“And is it not strange, that, in a country in which the passion of love is probably less felt than anywhere else, hatred should form so great an ingredient in the national composition? And what hatred too! the most constant,—the most steady,—the most unceasing that has ever been known to separate individuals or nations!
“‘Hatred,’ says Goethe, ‘like love, dies when it ceases to increase;’ but he had no idea of the cool, calm, collected, slow hatred of certain classes of Americans. They are not like the French, who, when offended, cannot rest until they are revenged; not like the Germans, who are not easily offended; but being ‘wrought, perplexed in the extreme,’ they can wait for years until a convenient opportunity offers itself for paying off an insult or destroying an enemy.
“I remember, a short time ago, when a public man in Philadelphia had acted a double part towards me, to have called upon an acquaintance and expressed my indignation at what I thought ungentlemanly and villanous conduct. ‘What is the use of your saying so now?’ said he with great calmness; ‘why don’t you keep cool, and wait for an opportunity of paying him off in his own coin with interest?’
“Nor is it always possible to tell when they are offended. They have too much self-respect to show that they are wrought, but calmly wait for the proper time of seizing upon their victim. The hatred of most men dies when the object of their dislike is removed,—when they are revenged,—when their victim is passed to another world. Not so with the educated Americans. They hate even the memory of those that have thwarted their designs. Robespierre is not more detested in France, than Jefferson and Jackson are among the higher classes of Americans. I have seen fashionable women in Boston and Philadelphia almost thrown into convulsions at the very mention of their names. And what appears most strange is, that this hatred is hereditary; for it is a fact, no less interesting than instructive, that the higher classes in the United States have no political conviction at all. Their professions that way are the result of mere bias, produced by the opinions and sentiments of their early friends and associates. Democracy is in bad odour among the fashionable circles, which is quite sufficient for every coxcomb to despise it, and to affect an abhorrence of its ‘vulgar and profligate’ champions. There exists, in America, the same feeling with regard to republicanism which characterized the French shortly after the publication of the works of Voltaire and Rousseau with regard to religion: every one wants to escape from the lash of satire, and therefore shows in words and actions that he is one of those to whom it does not apply.
“It is quite common for educated and travelled Americans to apologize to Englishmen for the extraordinary degree of freedom enjoyed by the lower orders. Their usual excuse is, ‘that the constitution of the United States was the work of momentary enthusiasm, which, when the people shall have cooled down, must necessarily undergo such wholesome alterations and modifications as reason and experience shall dictate.’ In the mean while they must go on as well as they can, until the influence of wealth and the gradual return to the sound doctrines of English statesmanship, or, perhaps, also ‘the evils incidental to a popular government,’ shall have prepared the people for a different administration of their affairs, more suitable to the tranquil enjoyment of life. If it were not for the hue and cry raised by Jefferson and Jackson, the thing might have been done long ago; but, unfortunately for the peace and prosperity of the country, there will always be vagabonds enough—people who have everything to gain, and nothing to lose,—ready to follow such leaders!”
“As a proof of the attachment of certain old families to England,” said I to my friend, “and the ludicrous notions of their own importance, I must repeat to you the speech of a gentleman from the Eastern States, with whom I had the honour of dining three or four years ago. Dinner went off prosperously; and, the company being small, the bottle came round faster than some of us could wish, until, as a finish, one of the gentlemen present proposed that each of us should give a toast. When it came to my turn, I, as a loyal German, could not but propose the health of the Archduke Charles of Austria. ‘Bravo!’ shouted the master of the house, ‘a good old toast that! drunk many a time at my father’s house with three times three and all the honours! I shall not do worse by the duke than my parent.’ And hereupon the health of the archduke was drunk in a bumper.
“‘But,’ said I, ‘in 1809, the Archduke of Austria was an ally of England; and at that time matters in America were assuming a serious aspect, the war with Britain being considered as unavoidable.’
“‘I know that,’ rejoined mine host: ‘but what would have become of England if we had forsaken her at that time?’
“What a debt of gratitude does England owe to America! and yet what an ill-natured, peevish, ungenerous return do the English make for so much kindness bestowed upon them by their friends across the Atlantic!”
“But do you not think,” demanded I of my friend, “that this English aristocratic feeling—this going in mourning for monarchy of the old Federalists,—is gradually dying away?”