We could easily multiply quotations of this kind, but these amply suffice to show what the leading journal of America is incessantly telling readers who, predisposed to believe in any origin of the war, save one, the assignment of which is wounding to self-complacency, have no means of arriving at the truth. It is no light matter that a public opinion, destined to spread among millions, and perhaps to endure for centuries, should be left to be constructed by scoundrel hands like those of the “Herald,” but we know not how the mischief is to be prevented, unless by some manly and simultaneous action by the honest journalists of America—by an outspoken repudiation of the vulgar falsehoods of the “Herald.” The latter, says, in another number:

Deducting the fine writing, and expunging the lie, the sentiment is one which England thoroughly shares, that is to say, she rejoices to believe that an example of true liberty, as set out in America, and more vividly in our own constitution, may ever continue to offer hope to the subjects of despots; but assuredly an estrangement between the two nations must be a bad omen for liberty and for the world. If we have done anything towards exposing the cruel and wicked treason which the “New York Herald” is steadily committing against the Union, against England, and against liberty, the purpose of these lines is answered.

While confessing myself a daughter of that much reviled race—the lodging-house keepers of London—I have not the smallest intention of writing their defence, or apology. So many of our best modern authors have described their amusing peculiarities, and strange definitions of meum and tuum, that no one disputes the truth of sketches, evidently drawn from reminiscences of those days when celibacy condemned them to pine in “comfortable apartments for single gentlemen.” But I may be permitted to hint that we rarely hear the other side of this vexed question represented. Granted, that landladies are selfish and rapacious,—does it follow that lodgers are all excellence and forbearance?

Is there not the thoughtless lodger, who—best hearted fellow in the world, as every one knows him to be—seems totally oblivious of the weary journeys up and down the steep flight of stairs which his repeated summons inflicts on the poor maid-of-all-work? This well-meaning young gentleman too frequently forgets to return to the dinner he has ordered, at six precisely, until the clock in the kitchen has chimed seven, and cook’s patience has entirely evaporated; and it is of him also that the neighbours make such loud complaints, for his hours are sadly irregular, and his rings and knocks long and loud before the sleepy inmates can be aroused to let him in. It is true that, for “peace and quietness’ sake,” the landlady has reluctantly presented him with his freedom in the shape of a latch-key, but what avails that when it is generally left in the wrong pocket, and consequently is not comeatable?

Then there is the fidgetty lodger, who detects dirt, draughts, and unpleasant smells, where no one had ever dreamed they existed. He has numerous small antipathies, which include birds, children, music, and canine or feline pets. It is difficult to make him believe in the proper airing of beds; and all his colds and rheumatic attacks date their commencement from his lodgings.

He frequently summons the landlady to his breakfast-table to request her interference in his behalf, when “that very heedless young woman” has done too much, or too little during her morning avocations in his apartment. A book has been displaced that he was reading, and his mark suffered to fall out; or the volumes have been undisturbed so long that his hands were soiled, actually soiled, with the dust on the covers; or he should feel so deeply indebted to the good lady, if she would draw the housemaid’s attention to the careless manner in which his blinds were drawn up two mornings running; he had been obliged to alter them himself, and it really gave his windows such a disreputable appearance! &c.

Then, worse than either of the above, is the suspicious lodger, who saps and mines for convictions. He comes home at unusual hours to assure himself that no Box and Cox tricks are played with his rooms; counts his collars and handkerchiefs twice a-week; makes private marks on his joint of meat to ascertain the attacks of poachers; keeps strict watch over the tea, butter, coals, &c., and often descends to more meannesses than those he seeks opportunities to accuse.