“And then,” added my neighbour on the right, “literary reputations are in this city not acquired, as in other places, through the medium of public opinion; but by the aid of a small coterie, composed of a few ‘leading citizens,’ who have the power of setting a man up, or putting him down, just as they please;[5] the process being this. Mr. A. or Mr. B., wealthy gentlemen in Beacon-street, declare Mr. Smith a fine scholar; and immediately half a dozen of their clique will repeat the same assertion. The individual in question is thus made fashionable, so that any one speaking against him is considered unacquainted with the usages of society. Those, therefore, whose opinion—if they dare to have one—is different from Mr. A.’s and Mr. B.’s, are most likely to keep it to themselves; while every person aspiring to rank and fashion publicly swears to his scholarship: for our people, you must know, are accustomed to do everything from fear; nothing from love. If you want to succeed in anything,—if you want to carry any particular measure,—enlist half a dozen influential citizens in your behalf, and the rest will not dare to back out. That’s the way things are done in this city.
“And the worst of it is,” he continued, “that our coteries are small, and, for the most part, led by one or two prominent members of society, who, on all similar occasions, act as dictators. Add to this, that our fashionable men have not the advantages of education and leisure enjoyed by the higher classes in Europe, and that their manners are generally stiff, uncouth, and overbearing; and you will easily understand why our society, so far from resembling that of Athens, must necessarily counteract the independent developement of mind and character.
“This habit of conforming to each other’s opinion, and the penalty set upon every transgression of that kind, are sufficient to prevent a man from wearing a coat cut in a different fashion, or a shirt-collar no longer à la mode, or, in fact, to do, say, or appear anything which could render him unpopular among a certain set. In no other place, I believe, is there such a stress laid upon ‘saving appearances.’ I once asked a relation of mine for what sum of money he might be prevailed upon to suffer his mustachoes to grow? He demanded twenty-four hours ‘to figure it out,’ and then told me the next day that he could not do it for one cent less than ten thousand dollars. He reasoned thus: ‘I am a man of moderate property, the interest of my patrimony being barely sufficient to pay for my board, I am therefore obliged to work, in part, for my living; but, my wants being few, an additional six hundred dollars would cover all my expenses. These I hope to earn by practising law, to which profession I was bred, and, for which I feel a natural predilection. Now, if I wear mustachoes, I must resign my practice as a lawyer; for with mustachoes I can neither go to court, nor obtain a respectable chamber practice. Six hundred dollars are the interest, at six per cent. per annum, of ten thousand dollars, which, therefore, would be sufficient to make up for my loss; for I can manage to live without society.”
“A few singularities of that sort may be charged to every people,” observed the gentleman of the house; “and, besides, I really do not see what business a young man has to wear mustachoes: I would certainly not employ him in a counting-room. We are a young people; and, as such, must endeavour to get on by hard work, not by dandyism. Some of our instructors have the good sense to inculcate this doctrine even into our children; and I do not see why grown persons should be permitted to set up a different rule for themselves.”
“And pray, sir,” demanded I, “in what manner do your instructors teach children the necessity of working?”
“In the best manner,” replied he, “common sense could dictate. They make them study for money. They distribute annually a certain sum,—say, from eighty to a hundred dollars,—in the shape of prize-money, among those who obtain the highest marks at the different recitations, for which the pupils are numbered as high as plus seven, and as low as minus seven; a certain number of positive marks entitling the child to one cent prize-money. At the end of the school-term accounts are made out, when each child receives a check on a bookseller or stationer for the amount due to him; for which he may now select a book, a pen-knife, or some other trifling article, according to his own pleasure; on which, moreover, the instructor himself enjoys a liberal discount.”
“But does not this practice,” I said, “introduce sordid habits at an age in which the mind is most susceptible of receiving impressions, and in which it is of the greatest importance to instil into children more elevated notions of honour and justice?”
“You are entirely mistaken,” replied he; “and one can at once see from your remarks that you are a little dyed in the speculative philosophy of your country. No stimulus to learning can be half as great as when a boy can figure it out on his slate how many dollars and cents his geography, grammar, spelling, reading, and good conduct come to per annum.”
This common sense of the Bostonians, thought I, as I was walking home, is, after all, very narrowly circumscribed; referring in most cases merely to immediate wants, and the means of satisfying them. But it is in referring actions to ultimate principles that men rise above common-place, in proportion, perhaps, as they render themselves liable to error. Common sense is a sort of instinct sufficient to guide men through the lower spheres of life; but of itself incapable of raising them to a high moral elevation. Common sense, in fact, is the genius of mediocrity. It does not expand or liberalize the mind, or communicate to it any great and generous impulse. It refers to a sort of intérêt bien entendu; and is, on that account, not in very high repute among a large portion of the Southern people. I remember what a Southern Jacksonian once told me with regard to the politics of Massachusetts. “We do not want that State,” he said, “to come over to our side, because it would prejudice the rest of the Union. People would immediately ask what concession has Government made to the particular interests of that State?” This is the idea which the Americans themselves entertain of the common sense of the leading citizens of Boston.—Point d’argent, point de Suisses!
In the evening I saw again my cicerone, who proposed going to the concert, which he promised me would be one of the most fashionable ones of the season. We accordingly shaped our course towards Masonic Hall,—a building in style slightly approaching the Gothic, but in size not much larger than an ordinary dwelling-house,—which, ever since freemasonry became unpopular in Boston, has been changed into a temple of the Muses.