many pleasing crafts and arts unknown to the invaders, which had enabled
them to decorate their capitals with taste in a rude way; nothing really
great like the lofty buildings and elevated railway structures, executed
in American cities, but interesting as showing what an ingenious race,
deprived of the secrets of modern science, could accomplish.
The more aesthetic of the newcomers even affected to admire the
antiquated places of worship and residences they visited abroad, pointing
out to their compatriots that in many cases marble, bronze and other old-
fashioned materials had been so cleverly treated as to look almost like
the superior cast-iron employed at home, and that some of the old
paintings, preserved with veneration in the museums, had nearly the
brilliancy of modern chromos. As their authors had, however, neglected
to use a process lending itself to rapid reproduction, they were of no
practical value. In other ways, the continental races, when discovered,
were sadly behind the times. In business, they ignored the use of
"corners," that backbone of American trade, and their ideas of
advertising were but little in advance of those known among the ancient
Greeks.
The discovery of Europe by the Americans was made about 1850, at which
date the first bands of adventurers crossed the seas in search of
amusement. The reports these pioneers brought back of the _naivete_,
politeness, and gullibility of the natives, and the cheapness of
existence in their cities, caused a general exodus from the western to
the eastern hemisphere. Most of the Americans who had used up their
credit at home and those whose incomes were insufficient for their wants,
immediately migrated to these happy hunting grounds, where life was
inexpensive and credit unlimited.
The first arrivals enjoyed for some twenty years unique opportunities.
They were able to live in splendor for a pittance that would barely have
kept them in necessaries on their own side of the Atlantic, and to pick
up valuable specimens of native handiwork for nominal sums. In those
happy days, to belong to the invading race was a sufficient passport to
the good graces of the Europeans, who asked no other guarantees before
trading with the newcomers, but flocked around them, offering their
services and their primitive manufactures, convinced that Americans were
all wealthy.
Alas! History ever repeats itself. As Mexicans and Peruvians, after
receiving their conquerors with confidence and enthusiasm, came to rue
the day they had opened their arms to strangers, so the European peoples,
before a quarter of a century was over, realized that the hordes from
across the sea who were over-running their lands, raising prices,
crowding the native students out of the schools, and finally attempting
to force an entrance into society, had little to recommend them or
justify their presence except money. Even in this some of the intruders
were unsatisfactory. Those who had been received into the "bosom" of
hotels often forgot to settle before departing. The continental women
who had provided the wives of discoverers with the raiment of the country
(a luxury greatly affected by those ladies) found, to their disgust, that
their new customers were often unable or unwilling to offer any
remuneration.
In consequence of these and many other disillusions, Americans began to
be called the "Destroyers," especially when it became known that nothing
was too heavy or too bulky to be carried away by the invaders, who tore
the insides from the native houses, the paintings from the walls, the
statues from the temples, and transported this booty across the seas,
much in the same way as the Romans had plundered Greece. Elaborate
furniture seemed especially to attract the new arrivals, who acquired
vast quantities of it.
Here, however, the wily natives (who were beginning to appreciate their
own belongings) had revenge. Immense quantities of worthless imitations
were secretly manufactured and sold to the travellers at fabulous prices.
The same artifice was used with paintings, said to be by great masters,
and with imitations of old stuffs and bric-a-brac, which the ignorant and
arrogant invaders pretended to appreciate and collect.
Previous to our arrival there had been an invasion of the Continent by
the English about the year 1812. One of their historians, called
Thackeray, gives an amusing account of this in the opening chapters of
his "Shabby Genteel Story." That event, however, was unimportant in
comparison with the great American movement, although both were
characterized by the same total disregard of the feelings and prejudices
of indigenous populations. The English then walked about the continental
churches during divine service, gazing at the pictures and consulting
their guide-books as unconcernedly as our compatriots do to-day. They
also crowded into theatres and concert halls, and afterwards wrote to the
newspapers complaining of the bad atmosphere of those primitive
establishments and of the long _entr'actes_.
As long as the invaders confined themselves to such trifles, the patient
foreigners submitted to their overbearing and uncouth ways because of the
supposed benefit to trade. The natives even went so far as to build
hotels for the accommodation and delight of the invaders, abandoning
whole quarters to their guests.
There was, however, a point at which complacency stopped. The older
civilizations had formed among themselves restricted and exclusive
societies, to which access was almost impossible to strangers. These
sanctuaries tempted the immigrants, who offered their fairest virgins and
much treasure for the privilege of admission. The indigenous
aristocrats, who were mostly poor, yielded to these offers and a few
Americans succeeded in forcing an entrance. But the old nobility soon
became frightened at the number and vulgarity of the invaders, and
withdrew severely into their shells, refusing to accept any further
bribes either in the form of females or finance.
From this moment dates the humiliation of the discoverers. All their
booty and plunder seemed worthless in comparison with the Elysian
delights they imagined were concealed behind the closed doors of those
holy places, visions of which tortured the women from the western
hemisphere and prevented their taking any pleasure in other victories. To
be received into those inner circles became their chief ambition. With
this end in view they dressed themselves in expensive costumes, took the
trouble to learn the "lingo" spoken in the country, went to the extremity
of copying the ways of the native women by painting their faces, and in
one or two cases imitated the laxity of their morals.
In spite of these concessions, our women were not received with
enthusiasm. On the contrary, the very name of an American became a
byword and an abomination in every continental city. This prejudice
against us abroad is hardly to be wondered at on reflecting what we have
done to acquire it. The agents chosen by our government to treat
diplomatically with the conquered nations, owe their selection to
political motives rather than to their tact or fitness. In the large
majority of cases men are sent over who know little either of the habits
or languages prevailing in Europe.
The worst elements always follow in the wake of discovery. Our
settlements abroad gradually became the abode of the compromised, the
divorced, the socially and financially bankrupt.
Within the last decade we have found a way to revenge the slights put
upon us, especially those offered to Americans in the capital of Gaul.
Having for the moment no playwrights of our own, the men who concoct
dramas, comedies, and burlesques for our stage find, instead of wearying
themselves in trying to produce original matter, that it is much simpler
to adapt from French writers. This has been carried to such a length
that entire French plays are now produced in New York signed by American
names.
The great French playwrights can protect themselves by taking out
American copyright, but if one of them omits this formality, the
"conquerors" immediately seize upon his work and translate it, omitting
intentionally all mention of the real author on their programmes. This
season a play was produced of which the first act was taken from Guy de
Maupassant, the second and third "adapted" from Sardou, with episodes
introduced from other authors to brighten the mixture. The piece thus
patched together is signed by a well-known Anglo-Saxon name, and accepted
by our moral public, although the original of the first act was stopped
by the Parisian police as too immoral for that gay capital.
Of what use would it be to "discover" a new continent unless the
explorers were to reap some such benefits? Let us take every advantage
that our proud position gives us, plundering the foreign authors, making
penal settlements of their capitals, and ignoring their foolish customs
and prejudices when we travel among them! In this way shall we
effectually impress on the inferior races across the Atlantic the
greatness of the American nation.
No. 39--A Race of Slaves
It is all very well for us to have invaded Europe, and awakened that
somnolent continent to the lights and delights of American ways; to have
beautified the cities of the old world with graceful trolleys and
illuminated the catacombs at Rome with electricity. Every true American
must thrill with satisfaction at these achievements, and the knowledge
that he belongs to a dominating race, before which the waning
civilization of Europe must fade away and disappear.
To have discovered Europe and to rule as conquerors abroad is well, but
it is not enough, if we are led in chains at home. It is recorded of a
certain ambitious captain whose "Commentaries" made our school-days a
burden, that "he preferred to be the first in a village rather than
second at Rome." Oddly enough, _we_ are contented to be slaves in our
villages while we are conquerors in Rome. Can it be that the struggles
of our ancestors for freedom were fought in vain? Did they throw off the
yoke of kings, cross the Atlantic, found a new form of government on a
new continent, break with traditions, and sign a declaration of
independence, only that we should succumb, a century later, yielding the
fruits of their hard-fought battles with craven supineness into the hands
of corporations and municipalities; humbly bowing necks that refuse to
bend before anointed sovereigns, to the will of steamboat subordinates,
the insolence of be-diamonded hotel-clerks, and the captious conductor?
Last week my train from Washington arrived in Jersey City on time. We
scurried (like good Americans) to the ferry-boat, hot and tired and
anxious to get to our destination; a hope deferred, however, for our boat
was kept waiting forty long minutes, because, forsooth, another train
from somewhere in the South was behind time. Expostulations were in
vain. Being only the paying public, we had no rights that those
autocrats, the officials, were bound to respect. The argument that if
they knew the southern train to be so much behind, the ferry-boat would
have plenty of time to take us across and return, was of no avail, so,
like a cargo of "moo-cows" (as the children say), we submitted meekly. In
order to make the time pass more pleasantly for the two hundred people
gathered on the boat, a dusky potentate judged the moment appropriate to
scrub the cabin floors. So, aided by a couple of subordinates, he
proceeded to deluge the entire place in floods of water, obliging us to
sit with our feet tucked up under us, splashing the ladies' skirts and
our wraps and belongings.
Such treatment of the public would have raised a riot anywhere but in
this land of freedom. Do you suppose any one murmured? Not at all. The
well-trained public had the air of being in church. My neighbors
appeared astonished at my impatience, and informed me that they were
often detained in that way, as the company was short of boats, but they
hoped to have a new one in a year or two. This detail did not prevent
that corporation advertising our train to arrive in New York at three-
thirteen, instead of which we landed at four o'clock. If a similar
breach of contract had happened in England, a dozen letters would have
appeared in the "Times," and the grievance been well aired.
Another infliction to which all who travel in America are subjected is
the brushing atrocity. Twenty minutes before a train arrives at its
destination, the despot who has taken no notice of any one up to this
moment, except to snub them, becomes suspiciously attentive and insists
on brushing everybody. The dirt one traveller has been accumulating is
sent in clouds into the faces of his neighbors. When he is polished off
and has paid his "quarter" of tribute, the next man gets up, and the dirt
is then brushed back on to number one, with number two's collection
added.
Labiche begins one of his plays with two servants at work in a salon.
"Dusting," says one of them, "is the art of sending the dirt from the
chair on the right over to the sofa on the left." I always think of that
remark when I see the process performed in a parlor car, for when it is
over we are all exactly where we began. If a man should shampoo his
hair, or have his boots cleaned in a salon, he would be ejected as a
boor; yet the idea apparently never enters the heads of those who soil
and choke their fellow-passengers that the brushing might be done in the
vestibule.
On the subject of fresh air and heat we are also in the hands of
officials, dozens of passengers being made to suffer for the caprices of
one of their number, or the taste of some captious invalid. In other
lands the rights of minorities are often ignored. With us it is the
contrary. One sniffling school-girl who prefers a temperature of 80
degrees can force a car full of people to swelter in an atmosphere that
is death to them, because she refuses either to put on her wraps or to
have a window opened.
Street railways are torture-chambers where we slaves are made to suffer
in another way. You must begin to reel and plunge towards the door at
least two blocks before your destination, so as to leap to the ground
when the car slows up; otherwise the conductor will be offended with you,
and carry you several squares too far, or with a jocose "Step lively,"
will grasp your elbow and shoot you out. Any one who should sit quietly
in his place until the vehicle had come to a full stop, would be regarded
by the slave-driver and his cargo as a _poseur_ who was assuming airs.
The idea that cars and boats exist for the convenience of the public was
exploded long ago. We are made, dozens of times a day, to feel that this
is no longer the case. It is, on the contrary, brought vividly home to
us that such conveyances are money making machines in the possession of
powerful corporations (to whom we, in our debasement, have handed over
the freedom of our streets and rivers), and are run in the interest and
at the discretion of their owners.
It is not only before the great and the powerful that we bow in
submission. The shop-girl is another tyrant who has planted her foot
firmly on the neck of the nation. She respects neither sex nor age.
Ensconced behind the bulwark of her counter, she scorns to notice humble
aspirants until they have performed a preliminary penance; a time she
fills up in cheerful conversation addressed to other young tyrants, only
deciding to notice customers when she sees their last grain of patience
is exhausted. She is often of a merry mood, and if anything about your
appearance or manner strikes her critical sense as amusing, will laugh
gayly with her companions at your expense.
A French gentleman who speaks our language correctly but with some
accent, told me that he found it impossible to get served in our stores,
the shop-girls bursting with laughter before he could make his wants
known.
Not long ago I was at the Compagnie Lyonnaise in Paris with a stout
American lady, who insisted on tipping her chair forward on its front
legs as she selected some laces. Suddenly the chair flew from under her,
and she sat violently on the polished floor in an attitude so supremely
comic that the rest of her party were inwardly convulsed. Not a muscle
moved in the faces of the well-trained clerks. The proprietor assisted
her to rise as gravely as if he were bowing us to our carriage.
In restaurants American citizens are treated even worse than in the
shops. You will see cowed customers who are anxious to get away to their
business or pleasure sitting mutely patient, until a waiter happens to
remember their orders. I do not know a single establishment in this city
where the waiters take any notice of their customers' arrival, or where
the proprietor comes, toward the end of the meal, to inquire if the
dishes have been cooked to their taste. The interest so general on the
Continent or in England is replaced here by the same air of being
disturbed from more important occupations, that characterizes the shop-
girl and elevator boy.
Numbers of our people live apparently in awe of their servants and the
opinion of the tradespeople. One middle-aged lady whom I occasionally
take to the theatre, insists when we arrive at her door on my
accompanying her to the elevator, in order that the youth who presides
therein may see that she has an escort, the opinion of this subordinate
apparently being of supreme importance to her. One of our "gilded
youths" recently told me of a thrilling adventure in which he had
figured. At the moment he was passing under an awning on his way to a
reception, a gust of wind sent his hat gambolling down the block. "Think
what a situation," he exclaimed. "There stood a group of my friends'
footmen watching me. But I was equal to the situation and entered the
house as if nothing had happened!" Sir Walter Raleigh sacrificed a cloak
to please a queen. This youth abandoned a new hat, fearing the laughter
of a half-dozen servants.
One of the reasons why we have become so weak in the presence of our paid
masters is that nowhere is the individual allowed to protest. The other
night a friend who was with me at a theatre considered the acting
inferior, and expressed his opinion by hissing. He was promptly ejected
by a policeman. The man next me was, on the contrary, so pleased with
the piece that he encored every song. I had paid to see the piece once,
and rebelled at being obliged to see it twice to suit my neighbor. On
referring the matter to the box-office, the caliph in charge informed me
that the slaves he allowed to enter his establishment (like those who in
other days formed the court of Louis XIV.) were permitted to praise, but
were suppressed if they murmured dissent. In his _Memoires_, Dumas,
_pere_, tells of a "first night" when three thousand people applauded a
play of his and one spectator hissed. "He was the only one I respected,"
said Dumas, "for the piece was bad, and that criticism spurred me on to
improve it."
How can we hope for any improvement in the standard of our
entertainments, the manners of our servants or the ways of corporations
when no one complains? We are too much in a hurry to follow up a
grievance and have it righted. "It doesn't pay," "I haven't got the
time," are phrases with which all such subjects are dismissed. We will
sit in over-heated cars, eat vilely cooked food, put up with insolence
from subordinates, because it is too much trouble to assert our rights.
Is the spirit that prompted the first shots on Lexington Common becoming
extinct? Have the floods of emigration so diluted our Anglo-Saxon blood
that we no longer care to fight for liberty? Will no patriot arise and
lead a revolt against our tyrants?
I am prepared to follow such a leader, and have already marked my prey.
First, I will slay a certain miscreant who sits at the receipt of customs
in the box-office of an up-town theatre. For years I have tried to
propitiate that satrap with modest politeness and feeble little jokes. He
has never been softened by either, but continues to "chuck" the worst
places out to me (no matter how early I arrive, the best have always been
given to the speculators), and to frown down my attempts at
self-assertion.
When I have seen this enemy at my feet, I shall start down town (stopping
on the way to brain the teller at my bank, who is perennially paring his
nails, and refuses to see me until that operation is performed), to the
office of a night-boat line, where the clerk has so often forced me, with
hundreds of other weary victims, to stand in line like convicts, while he
chats with a "lady friend," his back turned to us and his leg comfortably
thrown over the arm of his chair. Then I will take my blood-stained
way--but, no! It is better not to put my victims on their guard, but to
abide my time in silence! Courage, fellow-slaves, our day will come!
Chapter 40--Introspection {276}
The close of a year must bring even to the careless and the least
inclined toward self-inspection, an hour of thoughtfulness, a desire to
glance back across the past, and set one's mental house in order, before
starting out on another stage of the journey for that none too distant
bourne toward which we all are moving.
Our minds are like solitary dwellers in a vast residence, whom habit has
accustomed to live in a few only of the countless chambers around them.
We have collected from other parts of our lives mental furniture and bric-
a-brac that time and association have endeared to us, have installed
these meagre belongings convenient to our hand, and contrived an entrance
giving facile access to our living-rooms, avoiding the effort of a long
detour through the echoing corridors and disused salons behind. No
acquaintances, and but few friends, penetrate into the private chambers
of our thoughts. We set aside a common room for the reception of
visitors, making it as cheerful as circumstances will allow and take care
that the conversation therein rarely turns on any subject more personal
than the view from the windows or the prophecies of the barometer.
In the old-fashioned brick palace at Kensington, a little suite of rooms
is carefully guarded from the public gaze, swept, garnished and tended as
though the occupants of long ago were hourly expected to return. The
early years of England's aged sovereign were passed in these simple
apartments and by her orders they have been kept unchanged, the furniture
and decorations remaining to-day as when she inhabited them. In one
corner, is assembled a group of dolls, dressed in the quaint finery of
1825. A set of miniature cooking utensils stands near by. A child's
scrap-books and color-boxes lie on the tables. In one sunny chamber
stands the little white-draped bed where the heiress to the greatest
crown on earth dreamed her childish dreams, and from which she was
hastily aroused one June morning to be saluted as Queen. So homelike and
livable an air pervades the place, that one almost expects to see the
lonely little girl of seventy years ago playing about the unpretending
chambers.
Affection for the past and a reverence for the memory of the dead have
caused the royal wife and mother to preserve with the same care souvenirs
of her passage in other royal residences. The apartments that sheltered
the first happy months of her wedded life, the rooms where she knew the
joys and anxieties of maternity, have become for her consecrated
sanctuaries, where the widowed, broken old lady comes on certain
anniversaries to evoke the unforgotten past, to meditate and to pray.
Who, as the year is drawing to its close, does not open in memory some
such sacred portal, and sit down in the familiar rooms to live over again
the old hopes and fears, thrilling anew with the joys and temptations of
other days? Yet, each year these pilgrimages into the past must become
more and more lonely journeys; the friends whom we can take by the hand
and lead back to our old homes become fewer with each decade. It would
be a useless sacrilege to force some listless acquaintance to accompany
us. He would not hear the voices that call to us, or see the loved faces
that people the silent passages, and would wonder what attraction we
could find in the stuffy, old-fashioned quarters.