CHAPTER VI.
A German Dissertation on Eating.—Application of Eating to Scientific, Moral, and Political Purposes.—Democrats in America not in the Habit of entertaining People.—Consequences of this Mistake.—The Supper.—Dialogue between a Country Representative and a Fashionable Lady.—Mode of winning Country Members.—Hatred of the Higher Classes of everything belonging to Democracy.—Attachment of the Old Families to England.—Hatred of the “Vulgar English.”—The French, and even the English, not sufficiently aristocratic for the Americans.—Generosity of the Americans towards England.—A Fashionable Young Lady.—An American Exquisite.—Middle-aged Gentlemen and Ladies.—Americans not understanding how to amuse themselves, because they do not know how to laugh.—Negroes the happiest People in the United States.—Breaking-up of the Party.—Gallantry of the Gentlemen.
Silence.—“Ah, sirrah! quoth-a, we shall
Do nothing but eat and make good cheer,
And praise Heaven for the merry year.”
Second Part of King Henry IV. Act V. Scene 3.
Germans are by English writers accused of heaviness of style and laborious dulness; produced partly by their predilection for metaphysics, and partly by their inclination towards mysticism. Martinus Scriblerus was born at Munster; and, although a German[9] has since actually discovered the materia subtilis ridiculed by Pope, the prejudices of the practical philosophers of England, and in later days of America, remain still as strong against them as ever. Every one, I believe, is willing to concede to them the greatest quantity of abstract learning; very few will give them credit for practical knowledge, and a nice appreciation of the good things of this life. I remember being once told by an Englishman that he did not think it possible for a German to tell the difference between mutton and lamb, inasmuch as both were served up in little bits at the best private tables in Germany. Such a remark offered to a Frenchman would have made his blood boil with rage, and probably have ended in a duel; but I resolved upon taking a German vengeance, and proposed writing a small dissertation on the origin, progress, and various applications of eating to scientific, sociable, and political purposes.
Eating, according to the oldest and best records, was invented in Paradise,—where we have strong reasons to suppose it constituted the principal amusement of the first man. From this we may safely infer that it was necessary to primitive happiness; although, from a singular perversity of taste, dinners then consisted merely of desserts,—that is, of a choice variety of raw fruit: the chemical process of cooking, the scientific arrangement by which thinking man assimilates and subjects the universe to his own body, was reserved for subsequent periods. The first sin was an appetite for knowledge,—the latter being communicated by the simple process of eating; which fact is still commemorated, in the shape of regular anniversary dinners, by most of the learned societies in England and on the Continent.
But eating was not long confined to learning; it extended itself gradually to all other human pursuits, and, in course of time, associated itself with politics, morals, and even religion. The Christian Protestant religion is the only one which does not prescribe a particular diet; and I have heard it asserted in Frankfort-on-the-Maine, (a place where Jews are better known than anywhere else,) that an Israelite may be considered as converted from the moment he has tasted roast pork. With regard to morality, every one knows the influence of a man’s diet on his passions, and how often mildness and amiability of disposition are chiefly the result of a particular regimen.
With regard to the fine arts, it has been observed by a celebrated French professor of gastronomy, and with great justice too, that we borrow the whole nomenclature from the taste,—that is, from the palate. What would be tragedy or comedy without the words “bitter,” “sour,” “sweet,” “mild,” &c.?—where would be your “sweet-hearts, your sweet faces, sweet voices, and sweet dispositions?” And again, what would become of your “sour dispositions,” your “bitter disappointments,” and “galling vexations?” The strongest and most lasting impressions are produced by the palate,—that is, by eating; and hence poets and common people refer to them more frequently than to the sensations conveyed by the other senses. “The pleasures of the palate,” says the French philosopher, “are the most lasting, and compensate us in our old age for the loss of nearly every other enjoyment.”
But the most important influence of eating is exhibited in politics. Here we observe, in the first place, the fact that a substantial diet in a people is, with scarcely one exception inseparable from a certain degree of rational freedom. It is for this reason principally that the nations of the North are with great difficulty reduced to slavery; while the South, more abstemious in eating, has always been more easily conquered and subdued. This rule, however, I can assure my readers, does not apply to the Southern States of America, whose gallant inhabitants are as much used to turtle as any alderman of the city of London, and as loyal as any British subject whenever they are called upon to fire a “royal salute,” or, in other words, “empty twenty-seven bumpers of madeira,” in honour of any of their celebrated public characters. As a general rule, however, it may be remarked that beef and mutton countries are the most difficult to be governed, or rather that the people of those countries are more capable of governing themselves than any other; and that a nation becomes fit for a democratic or self-government in exactly the same proportion as its diet consists principally of meat.
With the knowledge of these facts, I would direct the attention of travellers in the United States to the stereotype bills of fare they will find in nearly all the principal public houses; which, in my opinion, will best enable them to form a correct estimate of the republican sentiments of the Americans. As far as my experience goes, they all run thus:—
“Roast beef, roast mutton, roast lamb, roast veal, roast pork, roast pig, roast turkey, roast goose, roast chickens, roast pigeons, roast ducks,” &c. To which, merely by way of appendix, are added the comparatively insignificant items of “pudding, pastry, and dessert.”
For these, however, nobody cares; but the roasts generally go off well, constituting both the pith and luxury of an American table. A few aristocratic innovations on this rule have, indeed, been attempted by the keepers of some of the crack boarding-houses and hotels; but they were soon obliged to come back to the old standard of beef and mutton. Even at private parties the roasts form the principal ornament of the table; though, of late, some fashionable people, preceded by the *** minister in Washington, have attempted, though in vain, to popularize the taste for “pâtés au foie gras” and “aux truffes.”
The Americans eat cold roast meat four times a day, viz. at breakfast, lunch, tea, and supper; and hot roast beef or mutton twice, at breakfast and dinner:—hence, in spite of all the manœuvres of the Whig and Bank party in the United States to overthrow the democratic principles established by Jefferson, Jackson, and Van Buren, the latter have always prevailed, in the same manner as the quantity of beef consumed exceeded that of all other roast and boiled meats taken together. This correspondence between a man’s food and political principles was beautifully illustrated by the late Dr. Johnson, when, in his reply to the American ditty,—
“Who rules o’er freemen must himself be free,” he sensibly remarked,—
“Who drives fat oxen must himself be fat.” That impromptu alone was worth three hundred a-year.
The use of public dinners in a free country I need not dwell upon; every one knows that they are the most powerful stimulus to patriotism and virtue. It is only after dinner that gentlemen can be supposed to listen patiently to a long political argument, intended to prove their antagonists to be arrant knaves, and their partisans men of sound public principles. Calumny and eulogy are the necessary dessert of a public meal,—a sort of confiture taken after the appetite for solid food has been appeased in a more satisfactory manner.
Dinners and suppers are also made use of for the purposes of diplomacy; or, as is the case in the United States and in England, for making political proselytes. Napoleon, used to conquest, knew yet the value of good dinners. Instead of repeating the rules and maxims laid down by Machiavelli for a young prince,—instead of echoing the vile saying of Richelieu, “Dissimuler, c’est regner,”—he gave to his parting ministers no other injunctions than “Tenez bonne table, et soignez les femmes.”
A whole world lies in this injunction! “Tenez bonne table” precedes the command “Soignez les femmes;” a proof that he considered the latter, if not impossible, at least useless, without the former.
Talleyrand added to his political sagacity the most perfect appreciation of good eating; both qualities being absolutely indispensable to an ambassador. The compliment he paid to the English, “that he never knew what French cooking was until he came to England,” may be considered at once as a proof of his diplomatic wisdom and taste. Count A——y, who keeps the diplomatic crack house in Paris, maintains his influence with all parties by the most tasteful entertainments; and it is generally believed that Count P——o di B——o’s cook has as much contributed to the widespread reputation of his master, as the consummate talents with which the latter has managed the interests of his sovereign. Lord P——, as we are assured by a most able writer in one of the best periodicals of the present day, has a winning way of conciliating Tory ladies with Whig dinners: and if Lord M——ne is less successful in this most important art of a minister, it is, I am quite sure, because he prefers dining out to entertaining his friends at home; a practice for which no public man was ever pardoned in any country.
In a similar manner is eating made a means of making political converts in the United States; but with the exception of two or three wealthy families in Philadelphia, and half-a-dozen of the same kind in New York and Baltimore, the democrats are not in the habit of entertaining people; (in England, according to the most respectable testimony, the Whig lords entertain more than the Tories;) and it is on this account, principally, that their case seems to be hopeless—in good society. In the Western States there is a great deal of “treating” among the “republicans;” but the honour of giving regular dinner-parties and hot suppers belongs almost exclusively to “the aristocracy.”
These dinners and suppers are given to public men as a sort of “douceur” for their honourable conduct; but, once accused of democracy, its “no song, no supper.” The higher classes of Americans apply the same method by which beasts are tamed and tutored, to the representatives of the people; they feed them when they behave well, and kick at them when they show themselves self-willed and disobedient. In a few instances some of the government officers in Boston and Philadelphia gave parties, at which there was a profusion of iced champaign and chicken-salad; and the thing went off well enough: the Whigs, alias Tories, alias National Republicans, alias Federalists, came, as they always do when they are invited to a supper, drank the wine, emptied the dishes, and went off saying, “It’s no use for these people to imitate us; you cannot make a gentleman out of a democrat.”
If it were not for the excellent dinners given by the President, and the delightful circles at Mr. Secretary W***’s, the democratic senators and members of Congress would never quit their messes, or would be obliged to content themselves with a steak or a chop at one of the two mulatto restaurants in the Capitol. General Jackson, who was great in everything, had also an excellent French cook; his dinners, as Miss Martineau can testify, were in the best style, and his wines of the most superior quality. “Oh, he is a delightful old gentleman!” exclaimed a truly aristocratic lady of Baltimore,—“how amiable in his private intercourse!—no one can be with him without loving him! I wish he were ambitious, and met with a better fate than Cæsar!”
The worst objection to democracy is, that, except taverns and coffee-houses, both of which are in exceeding bad repute in the United States, its followers have no regular rendezvous, no réunions, no petits comités amongst themselves, where its zealots might mutually inspire one another with patriotic sentiments, after the example of the Whigs, who, from time to time, refresh their dying love of liberty with the best West India madeira, furnished by their own cellars. And yet man is a gregarious animal, and, as we all know, woman still more so; both like company, or, as the Americans express it, “love company,” “admire company,” “dote upon company.” “They cannot always stick at home;” the young ladies want to dance and to get married,—the young gentlemen want to have an opportunity of addressing an heiress, and of appearing to advantage in society. And of what use, after all, are their good manners if they cannot show them? All these things operate against democracy, and tend, in a considerable degree, to swell the ranks of the opposition. The people, assuredly, are in possession of all political power; but a very small number of individuals take it upon themselves to fix the conventional standard.
“With whom are you going to dine to-day?” said a gentleman from Philadelphia to one of his friends in Washington.
“With Mr. W***,” was the answer.
“Whom will you meet there?”
“Only General F——s, Mr. C***, and Mr. B***.”
“None of the corps diplomatique?”
“None that I know of.”
“No senator?”
“Only Mr. B*** and Dr. L***.”
“No Whig senator?”
“I believe not.”
“Why, then, do you go? You will neither dine well, nor will you be amused; and, as for the wine, I never knew a democrat to be a good judge of that article.”
This was the death-blow to the young man’s democracy. He was a Virginian, and, as such, knew that it was impossible to be a gentleman without being a good judge of wine and horse-flesh. He at first blushed, but soon recovered from his embarrassment by sending “a regret” to his democratic acquaintance. The day following he dined en petit comité with Mr. G***, where the ridicule thrown on popular institutions undermined his principles still further; and in the evening the ladies converted him fully to the principles of the opposition.
With the knowledge of all these facts, I could not but tremble for the fate of my pantalooned country representative, who, standing by the side of one of the most enchanting Whig ladies of New York, was now tucking up his cuffs in order to prepare himself for a valiant attack on a goose. This substantial bird, so unjustly ridiculed by the most odious comparisons with the more aristocratic but infinitely less useful swan, is in America—where swans are fabulous animals—the king of bipeds; capons being, either from natural charity to animals, or from want of the higher refinements, seldom to be met with at an American table. Admiral C——n, it is true, came to the United States to teach the Americans the science of preparing fowl in that manner; but, as he was himself but indifferently skilled in it, (his victims usually crowed the third day after the operation,) the thing was given up, as a practice too cruel to be indulged in “by an enlightened, intellectual, and moral community,” and the admiral obliged to return to England without the slightest hope of securing to himself that enduring fame which future generations award to the lights and benefactors of their race.
The attack now began simultaneously on all sides, the square-built tribune still keeping his position near the lady of the house, and looking upon her more and more tenderly as he was cutting away at the goose. There was a mixture of gratitude and benevolence in his smile which seemed to tell her that she had not been mistaken; that there was still some hope of winning him,—some slight chance of teaching him refinement and good taste. Accordingly, when he had done eating,—that is, when he could eat no more,—and had rinsed his mouth, in the only way he ever went through that process, by swallowing, in rapid succession, something like half-a-dozen glasses of madeira,—the lady took his arm, whispering, in one of her softest accents, that she disliked a crowd, and that they had better have some chat in the parlour.”
“With all my heart,” said the tribune, wiping his mouth with a checkered pocket-handkerchief; “I really do not see what business people have here after they have supped.”
“At my house, sir,” replied the lady, every one is at liberty to do as he pleases.”
“Quite a clever party, ma’am,” rejoined he, turning down the cuffs of his coat.
“I am glad you amuse yourself.”
“Oh that I do! I always amuse myself at a party.”
Here the lady made a confused sign of acknowledgment.
“But when we give a party in our place,” continued the unabashed man of the people, “we don’t give such suppers: I have heard the gentleman next to me say that the table, just as it was, must have cost three hundred dollars.”
“Why,” stammered the lady, “it’s impossible for me to say.”
“I dare say it cost a great deal more,” continued the tribune; “I should not like to father the bill.”
“How old is your eldest daughter, sir?” demanded the lady, by way of changing the conversation.
“Pretty nearly sixteen; she is quite a woman, ma’am.”
“Why don’t you bring her to town? I should be happy to make her acquaintance.”
“Very much obliged to you for your kindness, ma’am; but it won’t do. New York is too expensive a place; I should not be able to keep my daughter in the fashions, and, without that, she would not find much pleasure in a stay in this city.”
“Come, come, that’s an old-fashioned notion of yours; you would not bring up your daughter as a country girl, would you?”
“Not exactly that; but still I like her to know something about housekeeping. Your fine city ladies do not seem to trouble themselves much about that.”
“Why, they have other things to do,” said the lady, almost impatiently.
“I know that,” said the imperturbable representative; “and those things are precisely the ones I do not like my girl to learn.”
“But how are you off for society in your village, or rather town?—isn’t it a town?”
“Yes, ma’am, it is a town, and quite a flourishing one too. We have this year built a new school-house and a tavern.”
“Very fine buildings, I dare say.”
“Oh no, ma’am! only of wood. We can only afford to build our school-houses of wood; there is no stone building in our place, except the bank. We are not as rich as the people of New York, and have not as much credit either; but, if things go on well, we shall build another school-house in the course of a year or two, and add a new wing or story to the tavern. We have raised the schoolmaster’s wages already a dollar a month; and, if the place goes on increasing, we shall have to look out for an usher.”
“I am glad you are doing so well.”
“Thank you, ma’am. We have had more than a hundred new people settling among us during the last two years; some of them quite respectable. Mr. Smith, an Englishman, is a very good blacksmith, and understands breaking colts; a young man of the name of Biddle—no relation to the great Nic’las Biddle though—is a good tanner; then we had a new accession of carpenters and day-labourers from Ireland, ‘as many as you can shake a stick at.’”
“But, in a growing place, it must be difficult to find agreeable people to visit.”
“We don’t think of visiting; we have other things to do.”
This was the cue for the lady.
“Oh! you are probably taken up with politics,” said the lady; “a’n’t you?”
“Why, we are a pretty patriotic set, ma’am; all republicans to the back-bone.”
“I am glad to hear that,” replied the lady; “I am myself a republican.”
“That’s right, ma’am; it’s of no use to be anything else in this country. I can’t, for my life, see how people can be anything else.”
“Nor I either,” replied the lady. “I am sure I am as proud of my country as any one else.”
“And good reasons you have to be so,” added the tribune; “it’s the first country in the world for an industrious man, such as I know your husband to be.”
“I don’t mean in that way,” observed the lady, somewhat embarrassed; “I am proud of its republican institutions.”
“It’s the only free country in the world, you may depend upon it.”
“Besides England. I think our people go too far in their liberty.”
“I don’t think people can go too far in that; the freer the better, is my motto.”
“That’s a very dangerous principle, sir; it leads necessarily to anarchy.”
“I have often heard it said, but I never believed it. In our town, for instance, we are all democrats, and yet I never knew a row there ever since I was born; while your nice people of New York run riot on the most trifling occasion.”
“That’s owing to the great number of foreigners we have among us; people who have been slaves at home, and on that account have the most extravagant notion of liberty.”[10]
“Why, ma’am, our town consists almost wholly of foreigners, and is as quiet as possible. I think that people who have been oppressed before, may be as much attached to liberty as those who, from its daily enjoyment, have grown indifferent towards it.”
“Why, what singular notions you have, Mr. ***!” exclaimed the lady; “I hope you are not an advocate of the rabble?”
“Certainly not; I represent the people of my township.”
“You do not understand me. When I speak of ‘the rabble,’ I mean those who have no interest whatever in maintaining our institutions,—foreign paupers and adventurers, and particularly the Irish. I have no objection to liberty in the abstract. I think all men, with the exception of our negroes, ought to be free; but I cannot bear the ridiculous notion of equality which seems to have taken hold of our people, and which, if it be not counteracted by persons who have the power to do so,” (here she bestowed a significant look upon the tribune), “must eventually prove the ruin of our country.”
“I have heard this before,” replied he, “and I saw it in print too; but I never believed a word of it. It’s all got up for party purposes; you may depend upon it, ma’am.”
“Ah, sir! but I see the truth of it every day of my life.”
“In what manner, pray?”
“Good gracious! do you ask me that question? Is it not a matter of fact? Can there be the least doubt about a thing which is known to all? Why, it seems you live somewhat out of the world. Do you ever read the newspapers?”
“Indeed I do. There are two of them published in our town,—an administration and an opposition paper.”
“Which of the two do you subscribe to?”
“To the administration paper of course. I have always been a democrat.”
“Oh! you are a dem-o-crat, are you?”
“My friends call me one at least.”
“Ah, then you are a democrat for a particular purpose. That I can understand. A man may have a particular object in calling himself a democrat, especially in this country; but no well-informed gentleman, I am sure, would be so mad as to seriously advocate a doctrine which administers to the passions of the mob, at the expense of the rights and privileges of the better classes. You would not intrust the government to paupers, would you?”
“I believe we have very few paupers in this country, except those who are unwilling to work,” replied the representative.
“But if you saw the number of Irish and Germans that are landing here every day—”
“The country is large enough to furnish work for all.”
“But they come sometimes five thousand in a week.”
“The more the better.”
“But would you make citizens of them? Would you allow them to vote?”
“Why not, if they have become naturalized according to law?”
“Do you think those wretches can ever feel what we do,—whose fathers fought and bled for liberty?”
“But, by granting the privilege of voting only to those that are born in the country, you necessarily make citizenship an hereditary distinction, contrary to the spirit of the American constitution.”
“But are not hereditary distinctions necessary to a certain degree of greatness? Look at the English, at their literature, their refinement, their manners; and compare them with ours!”
“I know very little about the English, and care less,” replied the tribune. “I do not think that the institutions of Europe would answer for this country. We are a young people. Our wants are few, and easily satisfied; and, as we had in the outset no other interests to protect but those of the masses, I do not see of what use hereditary privileges could be to us, except to make the proud prouder, and the rich more influential, than they already are, much to the dissatisfaction of our party; and, as for manners and refinement, I think we are doing very well, considering that our fashionable people have to import them from Europe. We are essentially an industrious people,” added he; “and nothing promotes industry so much as to let all men start fair and even, the foreigner himself not excepted. When there will be no more land to be disposed of to new settlers, then there will come the time for making laws for the preservation of property; at present our chief duty is to facilitate its acquisition.”
“And would you make no allowances for superior education and learning?’”
“To be sure I would; for such learning as may be applied to some useful purpose,—‘not for the fiddle-stick accomplishments of your capering young boys.’”
“But don’t you think democracy has a natural tendency towards vulgarity and bad manners?”
“Certainly not, ma’am! certainly not! I am a great advocate of politeness,—good manners, I say,—give me good manners by all means!”
“But how do you reconcile good manners with the everlasting hurrahing for General Jackson and Martin Van Buren?”
“That has nothing to do with good manners; that’s what we call enthusiasm.”
“We, sir, call it madness—downright madness! Jackson has ruined the country.”
“I see some folks are doing pretty well, for all that.”
“The country went on prosperously until Jackson took it into his head to quarrel with the Bank. He has set the poor against the rich.”
“Why, ma’am, when I went last up the river to Albany, and then down again to Philadelphia, I found there was quite as much travelling going on this season as in former years,—just as much wine drunk, just as much eaten; and, compared to last year, rather a little more brandy used than might be thought consistent with the reports of our temperance societies. And, as for setting the poor against the rich, that is a mere matter of opinion. The question of the Bank is a party question. We have attacked it on constitutional grounds, and the opposition have defended it from mercantile policy. We think the constitution of greater importance than anything which is done under it.”
“I see, sir, you are wholly taken up with those doctrines which will eventually prove the destruction of the country. For my own part, I want no better proof of the justice or injustice of either principle than the comparative respectability of the men who advocate it.”
Here the lady drew herself back, and cast a side glance at the tribune, who, keeping his eyes fixed upon the points of his boots, appeared for the first time disconcerted by the argument of his fair antagonist. He attempted a reply, stammered a few words which were inaudible, and then looked again at his boots. The lady, perceiving his embarrassment, and the effect of applying the argument ad hominem, came to his aid by assuring him that she had, in her time, known a great many “smart democrats” who had all gradually become “respectable Whigs.” “Democracy,” said she, “is a very good beginning,—a sort of political breakfast, prepared in haste, which sits very well on an empty stomach; but it is not the thing a man can dine on, it is altogether too common for that.
“In a little time,” added she, “you will be convinced of your error, as many an honest man has been before you. Colonel W***, for instance, has become quite respectable since he gave up General Jackson. Mr. O*** H*** came round in due time; and the list of converts is expected to swell from day to day, in proportion as the people become more and more civilized. It is only in that way that politicians can expect to have a standing in society; which democrats seldom have, owing to the peculiarity of their doctrines.”
These words, pronounced with a strong emphasis, and with all the aristocratic dignity she could summon to her aid, were not entirely lost upon the tribune, who now looked the lady full in the face, without proffering a single syllable. He probably reflected on his children, on the impossibility of ever introducing them into society as long as he professed to be an advocate of the people: his experience as a public man had probably shown him that he could leave to his children no worse inheritance than the remembrance of his being “a regular democrat;” that his sons would be avoided, and his daughters remain unnoticed, if he did not change his political doctrines. He knew, or might have known, that the inquisition in Spain never exercised so direct and deadening an influence on the minds of the Spaniards, as the intolerance of the higher classes in the United States on the minds of aspiring politicians; and that, in general, the despots of Europe are more willing to make allowances for youth, inexperience, enthusiasm, and political conviction, than the wealthy aristocrats of the American republic. Yet his honesty and fortitude triumphed; he remained imperturbable. But he felt the sting of her satire; and perceiving that he had mistaken his place, and that it was best for him to associate with his equals, he “sneaked off,” if possible, with a stronger hatred and contempt for the haughty aristocracy of New York than he had entertained before he had tasted of its hospitality.
“Shall I not see you to-morrow at my counting-room?” whispered the master of the house into his ears when he saw him ready to leave the room.
“I don’t know whether I shall have time,” replied the country representative sulkily.
“Why, what’s the matter, sir? I shall not let you go until you have tasted my old sherry; come, Mr. ***, let us have a glass of wine together.”
“Thank you, sir! I a’n’t dry. I have had quite as much as I could wish for. Good night!”
The gentleman looked for an explanation of this extraordinary conduct to his wife, and in an instant all was clear.
“How can you trouble yourself with such a bore?” whispered he; “that’s not the way to win him. If you cannot effect your purpose by flattery,—censure, I am sure, will not do it. These proud, stupid, stubborn country fellows require more management than you are aware of. You must puff them up; impress them with the notion of their own importance; show them how their talents might be employed in a nobler cause, &c. If that won’t answer, you must endeavour to alienate their wives and children by instilling into them a taste for fashionable society, and, if possible, run them in debt. When their habits have become extravagant, when they are once in debt, then we talk to them differently,—one accommodation requires another.”
“That man,” observed my friend, “understands his business well; but his wife is a mere tyro in the art of converting people to her own persuasion. That representative may yet be won. I have seen better men corrupted, and with less means than will be employed against him; but, should he hold out, nothing will equal the abuse which will be heaped upon him.
“It is indeed strange,” continued he, “to see how these two parties hate one another; how there is not the least communion or good fellowship amongst them; how they avoid each other on all occasions; and what a complete system of proscription is practised by the higher classes with regard to the unfortunate democrats! Prince Metternich cannot hold the Radicals in greater abhorrence than they are held by the wealthy merchants, lawyers, and bankers in the United States. And, as regards our Whig politicians, they might go to Europe to learn moderation and tolerance at the courts of absolute sovereigns.
“And is it not strange, that, in a country in which the passion of love is probably less felt than anywhere else, hatred should form so great an ingredient in the national composition? And what hatred too! the most constant,—the most steady,—the most unceasing that has ever been known to separate individuals or nations!
“‘Hatred,’ says Goethe, ‘like love, dies when it ceases to increase;’ but he had no idea of the cool, calm, collected, slow hatred of certain classes of Americans. They are not like the French, who, when offended, cannot rest until they are revenged; not like the Germans, who are not easily offended; but being ‘wrought, perplexed in the extreme,’ they can wait for years until a convenient opportunity offers itself for paying off an insult or destroying an enemy.
“I remember, a short time ago, when a public man in Philadelphia had acted a double part towards me, to have called upon an acquaintance and expressed my indignation at what I thought ungentlemanly and villanous conduct. ‘What is the use of your saying so now?’ said he with great calmness; ‘why don’t you keep cool, and wait for an opportunity of paying him off in his own coin with interest?’
“Nor is it always possible to tell when they are offended. They have too much self-respect to show that they are wrought, but calmly wait for the proper time of seizing upon their victim. The hatred of most men dies when the object of their dislike is removed,—when they are revenged,—when their victim is passed to another world. Not so with the educated Americans. They hate even the memory of those that have thwarted their designs. Robespierre is not more detested in France, than Jefferson and Jackson are among the higher classes of Americans. I have seen fashionable women in Boston and Philadelphia almost thrown into convulsions at the very mention of their names. And what appears most strange is, that this hatred is hereditary; for it is a fact, no less interesting than instructive, that the higher classes in the United States have no political conviction at all. Their professions that way are the result of mere bias, produced by the opinions and sentiments of their early friends and associates. Democracy is in bad odour among the fashionable circles, which is quite sufficient for every coxcomb to despise it, and to affect an abhorrence of its ‘vulgar and profligate’ champions. There exists, in America, the same feeling with regard to republicanism which characterized the French shortly after the publication of the works of Voltaire and Rousseau with regard to religion: every one wants to escape from the lash of satire, and therefore shows in words and actions that he is one of those to whom it does not apply.
“It is quite common for educated and travelled Americans to apologize to Englishmen for the extraordinary degree of freedom enjoyed by the lower orders. Their usual excuse is, ‘that the constitution of the United States was the work of momentary enthusiasm, which, when the people shall have cooled down, must necessarily undergo such wholesome alterations and modifications as reason and experience shall dictate.’ In the mean while they must go on as well as they can, until the influence of wealth and the gradual return to the sound doctrines of English statesmanship, or, perhaps, also ‘the evils incidental to a popular government,’ shall have prepared the people for a different administration of their affairs, more suitable to the tranquil enjoyment of life. If it were not for the hue and cry raised by Jefferson and Jackson, the thing might have been done long ago; but, unfortunately for the peace and prosperity of the country, there will always be vagabonds enough—people who have everything to gain, and nothing to lose,—ready to follow such leaders!”
“As a proof of the attachment of certain old families to England,” said I to my friend, “and the ludicrous notions of their own importance, I must repeat to you the speech of a gentleman from the Eastern States, with whom I had the honour of dining three or four years ago. Dinner went off prosperously; and, the company being small, the bottle came round faster than some of us could wish, until, as a finish, one of the gentlemen present proposed that each of us should give a toast. When it came to my turn, I, as a loyal German, could not but propose the health of the Archduke Charles of Austria. ‘Bravo!’ shouted the master of the house, ‘a good old toast that! drunk many a time at my father’s house with three times three and all the honours! I shall not do worse by the duke than my parent.’ And hereupon the health of the archduke was drunk in a bumper.
“‘But,’ said I, ‘in 1809, the Archduke of Austria was an ally of England; and at that time matters in America were assuming a serious aspect, the war with Britain being considered as unavoidable.’
“‘I know that,’ rejoined mine host: ‘but what would have become of England if we had forsaken her at that time?’
“What a debt of gratitude does England owe to America! and yet what an ill-natured, peevish, ungenerous return do the English make for so much kindness bestowed upon them by their friends across the Atlantic!”
“But do you not think,” demanded I of my friend, “that this English aristocratic feeling—this going in mourning for monarchy of the old Federalists,—is gradually dying away?”
“To be sure it is,” replied he; “but another, much more arrogant in its nature, is taking the place of it. ‘The old Federalists,’ as you are pleased to call them, who, if not attached to England, at least openly avowed their admiration of the British constitution, were, in spite of their predilection in favour of English manners, infinitely less exclusive and intolerant, and much less addicted to the spirit of castes, than our ‘aristocratic Whigs’ of the present day, who would rather shut themselves up in hermetically sealed houses than share the light of heaven with a mechanic. The former acknowledged at least some power at home or abroad, to which they considered themselves responsible; the latter aim at the absolute government of the country.
“‘England,’ say our first people, ‘is the freest country in the world,’ (which I, for one, am not disposed to deny, inasmuch as a man may speak his opinion there, without setting the whole nation against him, and running the risk of being tarred and feathered,) ‘and yet in England,’ they say, ‘there exists the least equality of conditions. Do we wish to be wiser than the English? Shall we shake hands with every one? associate with every one, and treat every one as our equal, because, forsooth, his vote is as good as ours?’
“Some years ago,” continued my friend, “I remember being told very seriously by a red-nosed friend of mine,—who, by the by, was a great advocate of te-totalism, but had lived rather freely in his youth,—that most Europeans, but especially the vulgar English, have a notion that in America there is no rank or distinction of castes. ‘Here,’ said he, ‘is a letter I just received from an English music-master, to whom I was obliged to send a note in consequence of his want of punctuality in paying his rent. The note, of course, was written in a plain business style, reminding him merely of the fact that the money would fall due on the 15th instant. Now what do you think the fellow did? He wrote me back a note couched in precisely the same terms, and, if possible, more cavalierly than my own; as if the whole were a transaction between two individuals of the same standing.’ Here he read me the note, which, as far as I am able to recollect, ran thus:
“‘Mr. *** has received Mr. ***’s note of this morning, and, in reply to it, assures Mr. *** that his rent will be ready when due, and that it would equally have been so without Mr. *** reminding him of it.’
“‘Such,’ said he, ‘are the notions of the low English that come to this country!”
“‘Did you take any further steps in the matter?” demanded I.
“‘Oh, no, sir; I thought it best to take no notice of him.”
“Now, where was the impudence of the man, who was dunned before he became a debtor? and what English landlord would have been more shocked with the insolence of his tenant, under similar circumstances?
“Another species of tyranny,” continued my friend, “exercised by the higher classes of Americans consists in the proscription of all people belonging, or rather attempting to belong, to different sets. If you belong to the first society, you must not by any chance accept an invitation to the second, or shake hands in a friendly manner with people who are supposed to be of an inferior standing, except it be on election day for a political purpose. If you belong to the second, you may, of course, try with all your might ‘to push for the first;’ but, if you are once seen with the third, you have done even with the second: and so on.
“The French had, even under Charles X, too much democracy in their composition to be taken for safe models by the enlightened Americans; and, now, even the English are becoming too far liberalised to serve as a proper standard for our aristocracy.
“If the manners of the English are, in general, stiff and reserved, those of our fashionable people are rude and repulsive; for we have the peculiar faculty of improving on everything we borrow from Europe, commencing with the cut of our clothes, and ending with our language and manners.
“It is for this reason the dress of our young ladies—and especially the costume de bal—is less becoming than that of the French; their air dégagé is apt to be mistaken for forwardness; and their conversation, where the thing is at all attempted, is fraught with the slang—or, what is worse, the learning—of the boarding-school. Whenever one of our girls ‘gets an European education,’ an attempt is made to make her a walking encyclopædia of arts and sciences; and this, not so much for the sake of developing her mind, as to make her ‘superior to other girls,’ whom she is to outshine in society. I once heard a gentleman recommend an instructor to teach his daughter ‘a little of everything.’ ‘I want her,’ said he, ‘to know a little of Latin and Greek, a little of mathematics, a little of astronomy, and a little of everything else; in short, I never want her to be embarrassed in society, let the conversation turn on what it may.’ There is a young lady of that description here. She has just done spouting Virgil to one man, and Euclid to another, and now she is playing a waltz on the piano. She has a whole circle of admirers, fresh from the counting-room, around her, who, I dare be sworn, look upon her as the eighth wonder of the world; only an Englishman was impudent enough to observe that her acquirements tasted, one and all, of ‘Murray’s Elements.’
“As a pendant to the fashionable lady, you may notice, opposite the looking-glass, one of our American exquisites. His dress was made in London, but his manners are those of the most accomplished French coxcomb. His air, gait, and voice are affected, the latter being almost screwed to a childish treble; his conversation is copiously sprinkled with foreign idioms, and he has the vanity of inviting the young ladies of his acquaintance to smell his hair, which he assures them is scented with real Persian perfume! Could you expect such a man to be in favour of a less rigid distinction of castes? Could you imagine him to associate with people whose hair is only greased with pomatum, or, as is but too frequently the case in this country, with nothing but natural grease?
“And now look, for one moment, on our middle-aged gentlemen and ladies. Among the first we reckon those who are settled down in some respectable business; the latter term comprises all the married women in the country. At a party you can always distinguish them, even if they should happen to be young, by their greater sobriety; the men being satisfied with talking about business, and the women, if they do not belong to the very tip-top of fashion, being quietly seated near the wall, or in some corner of the room, talking, at times, very loud amongst themselves, but modestly answering the embarrassing variety of questions addressed to them by the gentlemen, of which unfortunately I was never able to remember more than two, viz. ‘How do you do, ma’am?’ and then, in the course of a quarter of an hour, with a pathetic emphasis and a sigh, ‘How do you do again?’
“It has been asserted that, notwithstanding our many social deficiencies, there is yet a vast deal of intelligence in many of our small evening circles. This, in general, may be true; but I do not think our people understand the art of amusing themselves. We have little of the laisser aller of the French, and still less of la bagatelle. Moreover, we do not trust one another sufficiently, even at our parties. We always are, or imagine ourselves to be, in public, where we may meet with the eye of a reporter, and, perchance, see ourselves in print. Some of our first people went to Europe for the express purpose of learning how to live; but, on their return, never did more than go through the regular exercises of entertaining people,—a thing which proved to be as great a source of annoyance to themselves, as it was one of cheerless dissipation to their friends.
“Our people, in fact, will continue to remain tyros in the art of living, until they will have learned how to laugh. The occasional shaking of the diaphragm—absolutely necessary to the health of people not in a habit of taking active exercise—is a practice only popular among the negroes in the Southern States, who, to judge from appearances, are the happiest people in the Union. In New England I have only, now and then, remarked a spasmodic contraction of the muscles of the face approaching a smile or a grin; and in Boston, a city of more than eighty thousand inhabitants, there were but two gentlemen—one of English and the other of German extraction—who were known to have ever burst out in a horse-laugh. The much-praised intelligence of the higher classes of that ‘learned’ city resembles truly a December sun;—it gives you enough light to see by, but you require a fire to be comfortable.”
Hardly had he spoken these words before a new general move betokened the breaking-up of the party. The married ladies and gentlemen had, in fact, been ready to go home ever since supper was over; but remained, either to oblige their children, or out of politeness to their entertainers, who were particularly anxious of the honour of keeping late hours. Sundry gapes and heavy eyelids had, indeed, long ago indicated their disposition to go to rest; but they were not taken notice of by the dancers, who appeared to be as fresh as ever, and prepared for the by no means unusual thing of a second supper. The good sense of the elderly portion, however, prevailed; and in a few moments every young gallant was on his knees—to assist his fair partner to put on her India rubber overshoes, (for in the United States no servant is permitted to touch the foot of a lady,) and the company separated, after saluting the lady of the house, and shaking the hand of the gentleman.