Aristocracy in America. From the sketch-book of a German nobleman. vol. 1 (of 2)

by Francis J. Grund

CHAPTER V.

Description of an American Rout.—A Flirtation.—The Floor kept by the same Set of Dancers.—Fashionable Characters.—An Unfortunate Girl at a Party.—Inquiry instituted in her Behalf.—Anecdote of two Fashionable Young Ladies at Nahant.—Aristocratic Feelings of the Americans carried Abroad.—Anecdotes.—Reflections on the Manners of the Higher Classes.—Anecdotes illustrative of Western Politeness and Hospitality.—Kentucky Hospitality.—Hypocrisy of the Higher Orders of Americans.—Aristocracy in Churches.—An American Aristocrat compared to Shylock.—A Millionnaire.—Two Professional Men.—Stephen Gerard.—A Gentleman of Norman Extraction.—Different Methods resorted to for procuring Ancestors.—American and the English contrasted.—A Country Representative.—Method of making him desert his Principles.—Political Synonyms.—Contempt for Democracy.—Expectations of the American Aristocracy.—Objections to Waltzing.—Announcement of Supper.

“Imperial Waltz! imported from the Rhine,
(Famed for the growth of pedigrees and wine,)
Long be thy import from all duty free,
And hock itself be less esteem’d than thee!”

Byron.

It was half-past ten when I made my appearance at Mrs. * * *’s “rout.” The rooms were richly decorated, and the company in excellent spirits. My friend had already arrived, and was talking to a young lady in one of the corners of the dancing-room; which was called “a desperate flirtation,” inasmuch as the young lady appeared to be past sixteen, and not yet twenty, and the gentleman in circumstances which enabled him to support a wife. Similar flirtations were going on in other parts of the room; the married ladies being seated on benches or settees near the walls, and acting, if not as judges, at least as recorders of the events. The music, consisting chiefly of clarionets, flutes, and horns, was stationed to great advantage in the entry; leaving not only more room for the dancers in the parlour, but softening also the harmony of sounds by the greater distance. The ladies, especially those who danced, were, in point of dress, the exact copies of the patterns issued weekly in the French metropolis; and the gentlemen, though apparently timid in the presence of so many beauties, looked, nevertheless, sufficiently smart and enterprising for men of business.

I looked for a while on the group of dancers, in hopes of perceiving some slight variation, but was not a little annoyed by seeing continually the same figures and the same dancers. I afterwards communicated my surprise to my friend, but was told that I was in a fashionable house, in which none but fashionable young ladies and gentlemen could be expected “to have the floor;” and that if, from courtesy, some other people had been invited, it was expected they would have sufficient good sense not to obtrude themselves on the notice of the company, and least of all to make themselves conspicuous by joining in a quadrille or a waltz. “There are,” added he, “some dozen of young girls here dying to show their ‘steps,’ but none of the fashionable young men would risk his standing in society by bringing them out; and, as for the young men of neither family nor wealth, who are only asked because they are relations of the house, (a custom which is by no means general in the United States,) they know their place too well to be guilty of such an impropriety.

“Whenever one of our wealthy stockholders,” continued he, “invites a poor devil to his house, the particular relation of entertainer and guest changes nothing in the relative position of the parties: the rich man still continues to assume the peculiar insolent condescension of a patron; while the man without credit will exhibit in his conduct the humiliating consciousness of his ‘insufficiency.’ If you took notice of the manner in which the lady of the house courtesyed to the gentlemen that were presented to her, you must have been able to distinguish the capitalist from the poor beginner, or unsuccessful speculator, as effectually as if their property had been announced with their names. Every additional thousand produces a new smile; for it is impossible for our people to consider a man independently of his circumstances.”

“This,” observed I, “is the fault of every practical nation, especially of the English, who are the most purse-proud and exclusive people in Europe.”

“I know that,” replied he: “but the English reward talent of every description higher than any other nation in the world; so that money is, in a certain sense, the just measure of capacity. In America, on the contrary, there are but few branches of industry, and almost none of learning, which are sure of meeting with an adequate remuneration in money; so that, if men are merely judged by their wealth, the meanest bank or counting-house clerk, or a common shopkeeper, has a better chance of arriving at respectability than the most successful scholar in the most difficult branches of human learning. Society, in this manner, must become lower and lower every day; there being no entailed estates or large hereditary possessions in the United States, securing to a privileged class the necessary means and leisure for the gratuitous pursuit of arts and sciences. And, as for the English being exclusive, you forget that, when English people assume that character, they possess generally the tact and à-plomb necessary for carrying it off; whereas, here you often meet the same spirit among people whose wealth is credit and expectancy, and whose manners and education are identified solely with the desk and ledger. Thus the terms ‘patron’ and ‘client’ are in New York, for instance, synonymous with ‘creditor’ and ‘debtor;’ and as the banks, according to the prevalent system of credit, must inevitably be the creditors of nine-tenths of the community, every person connected with them—and, above all, a stockholder, cashier, or president—must necessarily be a patrician. The whole composition of our society is arithmetical; each gentleman ranking according to the numerical index of his property. You need only watch the conduct of the society in this room, and you will satisfy yourself of the truth of my assertion.

“Do you know that lady in pink satin,” he continued, “who is talking to the lady dressed in white, across that modest-looking woman with the pale face, who is evidently embarrassed by this rudeness?”

I replied in the negative.

“The first,” he said, “is the daughter of an honest shoemaker, who has become very rich by his industry, and is bitterly grieved by the aristocratic haughtiness of his daughter. I have heard it asserted that he often threatened her to hang up a last in his parlour, instead of a coat of arms, to punish the ridiculous pretensions of his family.”

“Such a character,” said I, “would have done credit to a Dutch burgomaster in the best times of the republic. But who is the lady thus planted between two of her sex, who are determined to take no more notice of her than if her chair were empty?”

“She is the wife of an American commodore,” replied he; “one of the most gallant officers in the navy, who has shed his blood in his country’s service. What further comment does this require?—what greater proof would you have of the insufferable arrogance of our moneyed aristocracy?”

“Let us follow that young lady, whose face I have never seen before in society,” observed my friend after a short pause: “she looks as though she had never been used to company, and will probably become the butt of the aristocratic misses who keep possession of the floor.”

The unfortunate girl, led by a young man, who, to judge from his manners, was a stranger in the city, had scarcely entered the dancing-room before every eye was turned upon her, and the most insolent, half-loud inquiry instituted as to “who she was,” and “where she came from?”

“Do you know that girl?” demanded a young lady, who had just stopped dancing, loud enough for her to hear.

“I never saw her before in my life, I am sure,” replied the ballerina who had been addressed, with a toss of her head; “do you know her?”

“Indeed I don’t; I wonder how she got here!” resumed the first.

Here a third lady walked up, and examined the dress of the stranger; then, joining a small circle, “I am sure,” said she, in an audible whisper, “it’s not worth seventy-five cents a yard.”

“And who is that unlicked cub that’s with her?” demanded another lady.

“Heaven alone knows!” answered a voice; “I dare say, just come from the woods!”

“With his mouth full of tobacco!”

“I hope she isn’t going to dance; if she does, I shall leave the room.”

“I sha’n’t stay either.”

One half of this conversation the poor girl must have heard, as she was standing close to the speakers, and could not even escape from the sting of their remarks through the crowd that obstructed the passage; for it is the custom in America, as in England, for people who give parties to invite as many persons as possible, in order to have the satisfaction of a full room. She was on the point of bursting into tears; and yet the young, fashionable tigresses, of from sixteen to twenty years of age, had not feeling enough to take pity on her. I am aware that, in describing that of which I was an eye-witness, I shall scarcely be believed by my English or German readers, because it is almost impossible for an educated European to conceive the degree of rudeness, insolence, and effrontery, and the total want of consideration for the feelings of others, which I have often seen practised in what is called the “first society” of the United States. I have seen in Boston, or rather in Nahant, a small watering-place in the neighbourhood of that city, two girls,—one the daughter of a president of an insurance-office, and the other the child of a merchant,—supporting their heads with their elbows, and in this position staring at each other for several minutes across a public table; each believing that her standing in society entitled her to the longest stare, and that the other, being the daughter of a man of less consideration and property, should have modesty enough to cast down her eyes.

The same kind of feelings the Americans carry even across the Atlantic. In Paris, Florence, Rome, and other places on the Continent, (in England they have no particular practice of their own, but merely follow in the wake of the nobility,) they form as many distinct sets and coteries as at home; imitating, by degrees, every ridiculous fashion of France and Italy, and endeavouring by their wealth to pave the road to the highest society, and to keep from it the less fortunate part of their countrymen. Two instances of this kind came to my personal knowledge.

About three years ago, while a friend of mine happened to be in Vienna, he met at Mr. S***’s, the United States’ consul, a party of Americans, composed of a number of gentlemen and ladies from Boston, Baltimore, and South Carolina. The conversation ran on different topics, until one of the company introduced in his remarks the names of some fashionable people of Boston with whom he professed to be acquainted. Upon this, Mr. ***, descended from one of the wealthiest and most vulgar aristocratic families of that place, and who pretended to know “everybody,” whispered something into the consul’s ear, and requested him to step with him into the next room. There, as my friend afterwards learned, he assumed at once the rank and office of grand inquisitor; cross-examining the poor consul as to “where he had picked up that man?” and declaring finally that he must be an impostor, as he did not know him, nor ever heard his name mentioned before, (this is the usual phrase employed by “respectable” Americans when they wish to repudiate a person as not belonging to their set). After he had thus discharged the duties of a high-born citizen, he resumed his seat at a little distance from “the impostor,” and remained silent for the rest of the evening. Poor Mr. ***, who was really a gentleman of slender means, could not but perceive the prejudice which his fellow-townsman had excited in the mind of his hospitable entertainer, and soon afterwards left the company.

Another instance of this kind occurred at Munich between two Americans; one a regular resident of the place for many years, and the other a traveller, who imagined he had held a higher rank in America than his compatriot. The latter, of course, immediately set out to communicate his scruple to the consul, and the attachés of the *** legation; assuring them that the gentleman they had taken into favour was neither a scholar nor a man of high standing, and was consequently not entitled to their attention. All this was done while the other person was absent from town, and for no other purpose than impressing the society of Munich with the fact “that there is a great deal of aristocracy in America, and that he himself was one of its noblest representatives.” The American ministers in London, Paris, Berlin, and St. Petersburgh, and the consuls in the different commercial cities of Europe, are usually made the repositories of all the slander which one set or coterie may have in store against the other; and, as no peculiar discretion is exercised by Americans in the treatment of high public functionaries, the latter themselves do not often escape uninjured, the public press furnishing the meanest scribbler with the means of wreaking his vengeance.

The fact is, the soi-disant higher classes of Americans, in quitting the simple, manly, moral, industrious habits of the great mass of the people,—habits which alone have won them the respect of the world,—have no fixed standard by which to govern their actions, either with regard to themselves or their fellow beings; no manners, customs, modes of thinking, &c. of their own; no community of feelings; nothing which could mark them as a distinct class, except their contempt for the lower classes, and their dislike of their own country. How should such an order of beings agree amongst themselves? How should they be able to make themselves, or those around them, comfortable? There is more courtesy in the apparent rudeness of the Western settler than in the assumed politeness of the city stockholder,—more true hospitality in the log-house of the backwoodsman, than in any of the mansions of the presidents and directors of banks with whom it has been my good fortune to become acquainted.

I remember, some years ago, when travelling with a distant relative on the borders of the Mississippi, to have been approaching the habitation of a farmer, whom, in company with his wife, we found on horseback, ready to set out on a journey to the next market town for the purpose of buying stores for his family. There was no tavern or resting-place within seven miles of us; but, not wishing to intrude upon their domestic arrangements, we passed the house and doubled our speed, in order to be in time for dinner at the next village. The farmer, however, did not suffer us to continue our journey without having refreshed ourselves at his house; and, persuading us to come back, he and his wife dismounted, and assisted in preparing and ordering everything necessary for dinner. We of course protested against their putting themselves to so much trouble for the sake of strangers, who, in an hour or so, might have reached a place where they could have procured a dinner for money. “Oh, I assure you, gentlemen,” replied our entertainer, “I never suffer myself or my wife to be troubled either by strangers or friends; we merely discharge our duty, without either inconvenience to ourselves, or putting others under any sort of obligation. Lucy!” said he to a buxom girl that was playing with one of the prettiest children I ever beheld, “you will see that the gentlemen want nothing. Eliza! we must be off, or we shall not get thither till dark. Good morning, gentlemen!”—“Good-b’ye, gentlemen!” added his wife; both mounting their horses, and leaving us to enjoy ourselves and our dinner as best we might.

What a picture of sincerity, honesty, confidence, frankness, and unostentatious hospitality is this, compared to the formal invitations to dinner, or a party, of one of the nabobs in the Atlantic cities! Take, for instance, the case of a rich man in New York. He prepares a week beforehand, and racks his brains as to what people he shall invite that will do credit to his house, and what persons he may safely exclude without injury to himself, and without offending them past reparation. He has one dinner-party for one set of acquaintance, and another for another. At the one he will act as host, at the other as patron; the expense being in both cases proportionate to the rank of his guests. Who under these circumstances would not rather prefer the hospitality of the honest Kentuckian, whose Western friends averred that he was truly kind, “for, when he had company, he simply went to the side-board, poured out his glass, and then turned his back upon them, not wishing to see how they filled?”

The fashionable people of the Atlantic cities, who give dinner and evening parties either for the purpose of maintaining or acquiring a high rank in society, have themselves little or no disposition for company. With them society does not offer an agreeable and necessary respite from toil; but is merely a means of acquiring influence, &c. For this purpose it is not necessary to treat all persons with equal sincerity and politeness. “La politesse nous tient lieu du cœur,” say the French; but the fashionable people of the United States manage to get on without either. There is nothing in the composition of a fashionable American to compensate for the loss of natural affections,—nothing in his manner to soften the egotism which manifests itself in every motion, every gesture, every word which drops from his lips. And the worst of it is, that he imagines all this to be a successful imitation of English manners! He forgets entirely that, in imitating the manners of the higher classes in England, he is very much in the position of a sailor on horseback; showing by his whole carriage that he is out of his element, and, though straining every nerve to maintain his place, ready to tumble off at the first motion for which he is not previously prepared.

As regards the exclusiveness of the higher classes, and especially of the women, the instance before me was certainly one calculated to excite my indignation, had I not known fashionable young ladies that refused to walk in the streets of Philadelphia until the dinner-hour of “the common people,” when they would be sure of having the side-walk to themselves.

But what is all this, compared to the artificial distinctions introduced into their churches? It has always been the pride of the Catholic church in Europe to offer a place of worship to every man, without distinction of rank, title, or wealth. The utmost a man pays for a chair in any of the churches of France or Italy is one sou; the fashionable American Catholics, however, imitate the practice of those gentlemanly followers of Christ who choose to worship God in good company. Thus the respectable Catholics of New York, “who do not wish to be annoyed by the presence of an Irish mob,” being for the most part composed of their own servants, have built a church for their own specific use,—a snug little concern, just large enough for a genteel audience to hear the Lord en famille.

In order to exclude effectually everything that might be disagreeable, no one is allowed to stand in the aisles; so that those poor devils who cannot afford to pay for a pew must be content to seek the Lord elsewhere among their equals. On the whole, the principles which govern the aristocracy of the Northern States of America are the very counterpart of the sound maxims of Shylock with regard to the vulgar herd of Christians. “I will buy with you, sell with you, talk with you, walk with you,” (here might be added, electioneer with you,) “and so following; but I will not eat with you, drink with you, or pray with you.”

“Come!” said my friend, “what are you reflecting about? Do not look any longer on this tender victim of fashionable society. She is now but serving her apprenticeship; but will soon rise to the rank of ‘an ancient’ in the clique, and then treat every new-comer in precisely the same manner she is treated now. Let me rather make you acquainted with some of the lions that grace Mrs. ***’s party. Do you know that gentleman with grey hair standing in the corner? It is Mr. ***, originally of German extraction, who has changed his name in order to warrant the supposition of his being descended from a Norman family. He is a great public speaker,—that is, he speaks on all occasions; and has assured his party, who of course look upon democracy as the greatest curse of the country, that his father was a respectable man long before Tamany Hall[8] was built. This declaration, no doubt, secures to him the entrée of the first society; and, if he do not fail in business, the consideration of one of the oldest aristocrats of the city.

“A little further from him, on the right,” continued he, “you will notice a gentleman with a white cravat. He has always a little clientelle around him, for he is a millionnaire, descended from a millionnaire! I know very little of him or his father, except that the latter has made his money by successful speculations and great saving,—two poetical circumstances worthy of being immortalized by Washington Irving. Behind him is stationed Mr. ***, a gentleman of great business tact, who writes his letters on the backs of those which he receives; and is always particular in advising his friends with whom he has dealings to get his name on a piece of paper. He is a silent partner in half-a-dozen different concerns, and has the reputation of obstinately refusing in all cases to receive less than a hundred cents on a dollar.

“In the other corner of the room you will observe two gentlemen engaged in conversation with a lady, who is evidently tired of their attention. They are, as you might guess from this circumstance, nothing but ordinary professional men, whose daily earnings are just sufficient to keep them above water. They are merely invited from charity, being distant relations of the lady of the house, who, by showing them up, expects to improve their chance of success in business. One is a lawyer with a small practice; and the other a physician, who, as he cannot afford to keep a horse and gig, has as yet but little to do, but will undoubtedly succeed in obtaining a large practice if he should be successful in his attentions to Miss ***, a nice young girl of thirty-two, with plenty of money to set up a carriage.”

“But,” said I, more than dissatisfied with my friend’s satirical remarks, “how do you explain the generosity which some of the wealthiest citizens in this country manifest towards the poor, and especially to all charitable institutions?”

“There is,” replied he, “a sort of public generosity among the rich men in our Atlantic cities which delights in making donations to public institutions of all kinds; but woe to those who have private transactions with them!

“The public in America is always courted, even by the mushroom aristocracy of New York. Stephen Gerard, who by the moneyed men of the United States was considered as the quintessence of science and virtue, so that a salutation ‘Go and do as Stephen Gerard!’ would at any time have been equivalent to the ‘Vaya Usted con Dios!’ of the Spaniards,—Stephen Gerard himself, I say, was obliged to give away money to the poor, even during his lifetime!

“Besides, there is a good deal of satisfaction in giving away money to the public, in a public way, in a country in which the public is sovereign. It is a way of ingratiating one’s-self with one’s master, and of acquiring notoriety and credit for wealth, and thereby an indisputable claim to the highest respectability. When, in one of our Atlantic cities, it is once known that a man is rich, that ‘he is very rich,’ that he is ‘amazingly rich,’ that he is ‘one of the richest men in the country,’ that he is ‘worth a million of dollars,’ that he is ‘as rich as Stephen Gerard, or John Jacob ***,’ the whole vocabulary of praise is exhausted; and the individual in question is as effectually canonized as the best Catholic saint.

“I often alluded to this species of money-worship, when alone with my Northern friends; but they seemed to be surprised with the simplicity of my remarks. They saw nothing in it that was not perfectly commendable by common sense. ‘We imitate the English in that respect, as in every other,’ was their excuse; ‘and, as is usual with us, improve upon them. We do not think John Bull understands the value of money as well as ourselves; at least, he does not turn it to so good an account. All that can be said against us is, that we do not value other things as highly as we ought to do;’ and with this species of logic they seemed to be satisfied. But let us continue our tour.

“Do you observe that gentleman in tights, with large black whiskers? He is one of the most fashionable and aristocratic gentlemen in the city. I believe he served his apprenticeship in a baker’s shop, then went into an auction-room, then became a partner in the firm, and lastly took a house in Broadway, set up a carriage, and declared himself a gentleman. Nine-tenths of all the people that are called ‘fashionable’ in New York have had a similar beginning; and yet, if you listen to their conversation, you would swear they are descended in a direct line from William the Conqueror.

“No people on earth are more proud of their ancestors than those fashionable Americans who can prove themselves descended from respectable fathers and grandfathers. Take, for instance, the case of one of my young friends, who was sent to Europe by his family for the sole purpose of discovering his ancestors; or that of an acquaintance of mine in Boston, who has found a signet among the rubbish of his household, and now swears that it belonged to his great-grandfather, there being no other person to claim it; or that of Mr. ***, seated yonder by the side of that elderly lady, who has bought a lot of Dutch portraits in Europe,—all knights in armour,—in order to form a whole gallery of ancestors; or that of Mr. ***, who has discovered some faint analogy between his name and that of a certain animal, which he now uses as a coat of arms; and a hundred other examples I could quote.”

“The same ridiculous folly,” interrupted I, “you will find in England, and especially in Scotland, among the gentlefolks.”

“But then,” interrupted my friend, “the English do not pretend to be republicans; they never formally banished nobility and royalty from their country in order to rake them up again from the rubbish of another world; and the particular genius of their institutions is not opposed to any real distinction in the way of family. Our people, on the contrary, are obliged publicly to repudiate what they are most anxiously striving to assert in private; and thus to add hypocrisy to pretensions for which there is not the least apology in the history of their country. But I must direct your attention to that portly-looking gentleman in blue pantaloons, who, in my opinion, is by far the most remarkable personage of the whole company. He wears boots; and his hat and gloves, neither of which can be said to be entirely new, are carefully deposited in the entry. Thus unencumbered, he will play one of the best knives and forks at supper; although the lady of the house herself will take his arm, and put him to his utmost good breeding. She completely monopolises his conversation, and distinguishes him from the crowd by the most studied politeness.”

“But what can be the cause of her attention?” demanded I; “is he so very rich?”

“Not exactly,” replied he; “he is barely respectable.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean, in the language of New York, he is a man of moderate property.”

“Then I do not see the object of her civility to him.”

“She has indeed a different object from what you or any other stranger would suspect. The gentleman is a country representative of considerable talent; of whom the lady, who, like most of the nice women in this city, is in the opposition, wishes to make a convert. A good many unsuspecting ‘members of the assembly’ are spoiled by our fashionable women; for the spirit of gallantry is stronger in our yeomanry than among our aristocratic gentlemen of the town. Our country representatives can argue for years, and argue well, against the attempted usurpations of certain coteries of gentlemen; but they cannot take up the cudgel against the ladies. It is in the best society where our members learn to listen to the grossest abuse of the institutions of their country without glowing with indignation or resentment; it is there where they study patience in hearing the people’s favourites traduced as ‘scoundrels,’ ‘villains,’ ‘pickpockets,’ ‘idiots,’ ‘fools,’ &c.; and it is in company of fashionable ladies that they learn to consider patriotism as unbecoming a gentleman,—as a vice which ought never to infect but the lowest orders of society.

“And it is principally because their patriotism cannot be translated into an attachment to some ‘great and glorious personage’ that these poor devils of representatives, who would have remained honest if they had not been admitted into good society, become, by degrees, ashamed of everything which is their own, from their heads down to the very soles of their feet. At first they are made aware that they are not so refined as some of the New York people, especially those who have been in Europe; and that, in order to get rid of some of their boorish manners, they must needs try to get into good society. Some neutral friend procures them an introduction, and the women do the rest.

“One of the principal things they learn in good society is, to consider politics as wholly uninteresting except to tavern-keepers on election days; as a subject unworthy of the pursuit of a gentleman, and a thing banished from people of fashion and good taste. When they speak of it, or allude to it, accidentally in conversation, the good-natured condescending smiles of the company convince them, without argument, that they have been guilty of some impropriety. When they grow warm at the mention of their country, the calmness of all around them teaches them the absurdity of betraying emotion on so ordinary an occasion; and, if they should ever by chance make use of the words ‘liberty,’ ‘right,’ ‘independence,’ or forget themselves so far as to introduce ‘the people,’ they are left alone to enjoy these things by themselves.

“When, by this course of instruction, they have amended their manners so far as no longer to be guilty of similar gaucheries, they are made to improve their language, to smooth down the roughness of terms by the substitution of more agreeable and palatable synonyms, and to set a right value on certain expressions altogether unintelligible to the great mass of the people.

“Thus the word ‘patriotism,’ as I told you before, is entirely proscribed by the higher classes; they designate that virtue by ‘political zeal,’ and the patriot himself by ‘a successful politician.’ ‘A popular candidate for office’ is equivalent to ‘a vagabond who has no business of his own;’ ‘popularity’ means ‘the approbation of the mob;’ and ‘popular distinction,’ ‘notoriety in vulgar pursuits.’ ‘A public man’ is ‘an individual lost to society and to all its virtues;’ the term ‘liberty’ is synonymous with ‘licence of the mob;’ and ‘universal suffrage’ stands for ‘universal blackguardism.’

“It is to be observed, however, that all these significations apply only to the members of the democratic party; there never having been a single man of fortune, in any of the Northern States, whose patriotic intentions have once been made the subject of doubt or inquiry: for it is easily understood why a man of property should be attached to his country; but the poor man has no right to be so, and is therefore to be justly suspected whenever he takes an interest in politics.

“Under these circumstances, you cannot wonder at our aspiring people—and where is the man in this country that is not so?—deprecating the idea of being called ‘democrats,’ and the influence which ‘good breeding and fashionable society’ exercise on our professional politicians. The gentleman I pointed out to you is just serving his apprenticeship in the fashionable salons of New York; and there are already heavy bets making on his being brought over to the opposition in less than a year. I have heard it said that he was a ‘rank’ democrat when he first came to New York, but that the ladies have already tamed him so far as to make him less positive in his opinions; and they hope, by the time they will teach him to wear white gloves and ‘behave himself like a gentleman,’ to make him altogether ‘harmless.’

“When once come to that, it takes but very little to make him ashamed of serving the ‘riff-raff,’ and declare in favour of those dignified opinions which are handed down to the Americans by the ablest writers of Great Britain, and which the commercial aristocracy of the United States apply to themselves in precisely the same manner as the nobility of England. He is then likely to perceive ‘the beauty of those British institutions’ which ensure the complete submission of the lower classes to the superior orders,—‘which assign to every man his proper place,’—which ‘teach the servants to be respectful to their masters,’ &c. The admiration of England and of the British government naturally begets a wish to establish, in America, a government after the British model; for, in the same manner as the honest Boston baker wished his native town to be raised to the rank of a city, in order that at some future day it might rival ‘the ancient and famous city of London,’ do our stockholders and stock-jobbers expect to become ‘ancient and far-famed families’ in ‘the great American empire,’ and to outshine the brightest stars in the galaxy of the British nobility.”

“And yet,” observed I, “there are very few aristocratic Americans who think America capable of national elevation. ‘We have gained nothing by our independence of Great Britain,’ said a fashionable and learned Bostonian, when the subject was started in the way of a national boast; “on the contrary, we have lost in personal consideration.”

“And I have not the least doubt he spoke the truth, as far as related to himself,” replied my friend. “Nothing can better prove the corrupting influence of our fashions,” he continued, “than the fact that most of the celebrated leaders of the present opposition have commenced their career by advocating democracy, and finished by betraying it. This is the price they have to pay for admission into good society, from which democrats are naturally excluded.”

Here my friend was interrupted by the approach of the gentleman of the house, who, in the most polite manner possible, inquired whether we were entertained with the party.

“How could that be otherwise?” replied my friend; “I have never before seen such a collection of pretty girls; I wish I could see them all dance.”

“The room is not large enough for that,” said our entertainer, little suspecting the meaning of my friend; “but next year I shall take another house, and then there will be no more complaints of that sort.”

“With a little forbearance, a good many of those beautiful sylphs could dance in this room.”

“Quite a gallant speech that!” exclaimed the old gentleman: “one can see that you come from the South.”

“There is nothing gives me more pleasure than to see young ladies amuse themselves.”

“Just so, sir,—just so! only I cannot get reconciled to the walse.”

“And I,” observed my friend, “think the waltz the finest dance in the world.”

“Why, it may do tol—er—ably well for some folks; but I have strong doubts of its being an appropriate dance in this country.”

“And why that?”

“I shall tell you that in a moment,” said the old gentleman.

“You see, sir, that our young ladies are very fond of dancing; and that, when once commencing, they are sure to go on the whole evening. Well, sir, they take a partner,—a young fellow who is quite as fond of dancing as they are,—and then they dance, or waltz, as you call it, round and round, until they both get as warm as possible; and then, sir——”

“And then, sir——”

“Why, then they go into a cold room, or into the open air, and catch cold; that’s all. ’Tis but a week ago that my daughter recovered from a severe cough. These, sir, are the fatal consequences of that dance amongst us; and that’s the reason I don’t like it. It is not adapted to our climate. Am I not right, sir?”

“Perfectly,” replied my friend.

“Health before everything; that’s my motto. But there is no use in preaching to those girls; they will have their own way in everything.”

“But you seem to forget that waltzing is becoming more and more the fashion in England.”

“Is that really the case?” demanded the old gentleman; “then it cannot be so bad after all,—the English have pretty good notions on all such subjects,—if our girls would only take care of their health.”

Here the conversation was interrupted by a sudden rush of the company, occasioned by the announcement of supper. At this important summons, ladies and gentlemen, the wife of our entertainer with the pantalooned country representative at their head, were pairing off in great haste, to shape their course down to a large room on the ground-floor, which during the first part of the evening had been kept carefully closed, but was now thrown open for the more substantial amusement of the party. This, however, is too important a subject to be treated as a mere episode: it deserves a separate chapter.