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 awhile, 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,