In the good old days of our forefathers, when plain speaking and hard
blows were in fashion, when a man had his heart at the tip of his tongue,
and four feet of sharp iron dangling at his side, Hate played an honest,
open part in the theatre of the world. In fact, when we read History,
Hate seems to have "starred it" on the stage. But now, where is Hate?
Who ever sees its face? Is it that smiling, good-tempered creature, that
presses you by the hand so cordially, or that dignified figure of state
that calls you its "Right Honourable friend"? Is it that bowing,
grateful dependent; is it that soft-eyed Amaryllis? Ask not, guess not:
you will only know it to be hate when the poison is in your cup, or the
poniard in your breast. In the Gothic age, grim Humour painted "the
Dance of Death;" in our polished century, some sardonic wit should give
us "the Masquerade of Hate."

Certainly, the counter-passion betrays itself with ease to our gaze.
Love is rarely a hypocrite. But Hate--how detect, and how guard against
it? It lurks where you least suspect it; it is created by causes that
you can the least foresee; and Civilization multiplies its varieties,
whilst it favours its disguise: for Civilization increases the number of
contending interests, and Refinement renders more susceptible to the
least irritation the cuticle of Self-Love. But Hate comes covertly forth
from some self-interest we have crossed, or some self-love we have
wounded; and, dullards that we are, how seldom we are aware of our
offence! You may be hated by a man you have never seen in your life: you
may be hated as often by one you have loaded with benefits; you may so
walk as not to tread on a worm; but you must sit fast on your easy-chair
till you are carried out to your bier, if you would be sure not to tread
on some snake of a foe. But, then, what harm does the hate do us? Very
often the harm is as unseen by the world as the hate is unrecognized by