A GREAT ADMIRER--NOTES ON RAILWAY TRAVELING--IS AMERICA A FREE
NATION?--A PLEASANT EVENING IN NEW YORK.
_In the vestibule train from Pittsburg to New York, January 17._
This morning, before leaving the hotel in Pittsburg, I was approached by
a young man who, after giving me his card, thanked me most earnestly for
my lecture of last night. In fact, he nearly embraced me.
"I never enjoyed myself so much in my life," he said.
I grasped his hand.
"I am glad," I replied, "that my humble effort pleased you so much.
Nothing is more gratifying to a lecturer than to know he has afforded
pleasure to his audience."
"Yes," he said, "it gave me immense pleasure. You see, I am engaged to
be married to a girl in town. All her family went to your show, and I
had the girl at home all to myself. Oh! I had such a good time! Thank
you so much! Do lecture here again soon."
And, after wishing me a pleasant journey, he left me. I was glad to
know I left at least one friend and admirer behind me in Pittsburg.
* * * * *
I had a charming audience last night, a large and most appreciative one.
I was introduced by Mr. George H. Welshons, of the Pittsburg _Times_, in
a neat little speech, humorous and very gracefully worded. After the
lecture, I was entertained at supper in the rooms of the Press Club, and
thoroughly enjoyed myself with the members. As I entered the Club, I was
amused to see two journalists, who had heard me at the lecture discourse
on chewing, go to a corner of the room, and there get rid of their
_wads_, before coming to shake hands with me.
* * * * *
If you have not journeyed in a vestibule train of the Pennsylvania
Railroad Company, you do not know what it is to travel in luxurious
comfort. Dining saloon, drawing room, smoking room, reading room with
writing tables, supplied with the papers and a library of books, all
furnished with exquisite taste and luxury. The cookery is good and well
served.
The day has passed without adventures, but in comfort. We left Pittsburg
at seven in the morning. At nine we passed Johnstown. The terrible
calamity that befell that city two years ago was before my mind's eye;
the town suddenly inundated, the people rushing on the bridge, and there
caught and burnt alive. America is the country for great disasters.
Everything here is on a huge scale. Toward noon, the country grew hilly,
and, for an hour before we reached Harrisburg, it gave me great
enjoyment, for in America, where there is so much sameness in the
landscapes, it is a treat to see the mountains of Central Pennsylvania
breaking the monotony of the huge flat stretch of land.
The employees (I must be careful not to say "servants") of the
Pennsylvania Railroad are polite and form an agreeable contrast to those
of the other railway companies. Unhappily, the employees whom you find
on board the Pullman cars are not in the control of the company.
* * * * *
The train will reach Jersey City for New York at seven to-night. I shall
dine at my hotel.
About 5.30 it occurred to me to go to the dining-room car and ask for a
cup of tea. Before entering the car I stopped at the lavatory to wash my
hands. Some one was using the basin. It was the conductor, the autocrat
in charge of the dining car, a fat, sleek, chewing, surly, frowning,
snarling cur.
He turned round.
"What do you want?" said he.
"I should very much like to wash my hands," I timidly ventured.
"You see very well I am using the basin. You go to the next car."
I came to America this time with a large provision of philosophy, and
quite determined to even enjoy such little scenes as this. So I quietly
went to the next lavatory, returned to the dining-car, and sat down at
one of the tables.
"Will you, please, give me a cup of tea?" I said to one of the colored
waiters.
"I can't do dat, sah," said the negro. "You can have dinnah."
"But I don't want _dinnah_," I replied; "I want a cup of tea."
"Den you must ask dat gem'man if you can have it," said he, pointing to
the above mentioned "gentleman."
I went to him.
"Excuse me," said I, "are you the nobleman who runs this show?"
He frowned.
"I don't want to dine; I should like to have a cup of tea."
He frowned a little more, and deigned to hear my request to the end.
"Can I?" I repeated.
He spoke not; he brought his eyebrows still lower down, and solemnly
shook his head.
"Can't I really?" I continued.
At last he spoke.
"You can," quoth he, "for a dollar."
And, taking the bill of fare in his hands, without wasting any more of
his precious utterances, he pointed out to me:
"Each meal one dollar."
The argument was unanswerable.
I went back to my own car, resumed my seat, and betook myself to
reflection.
What I cannot, for the life of me, understand is why, in a train which
has a dining car and a kitchen, a man cannot be served with a cup of
tea, unless he pays the price of a dinner for it, and this
notwithstanding the fact of his having paid five dollars extra to enjoy
the extra luxury of this famous vestibule train.
[Illustration: "WELL, WHAT DO YOU WANT?"]
After all, this is one out of the many illustrations one could give to
show that whatever Jonathan is, he is not the master in his own house.
The Americans are the most docile people in the world. They are the
slaves of their servants, whether these are high officials, or the
"reduced duchesses" of domestic service. They are so submitted to their
lot that they seem to find it quite natural.
The Americans are lions governed by bull-dogs and asses.
They have given themselves a hundred thousand masters, these folks who
laugh at monarchies, for example, and scorn the rule of a king, as if it
were better to be bullied by a crowd than by an individual.
In America, the man who pays does not command the paid. I have already
said it; I will maintain the truth of the statement that, in America,
the paid servant rules. Tyranny from above is bad; tyranny from below is
worse.
Of my many first impressions that have deepened into convictions, this
is one of the firmest.
When you arrive at an English railway station, all the porters seem to
say: "Here is a customer, let us treat him well." And it is who shall
relieve you of your luggage, or answer any questions you may be pleased
to ask. They are glad to see you.
In America, you may have a dozen parcels, not a hand will move to help
you with them. So Jonathan is obliged to forego the luxury of hand
baggage, so convenient for long journeys.
When you arrive at an American station, the officials are all frowning
and seem to say: "Why the deuce don't you go to Chicago by some other
line instead of coming here to bother us?"
[Illustration: ENGLISH RAILWAY STATION.]
This subject reminds me of an interesting fact, told me by Mr. Chauncey
M. Depew on board the _Teutonic_. When tram-cars were first used in the
States, it was a long time before the drivers and conductors would
consent to wear any kind of uniform, so great is the horror of anything
like a badge of paid servitude. Now that they do wear some kind of
uniform, they spend their time in standing sentry at the door of their
dignity, and in thinking that, if they were polite, you would take their
affable manners for servility.
[Illustration: THE RAILWAY PORTER.]
* * * * *
_Everett House, New York. (Midnight.)_
So many charming houses have opened their hospitable doors to me in New
York that, when I am in this city, I have soon forgotten the little
annoyances of a railway journey or the hardships of a lecture tour.
After dining here, I went to spend the evening at the house of Mr.
Richard Watson Gilder, the poet, and editor of the _Century Magazine_,
that most successful of all magazines in the world. A circulation of
nearly 300,000 copies--just think of it! But it need not excite wonder
in any one who knows this beautiful and artistic periodical, to which
all the leading _litterateurs_ of America lend their pens, and the best
artists their pencils.
Mrs. Richard Watson Gilder is one of the best and most genial hostesses
in New York. At her Fridays, one meets the cream of intellectual
society, the best known names of the American aristocracy of talent.
To-night I met Mr. Frank R. Stockton, the novelist, Mr. Charles Webb,
the humorist, Mr. Frank Millet, the painter, and his wife, and a galaxy
of celebrities and beautiful women, all most interesting and delightful
people to meet. Conversation went on briskly all over the rooms till
late.
The more I see of the American women, the more confirmed I become in my
impression that they are typical; more so than the men. They are like no
other women I know. The brilliancy of their conversation, the animation
of their features, the absence of affectation in their manners, make
them unique. There are no women to compare to them in a drawing-room.
There are none with whom I feel so much at ease. Their beauty,
physically speaking, is great; but you are still more struck by their
intellectual beauty, the frankness of their eyes, and the naturalness of
their bearing.
I returned to the Everett House, musing all the way on the difference
between the American women and the women of France and England. The
theme was attractive, and, remembering that to-morrow would be an
off-day for me, I resolved to spend it in going more fully into this
fascinating subject with pen and ink.