Our foreign-born agitators now and then find
themselves removed by the police to institutions of routine, while the
romantic innocents who set up crests in the face of an unimpressionable
democracy are apt to be lured by their own curious ambitions, or those of
their women-folk, to spend a great part of their time in or about the
villas of Albion, thus paid for its perfidy; and, although the anarchists
and the bubble-hunters make a noise, it is enormously out of proportion to
their number, which is relatively very small, and neither the imported nor
the exported article can be taken as characteristic of our country. For
the American is one who soon fits any place, or into any shaped hole in
America, where you can set him down. It may be that without going so far
as to suggest the halls of the great and good and rich, one might mention
a number of houses of entertainment for man and beast in this country, in
which Mr. Martin of the Plattville Dry Goods Emporium would find himself
little at ease. But even in the extreme case, if Mr. Martin were given his
choice of being burned to death, or drowned, or of spending a month at the
most stupendously embellished tavern located in our possessions, and
supposing him to have chosen the third alternate, it is probable that he
would have grown almost accustomed to his surroundings before he died; and
if he survived the month, we may even fancy him really enjoying moments of
conversation with the night-clerks.
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