The same kind of feelings the Americans carry even across the Atlantic. In Paris, Florence, Rome, and other places on the Continent, (in England they have no particular practice of their own, but merely follow in the wake of the nobility,) they form as many distinct sets and coteries as at home; imitating, by degrees, every ridiculous fashion of France and Italy, and endeavouring by their wealth to pave the road to the highest society, and to keep from it the less fortunate part of their countrymen. Two instances of this kind came to my personal knowledge.
About three years ago, while a friend of mine happened to be in Vienna, he met at Mr. S***’s, the United States’ consul, a party of Americans, composed of a number of gentlemen and ladies from Boston, Baltimore, and South Carolina. The conversation ran on different topics, until one of the company introduced in his remarks the names of some fashionable people of Boston with whom he professed to be acquainted. Upon this, Mr. ***, descended from one of the wealthiest and most vulgar aristocratic families of that place, and who pretended to know “everybody,” whispered something into the consul’s ear, and requested him to step with him into the next room. There, as my friend afterwards learned, he assumed at once the rank and office of grand inquisitor; cross-examining the poor consul as to “where he had picked up that man?” and declaring finally that he must be an impostor, as he did not know him, nor ever heard his name mentioned before, (this is the usual phrase employed by “respectable” Americans when they wish to repudiate a person as not belonging to their set). After he had thus discharged the duties of a high-born citizen, he resumed his seat at a little distance from “the impostor,” and remained silent for the rest of the evening. Poor Mr. ***, who was really a gentleman of slender means, could not but perceive the prejudice which his fellow-townsman had excited in the mind of his hospitable entertainer, and soon afterwards left the company.
Another instance of this kind occurred at Munich between two Americans; one a regular resident of the place for many years, and the other a traveller, who imagined he had held a higher rank in America than his compatriot. The latter, of course, immediately set out to communicate his scruple to the consul, and the attachés of the *** legation; assuring them that the gentleman they had taken into favour was neither a scholar nor a man of high standing, and was consequently not entitled to their attention. All this was done while the other person was absent from town, and for no other purpose than impressing the society of Munich with the fact “that there is a great deal of aristocracy in America, and that he himself was one of its noblest representatives.” The American ministers in London, Paris, Berlin, and St. Petersburgh, and the consuls in the different commercial cities of Europe, are usually made the repositories of all the slander which one set or coterie may have in store against the other; and, as no peculiar discretion is exercised by Americans in the treatment of high public functionaries, the latter themselves do not often escape uninjured, the public press furnishing the meanest scribbler with the means of wreaking his vengeance.
The fact is, the soi-disant higher classes of Americans, in quitting the simple, manly, moral, industrious habits of the great mass of the people,—habits which alone have won them the respect of the world,—have no fixed standard by which to govern their actions, either with regard to themselves or their fellow beings; no manners, customs, modes of thinking, &c. of their own; no community of feelings; nothing which could mark them as a distinct class, except their contempt for the lower classes, and their dislike of their own country. How should such an order of beings agree amongst themselves? How should they be able to make themselves, or those around them, comfortable? There is more courtesy in the apparent rudeness of the Western settler than in the assumed politeness of the city stockholder,—more true hospitality in the log-house of the backwoodsman, than in any of the mansions of the presidents and directors of banks with whom it has been my good fortune to become acquainted.
I remember, some years ago, when travelling with a distant relative on the borders of the Mississippi, to have been approaching the habitation of a farmer, whom, in company with his wife, we found on horseback, ready to set out on a journey to the next market town for the purpose of buying stores for his family. There was no tavern or resting-place within seven miles of us; but, not wishing to intrude upon their domestic arrangements, we passed the house and doubled our speed, in order to be in time for dinner at the next village. The farmer, however, did not suffer us to continue our journey without having refreshed ourselves at his house; and, persuading us to come back, he and his wife dismounted, and assisted in preparing and ordering everything necessary for dinner. We of course protested against their putting themselves to so much trouble for the sake of strangers, who, in an hour or so, might have reached a place where they could have procured a dinner for money. “Oh, I assure you, gentlemen,” replied our entertainer, “I never suffer myself or my wife to be troubled either by strangers or friends; we merely discharge our duty, without either inconvenience to ourselves, or putting others under any sort of obligation. Lucy!” said he to a buxom girl that was playing with one of the prettiest children I ever beheld, “you will see that the gentlemen want nothing. Eliza! we must be off, or we shall not get thither till dark. Good morning, gentlemen!”—“Good-b’ye, gentlemen!” added his wife; both mounting their horses, and leaving us to enjoy ourselves and our dinner as best we might.
What a picture of sincerity, honesty, confidence, frankness, and unostentatious hospitality is this, compared to the formal invitations to dinner, or a party, of one of the nabobs in the Atlantic cities! Take, for instance, the case of a rich man in New York. He prepares a week beforehand, and racks his brains as to what people he shall invite that will do credit to his house, and what persons he may safely exclude without injury to himself, and without offending them past reparation. He has one dinner-party for one set of acquaintance, and another for another. At the one he will act as host, at the other as patron; the expense being in both cases proportionate to the rank of his guests. Who under these circumstances would not rather prefer the hospitality of the honest Kentuckian, whose Western friends averred that he was truly kind, “for, when he had company, he simply went to the side-board, poured out his glass, and then turned his back upon them, not wishing to see how they filled?”
The fashionable people of the Atlantic cities, who give dinner and evening parties either for the purpose of maintaining or acquiring a high rank in society, have themselves little or no disposition for company. With them society does not offer an agreeable and necessary respite from toil; but is merely a means of acquiring influence, &c. For this purpose it is not necessary to treat all persons with equal sincerity and politeness. “La politesse nous tient lieu du cœur,” say the French; but the fashionable people of the United States manage to get on without either. There is nothing in the composition of a fashionable American to compensate for the loss of natural affections,—nothing in his manner to soften the egotism which manifests itself in every motion, every gesture, every word which drops from his lips. And the worst of it is, that he imagines all this to be a successful imitation of English manners! He forgets entirely that, in imitating the manners of the higher classes in England, he is very much in the position of a sailor on horseback; showing by his whole carriage that he is out of his element, and, though straining every nerve to maintain his place, ready to tumble off at the first motion for which he is not previously prepared.
As regards the exclusiveness of the higher classes, and especially of the women, the instance before me was certainly one calculated to excite my indignation, had I not known fashionable young ladies that refused to walk in the streets of Philadelphia until the dinner-hour of “the common people,” when they would be sure of having the side-walk to themselves.
But what is all this, compared to the artificial distinctions introduced into their churches? It has always been the pride of the Catholic church in Europe to offer a place of worship to every man, without distinction of rank, title, or wealth. The utmost a man pays for a chair in any of the churches of France or Italy is one sou; the fashionable American Catholics, however, imitate the practice of those gentlemanly followers of Christ who choose to worship God in good company. Thus the respectable Catholics of New York, “who do not wish to be annoyed by the presence of an Irish mob,” being for the most part composed of their own servants, have built a church for their own specific use,—a snug little concern, just large enough for a genteel audience to hear the Lord en famille.
In order to exclude effectually everything that might be disagreeable, no one is allowed to stand in the aisles; so that those poor devils who cannot afford to pay for a pew must be content to seek the Lord elsewhere among their equals. On the whole, the principles which govern the aristocracy of the Northern States of America are the very counterpart of the sound maxims of Shylock with regard to the vulgar herd of Christians. “I will buy with you, sell with you, talk with you, walk with you,” (here might be added, electioneer with you,) “and so following; but I will not eat with you, drink with you, or pray with you.”