the world on that assurance.  Mr. Brumby’s paragon is shocked at the other’s inaptitude for examination, but is at the same time tortured by envy of he knows not what.  In this spirit we Americans and Englishmen go on writing books about each other, sometimes with bitterness enough, but generally with good final results.  But in the meantime there has sprung up a jealousy which makes each inclined to hate the other at first sight.  Hate is difficult and expensive, and between individuals soon gives place to love.  “I cannot bear Americans as a rule, though I have been very lucky myself with a few friends.”  Who in England has not heard that form of speech, over and over again?  And what Englishman has travelled in the States without hearing abuse of all English institutions uttered amidst the pauses of a free-handed hospitality which has left him nothing to desire?

Mr. Senator Gotobed had expressed his mind openly wheresoever he went, but, being a man of immense energy, was not content with such private utterances.  He could not liberate his soul without doing something in public to convince his cousins that in their general practices of life they were not guided by reason.  He had no object of making money.  To give him his due we must own that he had no object of making fame.  He was impelled by that intense desire to express himself which often amounts to passion with us, and sometimes to fury with Americans, and he hardly considered much what reception his words might receive.  It was only when he was told by others that his lecture might give offence which possibly would turn to violence, that he made inquiry as to the attendance of the police.  But though they should tear him to pieces he would say what he had to say.  It should not be his fault if the absurdities of a people whom he really loved were not exposed to light, so that they might be acknowledged and abandoned.

He had found time to travel to Birmingham, to Manchester, to Liverpool, to Glasgow, and to other places, and really thought that he had mastered his great subject.  He had worked very hard, but was probably premature in thinking that he knew England thoroughly.  He had, however, undoubtedly dipped into a great many matters, and could probably have told many Englishmen much that they didn’t know about their own affairs.  He had poked his nose everywhere, and had scrupled to ask no question.  He had seen the miseries of a casual ward, the despair of an expiring strike, the amenities of a city slum, and the stolid apathy of a rural labourer’s home.  He had measured the animal food consumed by the working classes, and knew the exact amount of alcohol swallowed by the average Briton.  He had seen also the luxury of baronial halls, the pearl-drinking extravagances of commercial palaces, the unending labours of our pleasure-seekers—­as with Lord Rufford, and the dullness of ordinary country life—­as experienced by himself at Bragton.  And now he was going to tell the English people at large what he thought about it all.