OF TOURISTS IN FOREIGN COUNTRIES.
The very kind of laughter, already described in the foregoing chapter, induced many tourists to laugh at every little imperfection they meet in foreign countries. The laughter of a man of letters should be inoffensive: it should be rather the laughter enhancing the merit of the person he laughs at, than a depreciating, or self-conceited laughter.
Once, in giving letters of introduction to a gentleman, who was going to visit Italy, I could not prevent myself from smiling, on hearing him say: “The Italians are an intelligent people.”—“How do you know it?” said I to him. “Because” he answered, “I think so.” Now a days, every thing goes so fast, that even gentlemen judge of nations before they have seen them! And celebrated writers sell their books, describing nations which they never saw. To those who praised my poor, dear country, rather too much, originated perhaps, from their blind love towards my imperfect, lovely country, I will still be thankful to them, though their praises might spoil Italy. However, the Vicar of Wakefield, also, praised his wife upon her epitaph, which he placed on the chimney piece, in order to keep the good woman to her family duties, during her life time!
No nation has yet reached the civilization for which God created us. As the lover of a little discrimination sees better the faults of the lady whom he loves, than the faults of the ladies whom he does not love, a man of letters, who has at heart the improvements of society, sees the faults of all the countries, with which he feels an interest. Of the blind lovers of my country, I will say here nothing more, than I would of those, who had no kind feeling for Italy. Besides, there are so many, who wrote on Italy, that, were I undertaking to comment on them, it would be a work too long for me, and unfit here. However, as such kind of writers form one of the most extensive branches of our present literature, I will take up “Italy and the Italians,” by J. T. Headley, for two good reasons. The first, because I find in it, the least to say against, and the second, because it is the most recent I know of on the subject.
How could Mr. Headley entitle his short reflections of six months, which he spent in that country, “Italy and the Italians,” I cannot understand. It seems to me, such a title is rather a too pompous one, when we reflect, at the same time, that Mr. Headley, by his very confession, we learn, that he did not know, at that time, the italian language.
It was no more than one or two days Mr. Headley had stepped on a shore of Italy, Genoa, when he found himself offended by two individuals. The first, was a mustached officer, who eyed him askance as he passed; and the second, a black-robed priest, not deigning him even a look, as he went. Here, I find the very logic of the wolf, disposed to eat the lamb, at a water spring.—The officer offended the writer, because he looked at him; and the priest, because he did not deign to look at him! Next, comes an elegantly dressed woman, who, I suppose, having seen Mr. Headley offended, because the priest did not look at him, she lifted her quizzing glass, coolly scanning him from head to foot, and with a smile of self-satisfaction on her face, walked on.—For me, I always like to see a lady looking at me: it is a sign of kind feeling, and innocence: and children, not spoiled by too fond parents, look at strangers with like pleasing curiosity.
The gentleman went to see an Asylum, where he found an italian woman, who had lost her mind, because her father forced her to marry a gentlemen, whom she did not love. This only instance is enough for the writer in question to say: “When we remember in what manner marriages are contracted in this country, looseness of morals in italian woman should cease to surprise us.... Her lover was a young, and melancholy creature.... The morning after she was led to the alter, she sat by her window with pale countenance, and swollen eyes, watching his coming. But, he came no more.... The night that made her a wife, made him a corpse. He had driven a stiletto through his heart.... The young bride went into a paroxysm of grief; and went raving mad.... And now for sixteen years had she lived with a dead heart in her bosom.”
Many of the suicides in America are slandered by fanatics of the temperance society, as being caused by intemperance. Mr. Headley, here, satisfies himself, by venting against the unfortunate young man, these words: “to render his death still more heart-breaking, he had not left her a single line.” Such a gratuitous imputation is, indeed unkind against a man, now in his grave! Had, the writer of “Italy, and the Italians,” sounded a little more the italian heart, he might have found, that the woman, who turned insane, and the man who killed himself for love, cannot have looseness of morals. He, and she who feel love, have a heavenly mind, free from every immoral propensity; and the innocent girl in the private company of her lover, is more morally guarded, than by the most careful parent. I speak here of a lover, and not of those wretches, who dishonor love, and whose base passion renders them incapable of killing themselves for a woman. And here I may use the language of an american lady from her Alida. “I cannot despair of any one who can love—not with the temporary interest that changes its object, as whim, or accident directs; but, who, in spite of disappointment, coldness, rejection, absence, despair, still clings to her who first taught his heart to feel it.”
Mr. Headley is rather one of the most mild in his language, among the many writers who, in copying each other, bring such an unjust blame on all the italian ladies. There may be nations, where ladies might know better how to conceal their affections; but, as the race of Adam and Eve are all beings of flesh, blood, and bones, instances of depravity are found in every part of the world; and like sins, stand in the records of America as well as of Italy: and as there are gentlemen who have their mother and sisters in Italy, whom they esteem and honor, I would advise such writers to use a better language, when they write of other nations. To speak disrespectfully of the ladies of a whole nation, it is not a demonstration; and it is only the devil on two sticks, who could be able to say so. A gentleman from the top of a tower, cannot see what passes in the households of a strange country.
The writer of “Italy and the Italians;” after having passed three weeks in the only city of Genoa, he reproaches himself by having mistook an italian lady for a common woman, because she was badly dressed. And because her good nature prevented her from resenting his innocent mistake, by this only fact, he thinks that the ladies of Italy have not the dignity of the american or english ladies. “Dignity and woman’s rights,” says he, “are nothing to an italian lady, while victory is every thing.” It seems to me that, had the italian lady pouted, because of his mistake, such a bad humor would have robbed her of all woman’s dignity, and woman’s right. Nothing is more attractive in a woman than her innocent forgiveness. And the woman, who shows any fear of losing her dignity or woman’s rights before a gentleman, she does but tell him he is not a gentleman. However, had, here, the gentleman been acquainted with her language, he might have discovered the lady under servant’s garments; and her new dress, nothing but a reproach on herself by having forgotten, at that moment, that she ought to have been better dressed before them. There are faults in innocent woman, which render her still more lovely. It is like that child who stumbles, for too much eagerness in running to embrace its mother. I suppose she was one of those good italian ladies, who forget themselves to please their neighbors; and while her innocent blunders force you to love the childish woman, who always places you at home, you find yourself happy in playing the child with her. That which one calls woman’s dignity, for another, is nothing but a chilling pride.
I must here now copy the following lines from Mr. Headley: “I have seen, and heard much of an italian love of music, but nothing illustrating it so forcibly as an incident that occured last evening at the opera. In the midst of one of the scenes, a man in the pit near the orchestra, was suddenly seized with convulsions. His limbs stiffened; his eyes became set in his head, and stood wide open, staring at the ceiling like the eyes of a corpse; while low, and agonizing groans broke from his struggling bosom. The prima donna came forward at that moment, but seeing his livid, death-stamped face before her, suddenly stopped with a tragic look and start, that for once was perfectly natural. She turned to the bass-singer, and pointed out the frightful spectacle. He also started back in horror, and the prospect was, that the opera would terminate on the spot; but, the scene that was just opening, was the one in which the prima donna was to make her great effort, and around which the whole interest of the play was gathered, and the spectators were determined not to be disappointed, because one man was dying, and so shouted ‘go on! go on!’ Clara Novello gave another look towards the groaning man, whose whole aspect was enough to freeze the blood, and then started off in her part. But, the dying man grew worse and worse, and finally sprung bolt upright in his seat. A person sitting behind him, all-absorbed in the music, immediately placed his hands on his shoulders, pressed him down again, and held him firmly in his place. There he sat, pinioned fast with his pale, corpse-like face upturned, in the midst of that gay assemblage, and the foam rolling over his lips, while the braying of trumpets, and the voice of the singer, drowned the groans that were rending his bosom. At length the foam became streaked with blood, as it oozed through his teeth, and the convulsive starts grew quicker and fiercer. But, the man behind, held him fast, while he gazed in perfect rapture on the singer, who now, like the ascending lark, was trying her loftiest strain. As it ended, the house rang with applause, and the man, who had held down the poor dying creature could contain his ecstacy no longer, and lifting his hands from his shoulders, clapped them rapidly together three or four times, crying out over the ears of the dying man, ‘Brava, brava!’ and then hurriedly placing them back again to prevent his springing up in his convulsive throes. It was a perfectly maddening spectacle, and the music jarred on the chords of my heart, like the blows of a hammer. But, the song was ended, the effect secured, and so the spectators could attend to the sufferer in their midst. The gens d’armes entered, and carried him speechless, and lifeless out of the theatre. If this be the refined nature, and sensitive soul, love of music creates, heaven, keep me from it, and my countrymen. Give me a heart with chords that vibrate to human suffering, sooner than to the most ravishing melody, aye, that can hear nothing, and feel nothing else, when moving pity speaks. But, so the world goes—men will weep over a dying ass, then pitch a brother into the ditch. A play, oh, how they can appreciate, and feel it, they are so sensitive; but a stern stirring fact, they can look as coldly on, as a statue!”
It is now nearly fourteen years, since I arrived in the United States of North America; and were I, here, relating the wrongs, and injustice I received from the hands of several americans—Mr. Headly, though I have not the honor of his acquaintance, as I think him a gentleman, and a man of feeling, in spite of his “Italy and the Italians,” were he using the same style in blaming his countrymen as he blames mine, Mr. Headley, I say, would execrate all the americans! But, stop, my dear sir, I would say to him; you ought not to execrate them all, because I had the misfortune of having fallen among a few american rogues. If I met individuals, whom Petrarca would call gente cui si fa notte innanzi sera, I have nevertheless a high respect still, for the whole nation: and although in this christian old, and new world it is difficult, very difficult to find a friend, not only I have a friend in America; but, I know many whom, though not my friends, I respect and esteem; and could I know the many virtuous, who generally, and unfortunately, are always the most retired, I am sure to find such a number in America—sufficient to shame those, who spoke badly of the whole nation, from which they cannot deny a Franklin received his birth. Still, Mr. Headley, who cannot ignore the many virtuous italians, who accelerated the civilization of the two hemispheres; and the last, though useless efforts made by italians for the rights of a suffering plurality; Mr. Headly, I say, proceeds his foregoing lines with the following: “How such things weaken one’s faith in man, and make him scorn his own nature, that is capable of such stone-like indifference to human suffering! These italians, as a mass, I do not like. They are exceedingly civil, but heartless—frank in manners, but capable of great duplicity in action—fiery-hearted, but not steadily brave, and selfish to any amount of meanness. In a word, you cannot trust them.” But, let us come to the point.
Genoa is a haven where the fourth of the population are strangers; and those who go to the italian opera, are strangers. Without mistake we can calculate that, in that theatre, more than the half of spectators must have been strangers. Mr. Headly says in his pamphlet, that Clara Novello was an english woman; and he does not know if the man who placed his hands on the patient, was an italian or not. But, were such a man an italian, he can no more disgrace the whole italian nation, than a Mr. Ballard can disgrace the whole Union, with his cowardly crime, against the noble minded Miss Amelia Norman. That the spectators in that italian theatre, must have thought the case of the so called dying man, not in such an urgent situation as Mr. Headley did, the very coolness with which the other man held the patient, proves it. But, if Mr. Headley did really think the man was dying; why did not his good american heart, force him to run to his succor? Or, at least, if he was morally suffering, and gazing passively at the dying man as well as the rest of those italians; why he does not suppose all those italians, though idle as he, not to have suffered his very undecided, and painful situation?
I was in Virginia; strangers were suspected as being abolitionists: some strangers had been mobbed, and hung on mere suspicion. In passing by a crowd of people assembled for an election, and seeing many persons around two men, one white and the other black, the former holding the second, bound with a rope like Jesus Christ, when he was dragged to Golgotha, and the white, thinking his old prisoner an escaped slave, with the smile of an expected gain, for which he appeared to me like another Judas, I approached the crowd; and seeing that the poor old black man was suffering, the rope being too tight, I remarked with pity to those, who were laughing at his sufferings, that the rope was torturing the poor human being! Suddenly the whole crowd felt the same charity, and pity I felt; and many went immediately to the magistrate, telling him they doubted the man being a slave, and soon they found he was a free black. I was in that place as a foreigner fallen from the clouds; no body was there to protect me, had a malicious man, for the sake of mischief, whispered, that I was an abolitionist. Mr. Headley could not have such an apprehension in Italy, had he acted with the impulse of his good heart.
Incapacity, timidity, and indecision, which cramp the finest feelings of the human heart, disappear in an instant from a crowded assembly, as soon as one, among them, springs forward the first, to do a good action. The bravest soldiers left the field of a nearly gained battle, because their general had, at that moment, the apprehension of death; and coward soldiers gained battles, because their general was brave, daring the whole time they were fighting. A motley crowd of people are less than soldiers; and an unexpected event in a place of pleasure, will paralyze their very faculties. Had I remained passive as Mr. Headley, I would not have felt the pleasure in seeing that, that crowd of americans had a heart as well as I; and that, if they did not feel sooner the pity which I felt, it was because they were habituated to see slaves in like situation, and not by want of a good heart. Were it necessary, I would bring many like instances which happened to me in America. But, my object, here, is neither a wish to write of my good actions, nor that of judging the whole mass of americans by such little things, or little casualties.
However, as the english Clara Novello went on with her sweet strain, the man near, held the patient down, and the people seemed to overlook the painful sight, I am rather inclined to think, that the patient must have been an epileptic, perhaps known as such by every one in that italian theatre, or, at least, believed by them an epileptic, a malady for which no remedy has yet been found, and the best thing is, to leave him alone, until the spasm will pass over.
Were I controverting all the little incidents upon which, as it seems, Mr. Headley places too much consideration; this work, which I intend to have printed in the form of a small pamphlet, would grow to a big volume. I will only say here, that a writer who intends to give an idea of Italy, and of the Italians, should have taken a quite different ground, though he says: “I have gone over these little things, because they are the best illustration of italian character.” So, a people who has its enemies in the house, a people from whom to expect freedom is to expect the impossible, impossible, I say, because France with her pretended freedom, England with her selfishness, Russia with her despotism, and all the european despotical alliance, diabolically blessed, and sanctioned by what they call christian religion, did, and always would unite with Austria, to crush Italy—her people is judged by little things, which travelers, meet on their way. Every time the italians attempted to shake off the yoke of foreign tyrants, the tyrants oppressing the very italian princes, who rule italian blood, the pope, and his accomplices rendered grace to God, when they heard that their jealous enemies, I mean the protesants, gave to italian princes, ropes to hang the italian Catos, who attempted to place on the italian soil, italian princes, free of foreign servitude. But, this yet uncivilized world, in which the friends of humanity are misrepresented, is still doomed to look without feeling at victims, who honor our degraded race!—May the true God, who is in heaven, listen to my prayer! A short prayer, but a true one!—Foreigners who call us effeminate, must be effeminate themselves, unless they are so ignorant as to call Brutus an effeminate, because they find him in chains with a slave, and forced to work with the last of men! Travelers, and Mr. Headley blame italians, because they find under that sky, worthy of a better fortune, beggars, and wretches “selling their rich ornaments that were the objects of their ancestors’ affection, and veneration, like the trinkets of a toy shop.” But, you, spoiled children of more happy governments, you should not, at least, laugh at our nakedness!—And the pretty piedemontese who gave you a fall, Mr. Headley, because her necessity forced her to stand before you with a little pewter dish in her hand, most humbly asking for a few sous, rather as charity, than as a recompense of her mountain songs; instead of throwing her the coppers, and thinking her inspiration nothing but a love of money, your good, american heart should have prompted a feeling, if not mixed with tears, at least, with a smile of sympathy, which would have been, by far, more pleasing to an italian heart, than your few coppers. That poor delicate female was singing not for the love of money, a love which wrongs rather too much this country of America. She charmed you for the urgent necessity of hunger! And who knows that the loaf of bread she bought with your few coppers, had not been mixed with her innocent and bitter tears? And that hunger is originated from the continual plunders which the despotical foreign powers in Italy, and surrounding Italy, are unlawfully forcing on us to maintain an exorbitant army, with which to distress us. Who knows, that the father of the poor piedmontese had not been hanged for having claimed the rights of man, the very rights to which God did create us?
The other ragged woman to whom your american navy taught how to say: ‘God damn’ without knowing the meaning of it, would prove, that if such americans are found in Italy, passing their christian time with such women, your americans must have looseness of morals as much as my italians. But, as I think the cursing women in Broadway cannot take off the merit of the american ladies, you have no right to think that my mother, and sisters are not ladies! Sins are committed in every part of this world; but, as we know there are virtuous people, we should exclude the greater number, or, at least, think ourselves no better. We are all fine nations, indeed, in this pretended christian world! But, since we cannot fling the first stone, we have no right to laugh at the faults of our neighbor, nor to tell, that our neighbor has not our virtues, or morals.
Mr. Headley has now already passed the half of his time he spent in Italy, which is to say, three months: and though during these three months, he never went out of Genoa, he says that nothing is more stupid than an italian soiree. Had he said a genoese soiree, Mr. Headley would have only offended the citizens of Genoa, who gave him hospitality: but, to offend the whole of Italy, who had never had the pleasure of seeing him, nor he the displeasure of seeing their stupidity, it is what we call a gratuitous offense.—Not pleased therefore, in finding them excessively stupid, he believes that ten dollars would pay, each evening, all the expenses the governor is at, in the entertainment!—Were I saying the same against the kind americans who honored me, every one would be right in thinking, that I must have accepted their invitations, rather for their refreshments than for the pleasure of their conversation. And here, I must copy Mr. Headley’s outline of the italian soirees:—“Splendid rooms, brilliantly illuminated, any quantity of nobility—dancing, waltzing, promenading, ice creams, hot punch,” no hot corn, Mr. Headley? “and late hours make up the description. It is gay, and brilliant, but without force or wit.” And here, benevolent reader, a stranger, who does not know the italian language, dares to say of having found no wit! And, because the kind italians had no other way to please the happy gentleman of this New World, seeing he could not understand their language, they gave him dancing, waltzing, promenading, ice cream and hot punch: and because these things could not amount to ten dollars, he blames, them because the scanty refreshments had not been supplied by wit, with which nature did not favor those poor italian brains! The american lady, I have already quoted, says in her Alida: “Superfluous refinements in eating, and drinking are among the enjoyments least important to a rational being. Do not let us poison a feast to a neighbor, by the mortifying reflection that he can make no similar return. An evil spirit of competition is thus awakened, and all true hospitality destroyed.”
While Mr. Headley claims as an american, a beautiful english lady, whose charms had been transmitted from her american mother, he sadly writes of not having found in Italy not a really pretty woman; and the only one he met, who was called the belle of the city, it was, what he would term, of the doll kind. And mind here, benevolent reader, that the Italy of Mr. Headley, is nothing else but the city of Genoa! He has not yet gone out of it.
To define beauty, I have nothing else to say, that a beauty is the beauty of different men, who have different sight, and different feeling. The artist will always draw it as he feels it himself. But, he who pretends to settle rules on beauty, must needs not know what beauty is. The beauty of one’s eyes cannot be the beauty of another, though rules we find settled by different nations. The Venus of De Medici is a greek beauty, whom a greek would love in preference to any italian, english, french, chinese, or indian beauty. But the chinese will always prefer the chinese, as well as the indian the wild one. He who compares the music of Hyden or Mozart, with the music of Rossini or Bellini, shows too plainly, he does not understand the art. He who wishes to see pretty women, has only to step into the car, and in a few hours he will see in Baltimore a great many. But, if he delays five or six years longer, he might meet there the ugliest in the world, so the glory of the world is transient. Once, in passing through a small city of France, all the women I saw in that place were so pretty, that I thought to have fallen into the garden of Armida. Still, though we know that every dog has its happy days, there are travelers who did not pass but six months in Italy, running through ten cities of that populous country, who, like Mr. Headley, asserted not to have seen one single pretty italian lady. I did pass myself more than six months in one single city of America, without having met one pretty lady, when to my astonishment, I met in that very city, on a public walk, beauties as cheerful as the sun. To bless this being of war, called man, nature did scatter beauties in every part of this singular planet.
However, though Mr. Headley would never consent with the plurality of travelers, who praised the black-eyed beauties of Italy, after having resided in the city of Genoa nearly five months, passed one day in Civita Vecchia, only calculating how long it would take him to get out of it, seen from a steamboat “villainous towns” on the shores from Genoa to Naples, the last month which he spent in this last city, where his turn through Italy closes, caused him to change a little the language he used before: “It is not the partiality one naturally feels for his country women, that governs me,” says Mr. Headley in his twenty first letter; “when I say, that the beautiful women with us stand to them in the proportion of five to one.” And at the close of his pamphlet he added: “A beautiful eye, and eyebrow are more frequently met here than at home. The brow is peculiarly beautiful—not merely from its regularity, but singular flexibility. It will laugh of itself, and the slight arch always heralds, and utters beforehand the piquant thing the tongue is about to utter; and then she laughs so sweetly!”
That Mr. Headly did tread on the toe of the italian as well as of the american ladies, without intending to hurt them, or thinking that his heavy boots had prevented them from dancing; with the following lines, taken from his twenty-second, and last letter, I want to prove that, if he did hurt them, he had not done it maliciously. Yes; in spite of his great faults, which I found in his letters on Italy, and the italians, I am inclined to think him a kind, sincere, and ingenuous gentleman. “I said in my last letter,” says Mr. Headly, “I would speak of the manners of the italian women, which was the cause of their being so universally admired by foreigners. This alone makes an immense difference between an italian, and an american city. Broadway, with all its array of beauty, never inclines one to be lively and merry. The ladies (the men are worse of course) seem to have come out for any other purpose, than to enjoy themselves. Their whole demeanor is like one sitting for his portrait. Every thing is just as it should be, to be looked at. Every lady wears a serious face, and the whole throng, is like a stiff country party. The ladies here, on the contrary, go out to be merry, and it is one perpetual chatter, and laugh on the public promenade. The movements are all different, and the very air seems gay. I never went down Broadway, at the promenade hour alone with the blues, without coming back, feeling bluer; while I never returned from a public promenade in Italy, without rubbing my hands, saying to myself, ‘Well, this must be a very comfortable world, after all, for people do enjoy themselves in it amazingly.’ This difference is still more perceptible on personal acquaintance. An italian lady never sits, and utters common-places with freezing formality. She is more flexible, and indeed, if the truth be said, better natured, and happier than too many of my countrywomen. She is not the keen look-out, lest she should fail to frown every time propriety demands.
“There is no country in the world where woman is so worshipped, and allowed to have her own way as in America, and yet there is no country, where she is so ungrateful for the place, and power she occupies. Have you never in Broadway, when the omnibus was full, stepped out into the rain to let a lady take your place, which she most unhesitatingly did, and with an indifference in her manner as if she considered it the merest trifle in the world you had done? How cold, and heartless her ‘thank ye,’ if she gave one! Dickens makes the same remark with regard to stage coaches—so does Hamilton. Now, do such a favor for an italian lady, and you would be rewarded with one of the sweetest smiles, that ever brightened on a human countenance. I do not go on the principle that a man must always expect a reward for his good deeds; yet, when I have had my kindest offices, as a stranger, received as if I were almost suspected of making improper advances, I have felt there was little pleasure in being civil. The ‘grazie, Signore,’ and smile with which an italian rewards the commonest civility, would make the plainest woman appear handsome in the eyes of a foreigner.”
The above lines of Mr. Headley, though rather too severe ones, will, with time, benefit the american ladies more, than any thing said by foreigners: not because Mr. Headley was the first to observe it; Mr. Headley, being an american, cannot be thought of having any bad feeling towards his country-women. However, though I am a stranger in America, I will give more justice to the american ladies, and heal their toe, since I see them created to cheer us with their charming Polka: waiting, in the mean time, until steam, and tourists will have rendered them better, and better.
My purpose here is to demonstrate that the ladies’ faults in America, are the faults of those who keep suspenders to their pantaloons. The american ladies are disposed to gentility as well as any lady in the world; and were, here, italian ladies, who had changed their italian custom, I could not, nor I should wonder for it. I will say here, en passant: the contrast between the american ladies, and american gentlemen is so great, for which I had often thought the two sexes in America, must be of different nations.
How can we blame the american ladies for being so reserved, when the american gentlemen check them at the moment of their most kind, and woman like impulse, and feelings? I have known american gentlemen, who would not marry the woman they love, were she not unkind with every other gentlemen around her: and many did judge woman’s love towards them, as far as she was unmerciful towards other gentlemen. And erroneously thinking that love is blind, they would not believe that a woman would love them, because she finds faults with them. A gentleman was to be married to a belle in the south of this Union. Another gentleman seeing the portrait of the future present wife, was asked by a friend, there present, if he knew the original, to which he answered, that such a star could not be mistaken. The promised, and happy young lady, passing her little index through the breast of her portrait, said: ‘and this is the milky-way.’ Such witty, and innocent remark was thought indelicate by her lover, and it had nearly broken the match!
I have seen more jealousy in the cold looks of american gentlemen, than in the showing, and often exaggerated feeling of italian gentlemen. American ladies, often shrink with fright, lest they be thought unfaithful to him, whom they love; and in proportion of the population, I think there are more fights, and murders, originated from jealousy in America, than in Italy. The death of Mr. Andrienne, by the hand of an american husband, is one of the most cold murders which had ever disgraced our race.
Is a foreigner engaged to be married with an american lady? Nothing is forgotten to force the lady to break the match. And here I will say nothing of the false articles, which I read myself in the newspapers, against foreign gentlemen, respectable, and respected by every one who had the honor of being acquainted with the slandered foreigners. I have seen american ladies, in receiving any kindness from gentlemen, looking first at their husbands, before rendering thanks to the gentleman, who was polite to her. Yes: the coldness of the american lady is not natural to her; and were she acting otherwise, she would be blamed; and Mr. Headley himself would think her as a lady without dignity. Still, the ladies of New York are pearls when compared with the ladies in the interior of this Union, where foreigners are very rarely seen.
Step into a car, into a steamboat; and the very gentleman who complains of the indifference, and coldness with which american ladies receive the kindness of gentlemen, is the first to spoil them. Once, being in a car, and not thinking that the back department of it, and always more comfortable, was exclusively for the ladies, seeing almost all the places vacant, I went there, and seated myself; when the agent of that train, with a loud voice, and manners to make the ladies understand he had no difficulty of being rude with his own sex to please the ladies, said to me with a voice of command, that the place was only for the ladies. ‘It is not my intention,’ I answered him, ‘to intrude myself among your ladies: but, you should be more polite to an inoffensive stranger, when you find him innocently breaking your rules, by telling him in a whisper, that he is mistaken.’
I wonder to find the american ladies good as they are with like gentlemen, spoiling them continually. The american lady must have an uncommon mind, not to think herself a being far superior to all gentlemen in bones, flesh, and blood. And how can she think otherwise, while the ladies have a reciprocal regard between themselves, the gentleman thinks it derogatory to himself to be polite with another gentleman? However, as my wish is to be just with the american gentlemen also, and the acquaintances who honor me in America, I must say that: although there are some of my sex, who think that a gentleman is not obliged to be polite to the politeness of those whom he thinks his inferiors, the generality of american gentlemen are now as civil as any civilized nation in the world; and during the time excepted, when they are before ladies, in which time they think it unmanly to have any regard between themselves, the aristocrat of money, who does not answer politeness for politeness, may be suffered by them; but he is not imitated by republicans: and the republicans in America form the greater number.
I saw gentlemen with ladies touching the shoulder of other gentlemen, telling the latter to give up their seats for the ladies, and them, without acknowledging the least thank. In a public place every gentleman would always be pleased to give up his seat to a lady; but, to command him to do so, he who gives up, falls from his dignity; and he who takes it, shows a want of feeling. If the giver feels naturally more moral pleasure in ceding it, is it not better to wait the moment in which the gentleman, seeing the lady standing by him, will immediately offer her his seat? Not long ago, a lady stepping with her daughter into a car, touched on the shoulder a gentleman before me, telling him to leave the two places he occupied, and give them up for herself, and her daughter: and with the imperial countenance of Elizabeth, queen of England, showed to him another place before him, where another gentleman occupied two other places. The gentleman did all she wanted, without saying one word, with such a patience, though dejected generosity, which caused me to grieve for my own sex. Few days after, two ladies stepping in the same car, where I occupied two places, fearing of being commanded like the gentleman for whom I grieved, I offered the vacant place next mine to the nearest lady, standing by me. She answered that she would receive both places in order to sit together with her friend. In asking the lady if she commanded me to do so, or if she would be thankful for giving up my place, and she answering that she would be thankful, I gave it up, and went to seat myself with another gentleman.
That the american ladies would not be inferior in kindness to any italian lady, I have no doubt, could they believe that we, of the fighting tribe, are not dogs respecting them. Nevertheless, I have a high respect towards the american ladies, as far as a good heart is concerned, though a bad custom injures too much their sensible left side: and as it is the best side of woman, I would not like to see the american ladies so badly treated by their very bad teachers, who, like heedless fathers, complain of their children, who would be good, had they not spoiled them. Yes: the american ladies are naturally good children. And, were only one single lady, who would thank me by having said such a truth in their defence, I would call myself fully rewarded for my trouble in defending them. But, were they all bad, and at the same time, were they all thanking me for having said a falsehood, I would be very sorry for it. The american lady to whom I gave up my place with the dignity of a man, and not with the dejection of a commanded dog, showed me one of her most thankful, and charming smiles, not for the place I ceded to her; but, for having given her a good lesson. And the woman who acknowledges her fault with such a smile, were she properly and tenderly managed, she would be an angel. If my kindest offices to ladies did hurt my feeling, when I was not acquainted with the american custom, I felt ashamed when I offered them to gentlemen, who received it as if they thought me their inferior: and then, I repented of having been polite to them. Still, we must mind the ne quid nimis in politeness also: and, indeed, there are some who are so excessively polite among other nations, with whom politeness becomes excessively uncomfortable.
However, I always see something good, among the faults of man. Indeed, I feel more pleased in seeing rather an excess of politeness towards ladies, even to those who do not deserve it, than not enough of it to them. And to the lady, whose education taught her how to place a distinction between selfesteem, and selfishness, kindness to her creates kindness. Besides, the politeness which american gentlemen have for women, it is of that kind, which must please the ladies. It is a generous service as a gentleman, before careless parents, would give to their naughty, spoiled child. The most uncouth man fails not in tact of gentility, when he gives any service to ladies. It is a national, generous, and natural politeness, for which females must always feel themselves at home. Blackguards here, would not stare in the face of a lady, passing by; and I am so much pleased of it that, were I seeing in the streets such a blackguard, I would join with all my heart the american gentlemen to reprove the scamp.
Every human being who is not deprived of its senses is created for good purposes: and the difference of characters among different nations is what it forms the beauty of this earth. Human faults are not originated from nature; they are but the evil of false education. I do not think that one nation is naturally better than another: on the contrary; that which seems a fault to us, it might be a virtue, were it placed in its proper light. Though now, we feel ourselves, generally, in a better condition than those passed times of darker ages, perfection seems only granted to our posterity. We are spoiled boys yet, taught by worse teachers, offending, and insulting each other for no other reason, but because we do not understand ourselves. We may boast of never speaking of our personal virtues; but, in speaking badly of other nations, we do not see that we praise ourselves hypocritically.
And here, since american ladies have been introduced, I feel it my duty to defend them from an unjust blame. I have heard american and foreign gentlemen saying, they dislike learned ladies. Such gentlemen, I suppose, must not have sufficient learning themselves, to discriminate between a learned lady, and a lady who pretends to learning. A learned lady is always modest; and adapts herself to the capacity of those with whom she converses, unless her insufficient learning had not told her, that, nothing is more disagreeable in a lady than pretensions; and nothing more becoming than modesty. The learning which does not teach us how to know ourselves, is not learning. That a gentleman does not find himself at home with ladies more instructed than he is, in such a case, it is not the fault of the learned ladies: it is his own, by not having cultivated his mind as well as the ladies did.
Exceptions aside, such is the fact: in America the ladies are generally more cultivated in real instruction, than the gentlemen: and he who did study a little greek, and latin (which is but lost time, unless he be thoroughly acquainted with these two dead languages) thinking himself above the education of ladies, looks to his charming country women with such an air of superiority of mind, as if they were fit only to chat but of balls, ribbons, dresses, and all the nonsense of empty heads, rather too much introduced in conversation by the gentlemen who, when they find it useless to speak of Mr. Henry Clay, or Mr. Polk, they leave poetry, history, painting, music, languages, and philosophy to their fair partners to enjoy it, if they like, in their own private closet.
And here, I hope, no fellow of my sex will marvel, if I do not think philosophy incompetent with the fair sex. There have been hypocrites, who made of philosophy a bugbear. Philosophy is nothing else but good sense, reason, or wisdom. Philosophy, in our age, it is that sense of justice to which all men, and women, who have integrity, when they think, judge, and compare by themselves, they do agree without pretension of being more learned than others. The philosopher speaks for better information, and not for the price of being considered more learned than his neighbor. The philosopher is modest: if he speaks of divinity, he does not say to his contender: You have not yet studied the bible enough: and so of mathematics, geology, or astronomy. The philosopher may point out the deficient knowledge which his contender might have of the science; but, he will never ask the impolite question, if he knows the science on which they are discussing. Philosophy, now a days, is no more under the banner of stoicism, peripateticism, cynism, or platonism, which were, at those times, nothing better, than religious sects. In our days, every one, who is able to demonstrate a truth, is a philosopher. And since the reasoning faculties were given to woman as well as to man, I do not see why man would not permit woman to reason as well as himself?
Once, being invited to an evening party in Virginia, I was so much pleased in the conversation of a young lady, that, had I not seen many gentlemen smiling and looking askance at us, I think the interesting subject we had on hand, would have taken all our evening time, before we could arrive to the conclusion of it: and nothing is more agreeable at an evening party, when we have matter on hand to keep off the chilling silent look. But, as the smiles at us, were too many, we postponed our subject for another time. So, the young lady, turning to the next gentleman, who was very fond of riding, spoke with him of his beautiful horse, and I went into the adjoining room to drink with several gentlemen a glass of madeira. After having drunk to our health, the gentlemen asked me if I had enough of the learned young lady. I had not yet answered the question, when another gentleman said, that he would not give three straws for all the learned ladies of the world. I answered the gentlemen, that I was very much pleased of her conversation; and could I spend every evening with ladies like her, I would give up the practice of pouring out my sight on books, because such conversations would give me more information, than what I could get in my own closet.
It is a fact: while out of ten ladies you find nine, who know two modern languages, besides their english; out of ten gentlemen, you can scarcely find two. It is not because I teach the italian language that I praise the study of languages; I praise my profession, because I think it the most useful, and the most able to develop the faculties of human understanding. I cannot deny that few american ladies, as gentlemen, study also imperfectly the greek, and latin languages, and for which I do not see why their parents do not wish rather, that their young ladies would study the sanscrit, the ancient persic, or the hebrew. But, the plurality of the american ladies, studying modern languages from foreigners, who know well the very languages of their own country, the young ladies, I say, do not lose their time, like the plurality of gentlemen in learning greek, and latin from native americans, who get the professorship in colleges, because they have friends in this country. Hence the study of greek, and latin becomes a necessary thing in the american colleges: nay, it is a faculty, without which, a student cannot receive his diploma. And the foreigners, who would be the most useful as professors of modern languages in colleges, have but a blank name of professors. So, the student, who can get his diploma without any of the modern languages, study only what he is compelled to do; and the foreign professors, having neither fee, nor pupils, stand there to fill up the required number of professors, without which those colleges could not be called universities.
Out of one hundred american ladies, who learned modern languages from me, I cannot reckon five gentlemen. I have no doubt that in America there must be good professors of greek, and latin, as well as among any other nation in the world; but, a dead language will always be a dead language, even from the mouth of the best professor; and a Buscheron, the deceased professor of the latin language in Turin, Italy, was one of those rare birds which does not appear on this earth, but during one thousand years, if it does: and when it does, such a bird, I mean such a professor, might be unable to impart his latin to others. But, no person is perfect here, below the moon, and the want of literature in the american gentlemen is counterbalanced by many virtues, for which I have as much sympathy towards them, as I have towards my countrymen. The mercantile business in which they are thrown, gives them such an extensive knowledge of the world, which does supply, in great measure, their deficiency of languages, or of books. They know what is passing in Europe, Africa, Asia, New Holland, and South America. They are patient, industrious, brave, and active. I have seen american gentlemen going to bed wealthy, and on the next morning, when they found themselves reduced to beggary, sustaining their misfortune with manly fortitude, noble composure, and getting anew into business with such cheerfulness, as if nothing had happened to them. Such an eulogy is the greatest which can be given to any civilized nation. As it is the truth, I feel happy to say so. From a nation who does possess such virtues, we must expect great things: and the republic of America has my best wishes.
Had a foreigner said of America, what Mr. Headley said of Italy, and the Italians, I do not know with what words many americans would have called such a foreigner. And, although that which Mr. Dickens said of America in his Notes, is nothing to compare to what Mr. Headley said of Italy. Mr. Headley himself introducing an english lady in his fifteenth letter, he wrote: “She tells me that Dickens is getting out a work reflecting on us in a manner that will throw his Notes on America, entirely in the shade. She says she supposed our rapturous reception of him, was occasioned by the fear we had of his pen. Shade of Hector defend us! this is too much. However, we deserve it, or rather those of my countrymen deserve it, who out-did Lilliput, in their admiration of the modern Gulliver; for I plead not guilty to the charge of fool in that sublimest of all follies ever perpetrated by an intelligent people. I will cry ‘bravo’ to every pasquinade Dickens lets off on that demented class, which cried out every time they saw that buffalo-skin over-coat appear: ‘The Gods have come down to us.’”
We feel the blows of others, but, we are not conscious of those we give to our christian neighbors. I, on the contrary, wish not to be blinded by my patriotic feeling, as italian, in judging Mr. Headley; as he judged Mr. Dickens with his patriotic feeling. I look to his ‘Italy and the Italians,’ as being a production of a gentleman who wrote for the only impulse of writing, without thinking that, while he wished to exhibit his wit on the shoulders of those who had kind feeling for him, his expressions did unjustly cut quick flesh, as quick as his own; without thinking, I say, that the feeling of the italians is not inferior to the feeling of the americans. Travelers may come here, or go to Italy, and spend their wit as much as they please. Man is man in every part of the world: and to dishonor a nation with the purpose of praising ours, shows either a poor heart—a bad, or hasty judgment. As I think Mr. Headley a gentleman with a good heart, had he not already published his letters by the newspapers, he would have altered the expressions of his pamphlet; I have no doubt of it.
In his twelfth letter, Mr. Headley, writing of Byron, says, that Byron had always on his table the bible, Machiavelli, Shakspeare, and Alfieri. “Byron,” says Mr. Headley, “loved Machiavelli for his contempt of mankind, making them all a flock of sheep to be led, or slaughtered at the will of one haughty man.” Had Mr. Headley read all the works of Machiavelli, the master of statesmen, and so little known, or disregarded by the american senators; he would not have repeated with the english, such an unjust slander against Machiavelli. Il principe is but a long irony. And here, let me be permitted to say, that the word Machiavelism should be taken off from the english, and american dictionaries, unless such a virtuous italian, who took off the mask from the face of tyrants, and showed to nations how ugly they are, be still thought by the english, and american literati, as a writer, who intended to favor arbitrary power. Machiavelli was as noble, and sincere in his sentiments of republicanism as Brutus, or Cato themselves. The english, and american lexicographers had been very much mistaken in saying that the word Machiavelism is synonymous of political cunning, and artifice.
Had I demonstrated in this chapter nothing else but, that writers should not go into other countries with a spirit of wishing to show themselves superior to other nations, it will always do something good to the future American Literature. A man of letters is indebted to all nations for his discrimination, and wisdom; and unless he writes with the feeling of a citizen of the world, his writings will never attain the purpose to profit mankind in general, and himself, without which a National Literature will always be in the clutches of national selfishness. We cannot write of heaven without looking to heaven. We are all children of one single destination: and we cannot expect civilization, until all nations will give to each other the hand of brotherly love. That God intended to improve the race of man with the time to come, the different characters of different nations show God’s infinite wisdom. Consult the best physicians, and they will demonstrate to you, that children from parents of different nations, having the qualities of their father and mother, are cleverer than those children whose parents are both of the same nation. The intermarriages of different nations with so many different propensities, must, of course, bring the race of man to a great improvement, and for which the mind of the posterity must excel ours with the times to come.