
rule, louder and harsher, more violent and less musical, than other
instruments of the kind. They seem to be so, but that, I take it,
arises from the exceptional mental depression of those who have to
listen to them. Then the ladies, or probably some one lady, will
sing, and as she hears her own voice ring and echo through the lofty
corners and round the empty walls, she is surprised at her own force,
and with increased efforts sings louder and still louder. She is
tempted to fancy that she is suddenly gifted with some power of vocal
melody unknown to her before, and filled with the glory of her own
performance shouts till the whole house rings. At such moments she at
least is happy, if no one else is so. Looking at the general sadness
of her position, who can grudge her such happiness?
And then the children,--babies, I should say if I were speaking of
English bairns of their age; but seeing that they are Americans, I
hardly dare to call them children. The actual age of these perfectly
civilized and highly educated beings may be from three to four. One
will often see five or six such seated at the long dinner-table of
the hotel, breakfasting and dining with their elders, and going
through the ceremony with all the gravity, and more than all the
decorum of their grandfathers. When I was three years old I had not
yet, as I imagine, been promoted beyond a silver spoon of my own
wherewith to eat my bread and milk in the nursery, and I feel assured
that I was under the immediate care of a nursemaid, as I gobbled up
my minced mutton mixed with potatoes and gravy. But at hotel life in
the States the adult infant lisps to the waiter for everything at
table, handles his fish with epicurean delicacy, is choice in his
selection of pickles, very particular that his beefsteak at breakfast
shall be hot, and is instant in his demand for fresh ice in his
water. But perhaps his, or in this case her, retreat from the
room when the meal is over, is the _chef d'oeuvre_ of the whole
performance. The little precocious, full-blown beauty of four
signifies that she has completed her meal,--or is "through" her
dinner, as she would express it,--by carefully extricating herself
from the napkin which has been tucked around her. Then the waiter,
ever attentive to her movements, draws back the chair on which she is
seated, and the young lady glides to the floor. A little girl in Old
England would scramble down, but little girls in New England never
scramble. Her father and mother, who are no more than her chief
ministers, walk before her out of the saloon, and then she--swims
after them. But swimming is not the proper word. Fishes in making
their way through the water assist, or rather impede, their motion
with no dorsal riggle. No animal taught to move directly by its
Creator adopts a gait so useless, and at the same time so graceless.
Many women, having received their lessons in walking from a less
eligible instructor, do move in this way, and such women this
unfortunate little lady has been instructed to copy. The peculiar
step to which I allude is to be seen often on the Boulevards in
Paris. It is to be seen more often in second rate French towns, and
among fourth rate French women. Of all signs in women betokening
vulgarity, bad taste, and aptitude to bad morals, it is the surest.
And this is the gait of going which American mothers,--some American
mothers I should say,--love to teach their daughters! As a comedy at
an hotel, it is very delightful, but in private life I should object
to it.
To me Newport could never be a place charming by reason of its own
charms. That it is a very pleasant place when it is full of people
and the people are in spirits and happy, I do not doubt. But then the
visitors would bring, as far as I am concerned, the pleasantness with
them. The coast is not fine. To those who know the best portions of
the coast of Wales or Cornwall,--or better still, the western coast
of Ireland, of Clare and Kerry for instance,--it would not be in any
way remarkable. It is by no means equal to Dieppe or Biarritz, and
not to be talked of in the same breath with Spezzia. The hotels, too,
are all built away from the sea; so that one cannot sit and watch the
play of the waves from one's window. Nor are there pleasant rambling
paths down among the rocks, and from one short strand to another.
There is excellent bathing for those who like bathing on shelving
sand. I don't. The spot is about half a mile from the hotels, and to
this the bathers are carried in omnibuses. Till one o'clock ladies
bathe;--which operation, however, does not at all militate against
the bathing of men, but rather necessitates it as regards those men
who have ladies with them. For here ladies and gentlemen bathe in
decorous dresses, and are very polite to each other. I must say, that
I think the ladies have the best of it. My idea of sea-bathing for
my own gratification is not compatible with a full suit of clothing.
I own that my tastes are vulgar and perhaps indecent; but I love
to jump into the deep clear sea from off a rock, and I love to be
hampered by no outward impediments as I do so. For ordinary bathers,
for all ladies, and for men less savage in their instincts than I am,
the bathing at Newport is very good.
The private houses--villa residences as they would be termed by an
auctioneer in England--are excellent. Many of them are, in fact,
large mansions, and are surrounded with grounds, which, as the shrubs
grow up, will be very beautiful. Some have large, well-kept lawns,
stretching down to the rocks, and these to my taste give the charm
to Newport. They extend about two miles along the coast. Should my
lot have made me a citizen of the United States, I should have had no
objection to become the possessor of one of these "villa residences,"
but I do not think that I should have "gone in" for hotel life at
Newport.
We hired saddle-horses, and rode out nearly the length of the island.
It was all very well, but there was little in it remarkable either
as regards cultivation or scenery. We found nothing that it would be
possible either to describe or remember. The Americans of the United
States have had time to build and populate vast cities, but they have
not yet had time to surround themselves with pretty scenery. Outlying
grand scenery is given by nature; but the prettiness of home scenery
is a work of art. It comes from the thorough draining of land, from
the planting and subsequent thinning of trees, from the controlling
of waters, and constant use of minute patches of broken land.
In another hundred years or so Rhode Island may be, perhaps, as
pretty as the Isle of Wight. The horses which we got were not good.
They were unhandy and badly mouthed, and that which my wife rode
was altogether ignorant of the art of walking. We hired them
from an Englishman, who had established himself at New York as a
riding-master for ladies, and who had come to Newport for the season
on the same business. He complained to me with much bitterness of the
saddle-horses which came in his way,--of course thinking that it was
the special business of a country to produce saddle-horses,--as I
think it the special business of a country to produce pens, ink, and
paper of good quality. According to him, riding has not yet become
an American art, and hence the awkwardness of American horses. "Lord
bless you, sir! they don't give an animal a chance of a mouth." In
this he alluded only, I presume, to saddle-horses. I know nothing of
the trotting-horses, but I should imagine that a fine mouth must be
an essential requisite for a trotting-match in harness. As regards
riding at Newport, we were not tempted to repeat the experiment. The
number of carriages which we saw there,--remembering as I did that
the place was comparatively empty,--and their general smartness,
surprised me very much. It seemed that every lady with a house of her
own had also her own carriage. These carriages were always open, and
the law of the land imperatively demands that the occupants shall
cover their knees with a worked worsted apron of brilliant colours.
These aprons at first, I confess, seemed tawdry; but the eye soon
becomes used to bright colours, in carriage aprons as well as in
architecture, and I soon learned to like them.
Rhode Island, as the State is usually called, is the smallest State
in the Union. I may perhaps best show its disparity to other States
by saying that New York extends about 250 miles from north to south
and the same distance from east to west; whereas the State called
Rhode Island is about forty miles long by twenty broad, independently
of certain small islands. It would, in fact, not form a considerable
addition, if added on to many of the other States. Nevertheless, it
has all the same powers of self-government as are possessed by such
nationalities as the States of New York and Pennsylvania; and sends
two senators to the Senate at Washington, as do those enormous
States. Small as the State is, Rhode Island itself forms but a
small portion of it. The authorized and proper name of the State is
Providence Plantation and Rhode Island. Roger Williams was the first
founder of the colony, and he established himself on the mainland
at a spot which he called Providence. Here now stands the city of
Providence, the chief town of the State; and a thriving, comfortable
town it seems to be, full of banks, fed by railways and steamers, and
going ahead quite as quickly as Roger Williams could in his fondest
hopes have desired.
Rhode Island, as I have said, has all the attributes of government in
common with her stouter and more famous sisters. She has a governor,
and an upper house, and a lower house of legislature; and she is
somewhat fantastic in the use of these constitutional powers, for she
calls on them to sit now in one town and now in another. Providence
is the capital of the State; but the Rhode Island parliament sits
sometimes at Providence and sometimes at Newport. At stated times
also it has to collect itself at Bristol, and at other stated times
at Kingston, and at others at East Greenwich. Of all legislative
assemblies it is the most peripatetic. Universal suffrage does not
absolutely prevail in this State, a certain property qualification
being necessary to confer a right to vote even for the State
Representatives. I should think it would be well for all parties
if the whole State could be swallowed up by Massachusetts or by
Connecticut, either of which lie conveniently for the feat; but I
presume that any suggestion of such a nature would be regarded as
treason by the men of Providence Plantation.
We returned back to Boston by Attleborough, a town at which in
ordinary times the whole population is supported by the jewellers'
trade. It is a place with a speciality, upon which speciality it has
thriven well and become a town. But the speciality is one ill-adapted
for times of war; and we were assured that the trade was for the
present at an end. What man could now-a-days buy jewels, or even what
woman, seeing that everything would be required for the war? I do not
say that such abstinence from luxury has been begotten altogether by
a feeling of patriotism. The direct taxes which all Americans will
now be called on to pay, have had, and will have much to do with such
abstinence. In the mean time the poor jewellers of Attleborough have
gone altogether to the wall.