“Ah! a child then?”
“No, sir; I have lost my husband.”
“Your husband! Ah! Left you comfortable?”
The lady, rather offended, retires to the other end of the car, and cuts short the conversation.
“Rather stuck up, this woman,” remarks the good Yankee to his neighbor.
The intention was good, if the way of showing it was not. He had but wanted to show the poor lady the interest he took in her.
After having seen you two or three times, the American will suppress “Mr.” and address you by your name without any handle to it. Do not say that this is ill placed familiarity; it is meant as an act of good-fellowship, and should be received by you as such.
If you are stiff, proud, and stuck-up, for goodness’ sake, never go to America; you will never get on there. On the contrary, take over a stock of simple, affable manners and a good temper, and you will be treated as a friend everywhere, fêted, and well looked after.
In fact, try to deserve a certificate of good-fellowship, such as the Clover Club, of Philadelphia, awards to those who can sit at its hospitable table without taking affront at the little railleries leveled at them by the members of that lively association. With people of refinement who have humor, you can indulge in a joke at their expense. So says La Bruyère. Every visitor to America, who wants to bring back a pleasant recollection of his stay there, should lay this to heart.
Such are the impressions that I formed of the American during my first trip to his country, and the more I think over the matter, the more sure I am that they were correct. Curiosity is his chief little failing, and good-fellowship his most prominent quality. This is the theme I will develop and send to the Editor of the North American Review. I will profit by having a couple of days to spend in New York to install myself in a cosy corner of that cosiest of clubs, the “Players,” and there write it.