On the other hand, if invited to a fashionable house, and to meet fashionable company, it is not the time or place for you to set forth the comparative obscurity of your own origin, by way of showing that you are not proud. If you are not proud, it is most likely that your entertainers may be, and they will not be pleased at your ultra-magnanimity in thus lowering yourself before their aristocratic guests. These communications should be reserved for tête-à-têtes with old or familiar friends, who have no more pride than yourself.
When listening to a circumstance that is stated to have actually occurred to the relater, even if it strikes you as being very extraordinary, and not in conformity to your own experience, it is rude to reply, “Such a thing never happened to me.” It is rude because it seems to imply a doubt of the narrator’s veracity; and it is foolish, because its not having happened to you is no proof that it could not have happened to any body else. Slowness in belief is sometimes an evidence of ignorance, rather than of knowledge. People who have read but little, travelled but little, and seen but little of the world out of their own immediate circle, and whose intellect is too obtuse to desire any new accession to their own small stock of ideas, are apt to think that nothing can be true unless it has fallen under their own limited experience. Also, they may be so circumstanced that nothing in the least out of the common way is likely to disturb the still water of their pond-like existence.
A certain English nobleman always listens incredulously when he hears any person descanting on the inconveniences of travelling on the continent, and relating instances of bad accommodations and bad fare; uncomfortable vehicles, and uncomfortable inns; the short beds and narrow sheets of Germany; the slow and lumbering diligence-riding of France; the garlicky stews of Spain with a feline foundation; the little vine-twig fires in the chilly winters of Northern Italy; and various other ills which the flesh of travellers is heir to;—the duke always saying, “Now really I never experienced any of these discomforts, much as I have traversed the continent. None of these inconveniences ever come in my way.” And how should they, when, being a man of enormous wealth, he always travels with a cavalcade of carriages; a retinue of servants; a wagon-load of bedding and other furniture; a cook, with cooking-utensils, and lots of luxurious eatables to be cooked at stopping-places—his body-coach (as it is called) being a horse-drawn palace. What inconveniences can possibly happen to him?
When you hear a gentleman speak in praise of a lady whom you do not think deserving of his commendations, you will gain nothing by attempting to undeceive him; particularly if she is handsome. Your dissenting from his opinion he will, in all probability, impute to envy, or ill-nature; and therefore the only impression you can make will be against yourself.
Even if you have reason to dislike the lady, recollect that few are without some good points both of person and character. And it will be much better for you to pass over her faults in silence, and agree with him in commending what is really commendable about her. What he would, perhaps, believe implicitly if told to him by a man, he would attribute entirely to jealousy, or to a love of detraction if related by a woman. Above all, if a gentleman descants on the beauty of a lady, and in your own mind you do not coincide with his opinion, refrain, on your part, from criticizing invidiously her face and figure, and do not say that “though her complexion may be fine, her features are not regular;” that “her nose is too small,” or “her eyes too large,” or “her mouth too wide.” Still less disclose to him the secret of her wearing false hair, artificial teeth, or tinging her cheeks with rouge. If she is a bold, forward woman, he will find that out as soon as yourself, and sooner too,—and you may be sure that though he may amuse himself by talking and flirting with her, he in reality regards her as she deserves.
If a foreigner chances, in your presence, to make an unfavourable remark upon some custom or habit peculiar to your country, do not immediately take fire and resent it; for, perhaps, upon reflection, you may find that he is right, or nearly so. All countries have their national character, and no character is perfect, whether that of a nation or an individual. If you know that the stranger has imbibed an erroneous impression, you may calmly, and in a few words, endeavour to convince him of it. But if he shows an unwillingness to be convinced, and tells you that what he has said he heard from good authority; or that, before he came to America, “his mind was made up,” it will be worse than useless for you to continue the argument. Therefore change the subject, or turn and address your conversation to some one else.
Lady Morgan’s Duchess of Belmont very properly checks O’Donnell for his ultra-nationality, and advises him not to be always running a tilt with every Englishman he talks to, continually seeming as if ready with the war-cry of “St. Patrick for Ireland, against St. George for England.”
Dr. Johnson was speaking of Scotland with his usual severity, when a Caledonian who was present, started up, and called out, “Sir, I was born in Scotland.” “Very well, sir,” said the cynic calmly, “I do not see why so small a circumstance should make any change in the national character.”
English strangers complain (and with reason) of the American practice of imposing on their credulity, by giving them false and exaggerated accounts of certain things peculiar to this country, and telling them, as truths, stories that are absolute impossibilities; the amusement being to see how the John Bulls swallow these absurdities. Even General Washington diverted himself by mystifying Weld the English traveller, who complained to him at Mount Vernon of musquitoes so large and fierce that they bit through his cloth coat. “Those are nothing,” said Washington, “to musquitoes I have met with, that bite through a thick leather boot.” Weld expressed his astonishment, (as well he might;) and, when he “put out a book,” inserted the story of the boot-piercing insects, which he said must be true, as he had it from no less a person than General Washington.
It is a work of supererogation to furnish falsehoods for British travellers. They can manufacture them fast enough. Also, it is ungenerous thus to sport with their ignorance, and betray them into ridiculous caricatures, which they present to the English world in good faith. We hope these tricks are not played upon any of the best class of European travel-writers.