marriage being profaned by interest." I do not blindly adopt the romantic vehemence of this lady-philanthropist; I merely report an accusation which I will examine hereafter.

A collateral result of this space existing between the two sexes, the destruction of household and family. They go to live at a hotel; the husband goes to his business, the woman remains in her boudoir. They dine at table d'hôte, and this common life, without home, domicile, or domestic hearth, this wandering life displeases no one. These hotels contain sometimes fifty households, if we may use that word, for the accidental re-union of a husband and wife, who see each other twice a-day, at dinner and at breakfast. One can imagine the education of young persons who pass their lives in these crowded parlors, at these tables so variously attended; the life of a hotel must produce the same effect upon them as barroom or club-life upon men. Besides, it is hard to have a household where servants are so rare.

The word is not in use. The person whom you employ, and whom you call your help, will dress as well as her mistress, in silk, with plumed hat, or will stand behind her chair at dinner, with her hair dressed with flowers or a golden comb. "I saw one," says Miss Martineau, "who, to her other charms of dress, added a pair of green spectacles." For the least word, these helps will threaten you with the magistrate, and make their employers their slaves. Therefore, they prefer the hotel waiter, who is active, obedient, and ready.

The American woman then attaches herself to nothing; has no house to keep, nobody to talk to, and her pretensions to originality of thought would be rather a source of irritation and discontent to others, than of honor to herself. In household, the husband goes to market, perhaps by economy.

These are the pictures drawn by the travellers whom I have cited, and of which I by no means accept the personal

responsibility. According to them, American women read much and reflect little. They know generally several languages, though they lack activity of thought; the faculty which they most cultivate is the humblest of all-memory. Pretty, fresh, delicate, and showy in youth, endowed with finesse, and with all that goodness and gracefulness which God has given to their sex, with leisure to cultivate their minds and to elevate their souls, and with wealth to surround themselves with elegance--what more do they want? society less absorbed by commerce, more chivalric, more impetuous, more in love with the ideal, less concentrated upon interest. They want judges to stimulate, to recompense them.

A

The Old World, in spite of its democratic bearings, differs from young America. It owes the intellectual culture and the exquisite delicacy of women to the ineffaceable traces of its ancient institutions, mixtures of vice and greatness, light and shade, incomplete, irregular, and often evil, as all that is human is. To-day, the American institutions which repulse chivalry and encourage personal interest, produce contrary effects.

After all, the future of this novice nation is so vast, and its situation so evidently transitory, that it would be unjust to believe all that the British travellers say. They judge a growing country as though it were ripe and formed. They do not see that the most amiable and appreciated qualities of the Old World would be vices and dangers in the New. They say that American women are more instructed and polite than their brothers and husbands. How could it be otherwise? What need have the Americans of to-day of refinement and politeness? Of what use to them a Danté, a Raphael, a Molierè? They have something harder to do. For them, rude ambition, ardent and pitiless trade. If individuals lose, the country gains.

Unfortunately, exaggerated activity brutalizes. Repose, revery, forgetfulness of daily care, give birth to graces and delicacies. Hope not for poetry from that pivot of hot iron called a business-man, rolling eternally in a circle of egotist activity; if you get in the way of his interest, he will tear you to rags.

Some coteries in New York and Philadelphia endeavor to model their customs upon those of London and Paris; it is that portion of American manners, which Mr. Grundt has noticed well enough, but a little grossly. As to Dickens, much more sly, his portraits are distinguished by a fineness and gaiety often profound. He is not foolishly angry with the democracy, but he picks out their good points, and the benevolent germs which they develope, and sets them in full relief. Among the qualities which the American institutions. have evidently protected, are activity, patience, mutual complaisance and gentleness. The crowd is a grand master of philosophy. This blind mass, sightless and mute by instinct, compels the community not to exaggerate its own value, and to esteem a fellow-creature. Therefore, they help one another, and endure each other's neighborhood.

The democratic habit has produced among the Americans a sort of empty politeness, a complaisant habit of assent which becomes insipid. Everybody agrees with everybody else, and common-place becomes a refuge for all.

Dickens has written deliciously about this. According to him, the basis of American language is "Yes, sir," words which wound nobody, and which the citizens of the United States, repeat at every moment with diverse inflections. "I have heard this 'Yes, sir," " he says, more than two thousand times a day. It rings like a bell, and like a bell expresses all emotions, fills up gaps in the conversation, understanding and leisure.

“Whenever the coach stops, and you can hear the voices of the inside passengers; or whenever any bystander addresses them, or any one among them, or they address each other, you will hear one phrase repeated over and over, and over again, to the most extraordinary extent. It is an ordinary and unpromising phrase enough, being neither more nor less than "Yes, sir;" but it is adapted to every variety of circumstance, and fills up every pause in the conversation. Thus : "The time is one o'clock at noon. The scene, a place this journey.

where we are to stay to dine, on The coach drives up to the door of an inn. The day is warm, and there are several idlers lingering about the tavern, and waiting for the public dinner. Among them is a stout gentleman in a brown hat, swinging himself to and fro in a rocking-chair on the pavement.

"As the coach stops, a gentleman in a straw hat looks out of the window.

Straw Hat. (To the stout gentleman in the rocking-chair). I reckon that's Judge Jefferson, a'nt it?

"Brown Hat. (Still swinging, speaking very slowly, and without any emotion whatever). Yes, sir.

"Straw Hat. Warm weather, Judge.

"Brown Hat. Yes, sir.

"Straw Hat.

There was a snap of cold last week.

"Brown Hat. Yes, sir.

"Straw Hat. Yes, sir.

"A pause. They look at each other very seriously.

Straw Hat. I calculate you'll have got through that case of the corporation, Judge, by this time, now?

sir.

"Brown Hat. (Affirmatively). Yes, sir.

"Both. (Musingly, as each gazes down the street). Yes,

"Another pause. They look at each other again, still more seriously than before.

"Brown Hat. This coach is rather behind its time to-day,

I guess.

"Straw Hat.

"Brown Hat.

two hours.

(Doubtingly). Yes, sir.

(Looking at his watch). Yes, sir, nigh upon

"Straw Hat. (Raising his eyebrows in very great surprise). Yes, sir.

sir.

"Brown Hat. (Decisively, as he puts up his watch). Yes,

"All the other Inside Passengers. (Among themselves). Yes, sir.

No it a'nt.

"Coachman. (In a very surly tone). "Straw Hat. (To the coachman). Well, I don't know, sir. We were a pretty tall time coming the last fifteen mile. That's a fact.

"The coachman making no reply, and plainly declining to enter into any controversy on a subject so far removed from his sympathies and feelings, another passenger says, 'Yes, sir;' and the gentleman in the straw hat, in acknowledgment of his courtesy, says 'Yes, sir,' to him, in return. The straw hat