Cross-examination of Foreigners in the United States.--Definition
of Common Sense--Its high value in America.--Aversion to
Genius.--Sensible reply of a Boston Aristocrat with regard
to a Parvenu from the country.--Ladies buying themselves a
Professor.--Boys at school learning for Money.--A Boston fashionable
Concert--Description of the Musicians and the Audience.--High value of
Morality in a Cantatrice.--Dangers of differing in matters of taste
from the leading Coteries.--Secret Police in Boston.--Reflections.
“Unhappy he, who from the first of joys--
Society--cut off, is left alone
Amid this world of death. Day after day
Sad on the jetting eminence he sits,
And views the main that ever toils below.”
THOMSON’S _Seasons_.
The day after my arrival in Boston I delivered my letters of
introduction. Some I merely sent with my card; others I carried in
person, according to the custom of the country. My reception could not,
of course, be equal to that of a well-recommended Englishman; the word
“de” having, by my request, been suppressed in all my letters, and it
not being known at that time that I was about to commit my impressions
to paper. Yet was I received with politeness; subject, however, to a
sort of cross-examination, of which, for the benefit of travellers, I
will here furnish a short extract.
_Question._--“How do you like this country?”
_Answer_ (of course).--“Extremely well.” (It will do no harm to show
a little enthusiasm; the Bostonians, having little of that article
themselves, like to see it in others.)
_Question._--“How does this country appear to you compared with
England?”
(This is a question never asked by the labouring class, who seem to
care little or nothing about it; and proves at once your being in good
society. You must answer it with great circumspection; as, if you give
America the preference, they either think you a hypocrite, or a person
not used to society and the world; and, if you show yourself too great
a partisan for England, their vanity will never forgive you.)
_Question._--“Do you intend to settle here?”
(This question is best answered in the negative.)
_Question._--“Are you married or single.”
(If the stranger be a man of moderate fortune, it will be best for him
to call himself a married man; the fashionable society of Boston having
a great dread of poor bachelors.)
_Question._--“Do you not think we _enjoy_ a very bad climate?”
(This they really believe; but it is prudent in Europeans stoutly
to deny it. The fact is, it is really not half so bad as generally
represented; there being more sunny days in America than, perhaps with
the exception of Italy or Spain, in any part of Europe.)
_Question._--“Don’t you think the transition from heat to cold very
sudden?”
(Deny it by all means, even if there should have been a change of
twenty degrees that very day.)
Then comes the praise of the American “falls,” in which any one may
join conscientiously; an American landscape in the month of October
being, on account of the infinite variety in the colour of the woods,
and the extreme serenity of the sky, the most beautiful thing in the
world.
National vanity--a feeling which is totally distinct from
patriotism--exists in no part of the United States to such an extent
as in New England, and especially in Boston, whose inhabitants think
themselves not only vastly superior to any people in Europe, but also
infinitely more enlightened, especially as regards politics, than the
rest of their countrymen. Thus the question has been seriously proposed
to me, whether I had not been struck with the superior intelligence of
the Bostonians, compared with the inhabitants of other cities in the
United States and in Europe? and whether, on the whole, I had found any
people in the world superior to those of New England?
These faults apart, I found the Bostonians quite an _entertaining_, I
could not conscientiously say an _hospitable_ people, because one does
not feel at home amongst them, even after a residence of many years.
The fact is, that though they boast of an unusual degree of “common
sense” in their common transactions of life, very little of it is seen
in their society. Society is the only sea with the navigation of which
the New-Englanders are as yet unacquainted, in spite of the English,
French, and Italian charts they study for that purpose. The moment
their ladies and gentlemen sit in state, they are affected and awkward;
_et quand le bon ton parait, le bon sens se retire_.
What the wealthy Bostonians generally understand by common sense, and
the influence which the latter exercises on society, I soon had an
opportunity of learning, at the house of a fashionable gentleman, a
president of a bank, with whom I had the pleasure of dining a few days
after my arrival in the city.
The individual in question was between forty-five and fifty years of
age; apparently of a high bilious temper, with a livid complexion, grey
piercing eyes, straight hair, compressed lips, thin nose and chin,--in
short, a figure which in any part of the world I should have at once
recognised as belonging to a matter-of-fact man from New England. There
were but two more gentlemen to dine with us, and no ladies besides the
wife and daughters of our entertainer; so that conversation soon began
to flag, until, the dessert being put on the table, the restraint was
taken off from the gentlemen by the good-natured retiring of the ladies.
Mine host was the first person who broke in upon the monotony of the
entertainment, by introducing a topic which at once commanded the
attention of his friends.
“Common sense,” he said, after having drunk the first glass of madeira
and passed the bottle, “is the _genius_, or, as I do not like that
word, the _essence_ of society and good government; and I think,”
added he with a self-complacent smile, “no people in the world have
inherited a larger share of this most invaluable commodity than our
_cool, calm, calculating, money-making_ Yankees. Did you” (addressing
himself to me) “ever see a more intelligent people than our Bostonians?
Did you ever see a city more quiet, more prosperous, more orderly than
Boston?”
“The appearance of Boston,” responded I, “certainly warrants all you
say of it.”
“Yes, sir,” he rejoined; “and I can point out to you at least one
hundred persons in that city worth upwards of a hundred thousand
dollars.”
“That certainly argues in favour of the industry and perseverance of
its inhabitants.”
“Say rather it argues in favour of their _common_ sense,” said he, “in
which industry and perseverance are necessarily included. We are a
common sense, matter-of-fact people,” added he exultingly; “we leave
genius and enthusiasm to Europeans.”
“Thank Heaven!” exclaimed his neighbour on the left, “I have no genius
in _my_ family; my children are all brought up to be industrious.”
“You may thank the Lord for that,” replied our entertainer; “I
never saw a genius yet who was either himself happy or capable of
making others so. I have brought up my sons to become merchants and
manufacturers; only Sam, the poor boy who is a little hard of hearing,
and rather slow of comprehension, shall go to college. Our merchants,
sir, are the most respectable part of the community.”
“What college do you mean to send him to?” demanded I, in order to
ascertain whether he had been serious.
“I shall send him to Harvard University,” he replied; “the oldest
literary institution in the country. Have you not yet been to see it?”
I told him that I had been but a few days in Boston, but that I should
certainly take an early opportunity of visiting the institution.
“Do so,” he said; “you will find it well worth your while; it will
convince you that, while we have been making money, we have not
altogether neglected arts and sciences.”
“Which are your cleverest men in the various departments of science?”
demanded I.
“Why, they are none of them very clever in _our_ sense of the word.
We consider professors as secondary men. Our practice is to give the
different professorships away to young men, in order to induce them to
devote themselves to the branch they are to teach. Our country is as
yet too young for old professors; and, besides, they are too poorly
paid to induce first-rate men to devote themselves to the business of
lecturing.”
“In this manner,” rejoined I, “you will never have eminent men in the
higher departments of philosophy.”
“We have as yet no time to devote to abstract learning,” he observed;
“we are too young for that. Our principal acquirement consists in
common sense; all the rest we consider as moonshine. You must know,” he
said, with a countenance in which superiority of knowledge was mingled
with condescension of manners, “that a young man learns as much in six
months in a counting-room as in four years at college. My friends do
not entirely agree with me; but I often told them that our colleges
only made poor gentlemen, and spoiled clever tradesmen.”
He then counted over the names of most of the rich men in Boston, who,
he said, were all self-taught country boys, possessed of no other
learning than the art of making dollars in a neat, handsome, clean
manner. “This,” he added, “has given them a higher standing in society
than they could have acquired by all the philosophy in the world, and
enabled them to marry into the oldest and most aristocratic families
of the place.
“Take, for instance, the case of our friend ***. What does he know
except making money? What has he ever learned except negociating,
or rather _shaving_ notes? What college did he ever go to, except
that of our brokers in State-street? And has he not married the
daughter of one of our richest men? Has he not got one of the largest
fortunes with her? And is he not now connected with some of our first
people--with the real back-bone of our Boston aristocracy? And do you
know the answer his father-in-law gave to one of his old friends, who
remonstrated with him for giving his daughter away to a _parvenu_ from
the country? ‘I give my daughter to any man,’ said he, ‘who will come
to Boston and have wit enough to make a hundred thousand dollars in
six years.’ There’s common sense for you, I trust: that’s what we call
practical philosophy.”
“It is certainly a melancholy fact,” sighed the gentleman next to me,
who now for the first time opened his lips, “that a great number of our
young men, who have gone to college, have afterwards been unsuccessful
in business. I think our education is not sufficiently practical;--we
are still attached to the European system.”
“Not only that,” replied our entertainer, “but most of our students
contract habits of idleness, which will never answer in this country.
They want to imitate your English gentleman, when their patrimony--I
mean their _share_ in their father’s fortune--is scarcely sufficient to
keep them alive. Do you remember Mr. ***’s reply to a young gentleman
who had asked him his advice as to what he ought to do in order to
succeed in business? ‘Take off your kid gloves,’ said he, ‘and go to
work.’ There’s philosophy for you, equal to your Kants and Leibnitz!
Mr. ***, you know, is a plain-spoken man, who came to Boston without a
cent in his pocket, and is now one of our most respectable citizens.”
“But if this be the prevailing taste of your townsmen,” said I, “why do
you call Boston the Athens of the United States?”
“That appellation,” replied he, “refers to our women, not to our
gentlemen. Our ladies read a great deal. And why should they not? What
else have they to do? And we have, besides, a lot of literary twaddles,
manufactured by the wholesale at Cambridge, who attempt to turn the
heads of our young girls with the nonsense they call ‘poetry,’ which
fills nearly all our papers, instead of clever editorials. If we have
one poet among us, we have at least fifty, the joint earnings of whom
would not be sufficient to keep a dog. But then poets don’t turn _our_
heads, you see; we are too much occupied with business.”
“But how do your literary men manage to get on?” demanded I: “I know
several of them quite in easy circumstances.”
“They marry rich women, who can afford paying for being entertained.
They show their common sense in that. It’s quite the fashion for our
rich girls to _buy themselves a professor_, previous to taking a trip
to Europe.”
“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.
On looking over the bill, I found that the performers had a peculiar
way of recommending themselves to the notice of the higher classes of
Americans. In the first place, all of them were professors, members
of different philharmonic societies in Europe, whose favourite airs,
duettos, concerts, &c. had met with universal applause in London,
Paris, and St. Petersburg. Then they were all composers; the bill
expressly announcing a favourite air from “La Gazza Ladra,” arranged by
Professor ***; duetto from “Gli Italiani in Algieri,” with variations
by Mr. ***, Professor of the Royal Conservatory of ***; &c. A Spaniard
even went so far as to give notice that a grand rondo, originally
composed for the violin by Mayseder, would be performed with variations
by Professor ***, late first flute-player to his Majesty the ex-Emperor
of Brazil.
I communicated to my friend my astonishment at the fashionable people
of America being so easily duped by high-sounding titles, which in
Europe would at once stamp a man as a charlatan or a village performer;
but was assured that this was the regular way of proceeding in all the
Atlantic cities, the judgment of the higher classes in matters of taste
confirming, without a single exception, the verdict pronounced by the
connoisseurs of Europe.
“You will,” he said, “to-night hear the voice of a woman who in England
would at best be considered a tolerable good ballad-singer for a
provincial theatre, but you will witness the storm of applause with
which she will be received _here_. It is such a fine opportunity for
all who have taste, to show their superiority over those who have not
had an opportunity of improving themselves in Europe. This songstress,
moreover, is introduced to some of our first people, who will collect
here to-night, and by their significant nods and half-subdued
‘bravos’ induce the multitude to the clapping of hands. Our _leading
citizens_ think themselves bound by hospitality to applaud an English
_cantatrice_: for which reason the second, third, and fourth rows of
benches are occupied by _tout ce qu’il y a de mieux_,--that is by _tout
ce qui a de cent à cinq cents mille écus_; the first benches being
declined by all, either from modesty, or from fear of making themselves
too conspicuous before the public.
“An American aristocrat, you must know,” continued my cicerone, “is a
gentleman of very nice feelings, who, while he is most anxious to avoid
notoriety among _the people_, in order to avoid public censure, is at
the same time particularly solicitous to push himself forward in his
coterie, in order by his social standing to make up for the injustice
of politics.”
“I presume,” said I, “most of the gentlemen on the forward benches are
merchants?”
“Let me see,” he said, standing on tiptoe. “They are mostly merchants;
but I also discover two lawyers, and a fashionable clergyman. There is,
however, not a man amongst them worth less than one hundred thousand
dollars.”
“Pray, is a rich man here supposed to understand something about
music?” demanded I.
“Most assuredly he is,” replied he. “You will always find the richest
men give the first sign of approbation, after which the minor fortunes
venture to signalize theirs. Our society is so small that every man
in it is known; so that no individual can be guilty of a breach of
etiquette without having at once the whole clique against him. There
is more social tyranny in this place than you could find anywhere in
Europe. Every principle of morals, politics, or religion is set up as
an article of faith; our infallible moneyed men proclaiming in their
counting-rooms, and on ’change, the Popish doctrine _Nulla salus extra
ecclesiam Catholicam_.”
While we were thus discussing _la haute société_ of Boston, Mrs. ***,
from London, made her appearance, and--her morality being endorsed by
three responsible merchants--was received with thundering applause; the
_Honourable_ Mr. *** giving, as drum-major, the signal with a beautiful
cane, which was immediately answered by “_the middling interests_” in
the centre, and at last echoed by the mechanics, perched up in the
rear. Mrs. *** courtesied. Renewed applause; during which she, at last,
opened her cherub lips, and, with a great deal of common sense,--that
is, without any of the coquetry of a French actress, or the _agaceries_
of an Italian _prima donna_,--sang off two or three verses of one of
those English ballads which sound so prettily in a private parlour, and
so badly in a large concert-room. The worst of it was, that instead
of the simple melody, which in most English or German compositions
is exceedingly touching, she endeavoured to show her school, and
the scope of her voice, by introducing variations, which were duly
acknowledged by the people to whom she had been recommended. The
_ladies_, especially, seemed not so much to admire her voice, as her
modesty in not looking once from the music on the fashionable young men
whose eyes were fastened upon her.
English women, being fine and tall, charm sufficiently by their placid
beauty, and a certain _laisser aller_ which they carry off admirably.
French and Italian women, on the contrary, are, as a race, far less
handsome, but considerably more _piquantes_. _Ces sont des femmes
caressantes._ An English woman is made to be wooed; a French one
entices _you_ by a thousand little trifles, which it is the study of
her life to practise with success. One is, perhaps, truly amiable; the
other _interests_ you by her very peevishness. The fair songstress
seemed to be amiable in the English fashion, for she was all good
nature--the usual concomitant of a certain _embonpoint_ and smiled
continually--on her music-book.
“But how is it possible,” said I to my cicerone, “to applaud such
singing as this? There is neither simplicity nor taste, neither feeling
nor execution in her performance, and yet the storm of applause is not
abating.”
“For the Lord’s sake!” exclaimed he, “do not say that loud enough for
other people to hear you. It would deprive you of many an innocent
pleasure you would perhaps otherwise enjoy during your stay in this
city. Our _élite_ never forgive such a difference of opinion to one
of their own clique; how much more, then, must a foreigner be on his
guard! And in this case, too, where Mr. and Mrs. *** have taken the
songstress under their protection! It would be sufficient to exclude
you at once from society. This is _free_ country, sir! every man may do
or think what he pleases, only he must not let other people know it.
You might just as well attack one of our fashionable preachers as Mrs.
***.”
“If this is what you call freedom in Boston,” said I, “I will not go to
another concert, if Paganini himself were to perform here.”
“And yet, if you heard an oratorio performed by our ‘Handel and Haydn
Society’, you would, perhaps, change your opinion. That society is
almost wholly composed of mechanics, who cultivate music from taste,
and pay their German leader, a good scientific musician, a very
handsome salary.”
“Singular city this!” exclaimed I, “in which the labouring classes
cultivate music from taste, and in which the rich people listen to it
from obligation. I shall be obliged to leave the room. Will you not
accompany me?”
“I should like to do so,” whispered he; “but it would be observed. I
am obliged to live with these people; and you know the proverb, ‘Among
Romans do as Romans do.’ _A propos_; if any one should ask you about
the concert, and especially about Mrs. ***, say you were ‘_delighted_;’
that’s the word now. There is no use in making yourself enemies;
_delighted_, sir! Don’t forget your cue.”
What an extraordinary phenomenon, thought I as I went home, this state
of society must be to an European! And is it a wonder if, under such
circumstances, the most paltry scribbler thinks himself justified in
caricaturing it? Here is a free people voluntarily reducing itself to
a state of the most odious social bondage, for no other object but to
maintain an imaginary superiority over those classes in whom, according
to the constitution of their country, all real power is vested; and
here are the labouring classes, probably for the first time permitted
to legislate for themselves, worshipping wealth in its most hideous
colours! Here, then, is a society formed as nearly as possible on the
abstract theory of equality; and this is the state to which it has
become reduced by the aspirings of a few wealthy families in less
than a century! If such is the tendency towards decay in all human
institutions, how jealous ought the people to be of the most trifling
privileges, arrogated exclusively by certain classes.
And what species of tyranny is worse than that which attempts
to control a man’s private actions, his worship, his domestic
arrangements, and his pleasures? What can be more absurd than for a
certain class, for the most part not a whit better educated than the
rest, to assume the dictatorship in all matters relating to politics,
religion, or the arts? And how can it be reconciled with the spirit
of independence, manifested more or less by every American, to see so
large a portion of their countrymen governed by the tinsel logic of
such a coterie? Nothing can excite the contempt of an educated European
more than the continual fears and apprehensions in which even the “most
enlightened citizens” of the United States seem to live with regard to
their next neighbours, lest their actions, principles, opinions, and
beliefs should be condemned by their fellow creatures!
I have heard it seriously asserted in America, that there are no better
policemen than the ordinary run of Bostonians; and that, as long as
their natural inquisitiveness remained, there was no need of a secret
tribunal; every citizen taking upon himself the several offices of spy,
juryman, justice, and--_vide_ Lynch law--executioner. This is by some
called the wholesome restraint of public opinion: but, in order that
public opinion may be just, it must not be biased by the particular
faith of a coterie; and there are transactions in private life of which
the public ought never to be made the judge.
There is scarcely a degree of political freedom which can compensate
a man for the loss of independence in his private transactions, and
the want of a generous liberality in the community at large. There are
individuals whose tastes and dispositions are not likely to involve
them in any political or religious controversy, and who therefore can
be comparatively free, even under a despotic government; but, in a
community like Boston, no abstract rule of conduct can be laid down,
capable of protecting a man against censure and retaliation. This
peculiarity in the composition of its society I do not, however, like
so many others, ascribe to the political institutions of the country,
which, on the contrary, are constantly counteracting its effects;
but to the aristocracy of money, unmitigated as it is by superior
education, and unlimited in its influence either by the existence of a
real nobility or a powerful sovereign.
The _moveable_, _moneyed_ aristocracy of our times I consider as the
greatest enemy of mankind, in comparison to which all the terrors of
the feudal system are as nothing. The nobility of the middle ages
offered to the people protection for vassalage, and set them the
example of chivalry and valour. A mere moneyed aristocracy, on the
contrary, enslaves the people without giving them an equivalent,
introducing everywhere the most sordid principles of selfishness,
to the exclusion of every noble and disinterested sentiment. A mere
moneyed preponderance of one class of citizens over the other, does not
form an historical link between the present and the past; neither does
it, like the masses, represent the interests of mankind in general. All
its tendencies are downwards, reducing a people gradually to a degree
of moral degradation, from which perhaps they might have been saved by
the presence of a powerful nobility of family.
FOOTNOTES:
[5] Public opinion sways the country in all respects except in matters
of taste, which are entirely settled by the higher orders.