ARISTOCRACY IN AMERICA.
VOL. I.
LONDON:
PRINTED BY SAMUEL BENTLEY,
Bangor House, Shoe Lane.
[Illustration: _W. Greatbatch, sc._
MARTIN VAN BUREN,
_President of the United States_.
London, Published by Richard Bentley, 1839]
ARISTOCRACY IN AMERICA.
FROM THE
SKETCH-BOOK OF A GERMAN NOBLEMAN.
EDITED BY
FRANCIS J. GRUND.
AUTHOR OF “THE AMERICANS IN THEIR MORAL, SOCIAL,
AND POLITICAL RELATIONS.”
“Why should the poor be flatter’d?
No: let the candied tongue lick absurd pomp,
And crook the pregnant hinges of the knee,
Where thrift may follow fawning.”
SHAKSPEARE’S _Hamlet_, Act iii. Scene 2.
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
LONDON:
RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET.
Publisher in Ordinary to Her Majesty.
1839.
TO THE AMERICAN PEOPLE.
I dedicate to you the following pages, written by one of your
fellow-citizens, who, though a European by birth, is firmly and
devotedly attached to his adopted country.
If their contents should in any way offend you,--if the serious
or ironical arguments contained in them should meet with your
displeasure,--I entreat you to consider the purity of the Author’s
intention, who, even where he employs personal satire, wishes but to
expose error for the purpose of reform, not of ridicule.
Neither must you look upon them as containing aught against the laws
and institutions of your country. Not those glorious monuments of the
virtue and wisdom of your fathers, but the men who would turn them to
vicious and selfish purposes are justly upheld to derision.
A people like yourselves, great, powerful, and magnanimous, is as much
beyond the reach of personal satire as it is proof against the weapons
of its foes: not so the men who, claiming for themselves a specific
distinction, cannot properly be considered as identified with your
principles and character.
Against these then, and against these alone, is the following work--of
which I am but the Editor--directed, in the hope of thereby rendering
a service to the Public, which, both in the capacity of a writer and
a citizen of the United States, I readily acknowledge as my Lord and
Sovereign. What other object, indeed, could he have, whose wishes,
hopes, and expectations are identified with your own, and who considers
no earthly honour equal to that of being
Your humblest servant and
Fellow-citizen,
FRANCIS J. GRUND.
London, May 10th, 1839.
PREFACE.
I herewith submit to the British Public a work principally intended
for the benefit of the American. Both people, however, are so
intimately connected by the ties of friendship and consanguinity, and
so many errors and faults of the Americans--as, indeed, most of their
virtues--are so clearly and distinctly to be traced to their British
origin, that the perusal of the following pages may, perhaps, be not
altogether uninteresting to the readers of both countries.
As individuals may study their own character by carefully examining and
observing that of their fellow-creatures,--for it is only in comparing
ourselves with others that we become acquainted with ourselves,--so
may a correct knowledge of one nation, and the tendencies of its
institutions, enable another to form a proper estimate of itself, and
to set a right value on its own laws and government.
Such is the object of the following publication; the Public must decide
whether it has been attained.
THE EDITOR.
London, May 10th, 1839.
CONTENTS
OF
THE FIRST VOLUME.
PART I.
CONTAINING THE ADVENTURES OF A DAY SPENT AMONG
THE BLOODS IN NEW YORK.
Introduction.--Character of the Author. Page 3
CHAPTER I.
Walk to the Battery.--The Breakfast.--Conversation of
young travelled Americans.--Their Notions of Politics,
Negroes, and Women. 16
CHAPTER II.
Return to the City.--Arrival of the London Packet.--Reception
of the Passengers.--American Speculations on
an English Lord.--Introduction to a Fashionable Boarding-house.--A
New England Minerva.--A Belle.--A Lady
from Virginia.--Conduct of Fashionable Young Ladies
towards Gentlemen of an inferior Standing.--Confusion
produced by the Dinner-bell. 49
CHAPTER III.
The Dinner.--Reflections on the Homage paid to American
Women.--Observation of a Fashionable Young Lady
on American eating.--The Party after Dinner.--An American
descanting on the Fashions.--Parallel between English
and American Women.--Manner of rising in Society.--Extravagance
and Waste of the Middle Classes.--Toad-eating
of Fashionable Americans in Europe.--Their
Contempt for the Liberal Institutions of their Country.--Manner
in which the Society of America may be used as
a Means of correcting the Notions of European Exaltados.--The
British Constitution in high favour with the Upper
Classes.--Southern and Northern Aristocracy contrasted.--Aristocracy
of Literati.--American Women in Society and
at Home.--Pushing in Society the Cause of Failures.--Western
Aristocracy.--An Aristocratic Lady in Pittsburgh.--Aristocracy
in a Printer’s Shop.--Philosophical
Windings-up of the Party. 84
CHAPTER IV.
Joining the Ladies.--Education of a Fashionable Young
Lady in New York--her Accomplishments.--Tea without
Gentlemen.--Commercial Disasters not affecting the
Routine of Amusements in the City of New York.--The
Theatre.--Forest come back to America.--Opinions of the
Americans on Shakspeare and the Drama.--Their Estimation
of Forest as an Actor.--Forest and Rice contrasted. 155
CHAPTER V.
Description of an American Rout.--A Flirtation.--The
Floor kept by the same Set of Dancers.--Fashionable
Characters.--An Unfortunate Girl at a Party.--Inquiry
instituted in her Behalf.--Anecdote of two Fashionable
young Ladies at Nahant.--Aristocratic Feelings of the
Americans carried abroad.--Anecdotes.--Reflections on
the Manners of the Higher Classes.--Anecdotes illustrative of Western
Politeness and Hospitality.--Kentucky Hospitality.--Hypocrisy
of the Higher Orders of Americans.--Aristocracy
in Churches.--An American Aristocrat compared
to Shylock.--A Millionnaire.--Two Professional Men.--Stephen
Gerard.--A Gentleman of Norman Extraction.--Different
Methods resorted to for procuring Ancestors.--Americans
and the English contrasted.--A Country Representative--Method
of making him desert his Principles.--Political
Synonyms.--Contempt for Democracy.--Expectations
of the American Aristocracy.--Objections to
Waltzing.--Announcement of Supper. 190
CHAPTER VI.
A German Dissertation on Eating.--Application of Eating
to Scientific, Moral, and Political Purposes.--Democrats
in America not in the Habit of entertaining People.--Consequences
of this Mistake.--The Supper.--Dialogue
between a Country Representative and a Fashionable
Lady.--Mode of winning Country Members.--Hatred of
the Higher Classes of everything belonging to Democracy.--Attachment
of the Old Families to England.--Hatred of
the “Vulgar English.”--The French, and even the English,
not sufficiently aristocratic for the Americans.--Generosity
of the Americans toward England.--A Fashionable
Young Lady.--An American Exquisite.--Middle-aged
Gentlemen and Ladies.--Americans not understanding
how to amuse themselves, because they do not know how
to laugh.--Negroes the happiest People in the United
States.--Breaking-up of the Party.--Gallantry of the
Gentlemen. 228
CHAPTER VII.
Late Hours kept in New York.--The Oyster-shops of
New York compared to those of Philadelphia.--Important
Schism on that Subject.--The Café de l’Indépendance.--A
French Character.--Description of a Fashionable Oyster-shop.--A
sensible American just returned from Paris.--His
account of American Aristocracy abroad.--Mr. L***
and Mr. Thistle.--A shrewd Yankee Tailor in Paris.--His
Advice to his Countrymen.--An American Senator
scorning to become the fee’d Advocate of the Mob, after
the manner of O’Connell. 277
CHAPTER VIII.
Return Home.--A Passage from the Edinburgh Review,
apologetical of American Federalism.--Speculation on the
Subject.--Little Reward of Democracy in the United States.--The
Higher Classes contending for the Purse.--Consequence
of this Policy.--Declaration of an American Reviewer
with regard to American Poets.--Their Reward in
Europe.--Falling asleep.--The Nightmare. 306
ARISTOCRACY IN AMERICA.
PART I.
CONTAINING THE ADVENTURES OF A DAY SPENT
AMONG THE BLOODS IN NEW YORK.
INTRODUCTION.
CHARACTER OF THE AUTHOR.
The following sketches of “American Aristocracy” were written in a
desultory manner during a journey the Author took some time ago from
Boston to Washington, after having sojourned a number of years in the
country.
The Author, now _residing in New York_, not having sufficient courage
to publish them, I undertook that task for him; not with a view to
pecuniary profit, but in order to render a service to truth, which
ought to be acceptable at all times, and cannot but benefit a young,
aspiring, prosperous country like the United States.
Numerous works have already been published on “American Society;” but
its peculiar tendency towards _Aristocracy_, its talents, resources,
and prospects, have never been more than generally and superficially
dwelt upon, even by the best writers. This is a great fault. The
Americans have, as they repeatedly assure Europeans, “a great deal
of Aristocracy,” and, in general, a very nice taste for artificial
distinctions; a circumstance which, as yet, is but little known to the
great bulk of the European public, who still imagine them to be a set
of savages.
The Author of these pages seems to have made it his study to bring
those hidden gems to light, in order to vindicate his adopted country
from the reproach of _equality_ and _barbarism_, indiscriminately
heaped upon it by the Tories of all countries, and especially by the
_great_ Tories of England.
Before entering on the task assigned me, it is, however, necessary
first to acquaint the reader with the personage of the Author, who was
once a sporting character; but is now a sedate, moral, religious man,
scarcely to be told from a real American. Although of noble extraction,
being the seventh son of the Westphalian Baron Von K--pfsch--rtz,
whose family dates back to the eighth century, he has, while in the
United States, sunk the nobleman in the man of business; in consequence
of which he now passes generally for “a sensible man.” Had he been
_born_ and _bred_ in America, and inherited or acquired a large
fortune, his being descended from a noble family might have added to
his other accomplishments; but the pedigree of a poor German nobleman
without a rent-roll could not possibly do him any good, and might have
done him much harm in raising the jealousy of his employers.
For a time he devoted himself to politics, in which he was a great
enthusiast, but soon discovered his error; and, finding winds and
waves more steady than the favours of the public, became supercargo
of an American East Indiaman. He stayed three years in Canton,
and on his return married the daughter of the president of an
insurance office--the young lady having fallen in love with him at
a party,--notwithstanding the remonstrances of the family, who
considered the match a poor one. He has since had two children by his
wife, and a clerkship by his father in-law; all which, taken together,
has done much to attach him to the country, and will, I doubt not, in
due time make him “a patriot.”
I must yet observe that the following “sketches” were written during
the Author’s political career, and shortly after; it being agreed
between him and his father-in-law, at the time of his marriage, that
he should never again use a pen except for the benefit of the office,
or to write a letter to his _beau-père_, provided he be willing to
frank it. This promise I understood him to have religiously kept, as
indeed every other he made at that time; but, feeling all the while
some lurking desire to see himself in print, he thought it no harm to
touch up an _old_ manuscript, which he was determined secretly to put
into my hands, in order that I might select from it what I judged fit
for publication. The way in which he accomplished his design, and the
charge he gave me, are important items; which, as they are brief, I
shall not withhold from the public.
It was in the month of August last year, that, early in the morning of
a sultry day, while sauntering along the wide and dirty streets of New
York, I was, just at the corner of Chamber Street and Broadway, struck
by the singular appearance of a male figure, which I at once recognised
as European, though the individual in question had apparently taken the
most studied pains to disguise his origin. His stature was straight
and erect; his neck, already thin and stiff, was, by the aid of a
black cravat, reduced to a still narrower compass; and his hat was
sunk down his neck so as to expose half his forehead. His frock-coat,
despite the heat of the day, was buttoned up to the chin, and yet of
such diminutive dimensions as scarcely to cover any one part of his
body. His trowsers were of the same tight fit as his coat, and the
heels of his boots added at least an inch and a half to his natural
height. His steps were short and quick, deviating neither to the right
nor left from a straight line; and his head, which was thrown back,
seemed to act as a rudder in directing his motion. Thus far, his
appearance differed in nothing from a genuine New-Yorker, except that
his shoulders were very much broader, and his legs much more stout,
than one generally meets with on the borders of the Atlantic.
I seldom saw an European imitate exactly the particular business-dress
and gait of an American; and in this instance the copy appeared to me
so burlesque, that I felt curious to see the full face of a man whose
body bore such evident imprints of two worlds. I therefore stepped
quickly forward a few paces, and, leaning against the window of a
print-shop, endeavoured to take a front view of my hero. He seemed to
guess my intention, and, desirous of avoiding observation, turned his
head towards the opposite side; which, however, did not prevent me from
recognising at once my friend _the Author_, with a large roll of paper
in his hand.
“Ah!” exclaimed he, grasping my arm, “I am glad to meet you,--the very
man I wanted to see. Whither are you now going?”
“To breakfast.”
“Are you invited?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Then I shall accompany you. I have to speak to you on a very important
subject.”
“I am going to the Turkish divan.”
“The very place I like,--it’s private, snug, genteel; one can be there
without meeting a reporter.”
It was now seven o’clock. The sun had risen over an infinite canopy of
dense vapours, through which his rays of burning light were dissolved
into a dark lurid hue which hung like smoke on the red walls of the
buildings. The thermometer stood 98° in the shade. After a short
walk, which, owing to the excessive sultriness of the air, proved
sufficiently fatiguing, we arrived at the coffee-house. The _entrée_
was somewhat _dérobée_, for the evident purpose of concealing it from
the eyes of the vulgar; and the establishment being on the second
floor, and the staircase dark and narrow, none but one initiated into
the secret could have found the way to it. We ascended the stairs,
opened the folding-doors, and in another moment found ourselves in
an elegant apartment, studded with marble tables and stuffed couches,
in which a sort of _chiaroscuro_--the window-shutters being but half
opened, and the windows concealed by a rich damask drapery,--gave full
effect to the numerous oil-paintings that covered the walls. Some of
these, we were told by the waiter, were of high value, being “_genuine
originals_;” but my friend, who passed for a connoisseur in these
matters, merely tossed up his head, and said he knew all about them.
“Have you seen the _invoice_?” demanded the waiter.
“It’s no matter,” replied my friend; “you had better give us some
coffee.”
We stretched ourselves each on an ottoman (chairs being entirely
banished from the establishment), and “the Author” at once came to the
point.
“I wanted to hand you my sketch-book,” said he, after heaving a deep
sigh, “containing the journal of a tour through the principal Atlantic
cities, and a few memorandums of my stay in Washington.”
“Ah! have you finally resolved to publish it?”
“Not I. I am a married man, related to one of the most aristocratic
families in town, with the prospect of inheriting a fortune. I must not
quarrel with my bread and butter.”
“Oh! I understand you: you wish me to publish it for you; that’s more
than I can promise to do without seeing the manuscript.”
“But you may omit what you do not like, or soften down what is likely
to give offence.”
“That you know is useless. The Americans do not like to be spoken of in
any way. They are so thin-skinned as not even to bear _praise_; they
take it for irony.”
“I know it. Our first people are like the Venetian senators, who would
not allow the government to be _praised_; because, if one man bestowed
praise, another might be guilty of censure. There is no knowing where
matters will end when once in the mouth of the people.”
“All this ought to put me the more on my guard: yet, out of friendship
for you, I will make myself a martyr. If _you_ had the courage to
_write_ the truth, _I_ will have the boldness to _publish_ it.”
“Bravo!” cried my friend, embracing me in a Continental manner, “I see
you are a real German; and, if ever I inherit----”
“Pray don’t mention it. It will be as much as you can do to pay your
wife’s mantua-maker. You cannot count your father-in-law’s money until
after his death. There are bank liabilities, insurance liabilities, and
Heaven knows what other mercantile and private liabilities! Just give
me the manuscript, and trust the rest to my affection.”
“You are too kind--too generous!” cried he; “but I must, nevertheless,
give you a few hints. I think you had better omit the account of my
_flirtations_ entirely. It is not in good taste. All such things are
necessarily insipid; and, if Mrs. K--pfsch--rtz should by accident
learn----”
“She would never forgive you.”
“It is not _that_ I am most afraid of; but my father-in-law, and the
public----. Besides, my flirtations, as is always the case in the
United States, ended in a most _sensible_ manner, and on that account
are not likely to interest an European reader. The first lady sent me
word by her servant not to trouble myself with writing her any more
letters, as she was determined to send them back unopened. The second
gave me a verbal warning in these terms:--‘I am sorry you should be
in love with me, because papa and mamma think it all nonsense; I do
not say this to hurt your feelings, but merely to prevent you from
taking any unnecessary steps in the matter. I shall, nevertheless, be
always happy to see you as a _friend_.’ And the third ended in the most
legitimate manner,--in my marriage. I think my sketches of fashionable
parties, and in general of the character and principles of our ‘first
society,’ are much more likely to give satisfaction: only soften them
down a little for the sake of Judge Lynch: it would break my heart
to see you tarred and feathered. As regards my account of American
statesmen and politicians, you must calculate your chances of a duel.
A Southerner will fight three times as quick as a Northerner; but the
Northerner will never forgive you. Be careful how you repeat what I
have said about _parsons_; they have more power in the United States
than in any other country. They have the power of breaking any man they
please; for they possess the most complete control over the women. I
have, in this respect, always been of Jean Paul Richter’s opinion, who
despised ‘the _pater-noster globule_ of piety,’ as much as ‘the empty
bubbles of worldly prudence.’ But you know my religious sentiments,
and are best able to judge whether I deserve the name of a Christian.
If I have sometimes been severe upon Unitarianism and Dr. Channing,
it is because I hate cant in any shape, and would oppose any man that
would constitute himself moral pope of the community. The Bostonians,
who, according to their own confession, are a ‘people full of notions,’
are always ready to deify a man that ‘captivates their fancy;’ and
accordingly have within the narrow confines of their city a whole
Olympus of gods and goddesses, of which the reverend Socinian is the
_Jupiter tonans_. But you will best know how to manage these matters:
only one thing,--forgive the vanity of an author!--you must promise me
as a _conditio sine quâ non_.”
“And what is that?”
“Not to make such a thing of it as Fanny Kemble’s journal;--that is,
not to strike out three-fourths of the book, and then publish the rest
all dashes and stars.”
I gave him my word to leave as few stories untold as possible, and, in
general, to stick to my text as far as was consistent with prudence;
after which he quietly sneaked off to his office, leaving me to do the
best with the manuscript. And now, gentle reader, it is for you to
judge whether I have abused the confidence of my friend.
CHAPTER I.
Walk to the Battery.--The Breakfast.--Conversation of young travelled
Americans.--Their notions of Politics, Negroes, and Women.
“He cannot be a perfect man,
Not being try’d and tutor’d in the world:
Experience is by industry achiev’d,
And perfected by the swift course of time.”
SHAKSPEARE.--_Two Gentlemen of Verona_, Act I. Scene 3.
Some years ago, early of a fine morning in the month of July, I was
sauntering with some Southern friends down Broadway towards the
Battery, which forms the eastern extremity of the city of New York. The
night had been most uncomfortably hot, the thermometer ranging above
90°, and the sun’s lurid glare, produced by a thick heavy mist,--the
usual companion of a sultry day in America,--gave to the sleeping city
the appearance of a general conflagration.
As long as we were in Broadway, not a breath of air was stirring, and
respiration really difficult; but, when we arrived at the Bowling
Green, a delicious sea-breeze imparted new vigour to our exhausted
frames, and increased gradually as we were approaching the Battery.
Arrived at this beautiful spot, the air was quite refreshing, and the
view one of the finest I ever beheld. The harbour was covered with
sails, a rich verdure overspread the neighbouring hills and islands,
and the mingled waters of the ocean and the Hudson, gently rippled by
the breeze, tremblingly reflected the burning orb of day.
“What a delicious spot this is!” said I; “there is nothing equal to it
in any part of the Union!”
“Certainly not,” said one of my companions, who had stopped to survey
the beauty of the landscape; “yet how many Americans do you think enjoy
it?”
“It is certainly not a very fashionable place,” said I.
“How could it be?” replied he: “all the fashionable people have moved
to the West-end of the town.”
“Where the atmosphere is not half so pure, the breeze not a quarter so
refreshing as here; and where, instead of this glorious harbour,--this
ocean, the emblem of eternity,--they see nothing but sand,--a barren
desert, interspersed here and there by a block of brick buildings,”
added the other.
“This our people imagine to be a successful imitation of English
taste,” observed the first. “They forget that the West-end of London
contains magnificent squares and public walks; and that it is in the
immediate neighbourhood of the Parks.”
“And yet,” said the other, “if to-morrow the Southwark and all the
boroughs east of the Thames were to get into fashion, our New York
aristocracy would imitate the example, and inhabit once more this
beautiful site.”
“It is true,” resumed I, “_this_ imitation of the English is not a very
happy one; and deserves the more to be ridiculed, as it refers merely
to forms, and not to the substance of things. I am in a habit of taking
a stroll here every evening; but have not, for the space of two months,
met with a single individual known in the higher circles. Foreigners
are the only persons who enjoy this spot.”
“And do you know why?” interrupted one of my friends: “it is because
our fashionable Americans do not wish to be seen with the people; they
dread that more than the tempest; and it is for this reason all that
is really beautiful in the United States is considered _vulgar_. The
people follow their inclination, and occupy that which they like; while
our exclusives are obliged to content themselves with what is abandoned
by the crowd.”
“I am not very sorry for that,” said the second; “our exclusives
deserve no better fate. As long as the aristocracy of a country is
willing to associate with the educated classes of the _bourgeoisie_
they set a premium on talent and the example of good breeding.
This aristocracy here is itself nothing but a wealthy overgrown
_bourgeoisie_, composed of a few families who have been more
successful in trade than the rest, and on that account are now cutting
their friends and relations in order to be considered fashionable.”
Here we heard the ringing of the bell for the departure of the hourly
steam-boat for Staten Island. As we intended to join a small party
to breakfast at “the Pavilion,” we quickly hurried on board, and in
less than a minute were floating on the water. A fine brass band was
stationed on deck, and the company consisted of a great number of
pretty women with their attendant swains, who thus early escaped from
the heat of the city in order to return to it at shopping-time,--from
twelve till two o’clock. A few lonely “females,” only protected by
huge baskets filled with provisions, had also come “to enjoy the
concord of sweet sounds,” and a trip down the harbour for a quarter
of a dollar, previous to returning home from the market. The whole
company were in excellent spirits, the basket-ladies being arranged on
one side,--unfortunately, however, to windward,--and the ladies and
gentlemen on the other, the band playing involuntary variations to the
tune of “Auld lang syne.”
In precisely an hour from the time we had left the wharf we landed on
Staten Island, and proceeded at once to the place of _rendezvous_.
This was a large public-house fitted up in a most magnificent style by
Colonel M***, late keeper of the A*** Hotel, one of the few landlords
possessed of the talent of making people comfortable. The building was
very spacious; but its wings were a little too long, and the small
garden in front almost entirely destitute of trees,--a fault from which
no public, and hardly any private, mansion in the United States, can be
said to be entirely exempted.
The Americans have, indeed, a singular aversion to trees and shrubs
of every description: their highest idea of perfection in a landscape
being an extended plain sown with grass. They consider trees as a mark
of barbarism, and are, in their zeal for civilization, extirpating
them wherever they find them. The hills and islands in the harbour of
Boston, which were once studded with the majestic pine and the gnarled
oak, are now completely shorn: the city of Albany, built on a gentle
declivity once covered with variegated wood, is daily becoming more and
more flat and less shady; the fashionable inhabitants paying more for
levelling the ground, and felling the trees, than for the erection of
their dwellings. The beautiful trees on the shores of the Monongahela
and the Ohio are, at an enormous expense, destroyed root and branch,
to give the inhabitants of Pittsburgh the benefit of light and air;
and even the “old liberty tree” of Boston, with all its historical
associations and recollections, stands no more. How singularly this
taste of the Americans contrasts with that of the English, who, after
burning and sacking the colony of New Jersey, placed a sentinel near
the tree under which William Penn had concluded the treaty with the
Indians!
The fault of the garden apart, the Pavilion of Staten Island, or “the
Brighton Pavilion,” as it is sometimes called, offers really a fine
and healthy retreat from the noise and dirt of New York; and this the
more so, as, from its elevation, it is accessible on all sides to
the sea-breeze. We ascended a few steps, and found ourselves at once
in a capacious bar-room, fitted up in the best American style. Labels
of all sorts, and in all languages, stuck on innumerable bottles
placed at small distances from one another, and interlined with lemons
and oranges, whose bright and pale gold was again relieved by the
dark-green hock, and the silver-headed champaign bathed in ice. By the
side of these stood the grave and manly Carolina madeira, the fiery
sherry, and the sombre port. For the lovers of condensation there were
also old French cognac, Irish and Scotch whisky, and an ominous-looking
bottle, whose contents portended to be the original beverage of Van
Tromp. The favourite drink, however, seemed to be mint-julep; for a
huge mass of ice and a forest of mint, together with two large bottles
of French and peach brandy, gave, alas! but too positive proofs of the
incapability of the landlord to maintain the balance of power among
spirits so different in action and principle.
The bar was thronged, even at this early hour, with young men from
sixteen to twenty-four years of age, for whom the busy bar-keeper
was preparing ice-punch, mint-juleps, port and madeira _sangarie_,
apple-toddy, ginsling, &c. with a celerity of motion of which I had
heretofore scarcely seen an example. This man evidently understood the
value of time, and was fast rising into respectability; for he was
making money more quickly than the “smartest” broker in Wall Street.
“Mr. S*** and Mr. P***?” said he, as he saw us enter; and, on being
answered in the affirmative, touched a bell, which was instantly
answered by a servant. “Show these gentlemen to No. 3.”
We were led into a large room, in which from fifteen to twenty persons
might have been assembled, exciting their appetite for breakfast by
drinking juleps.
“I present you a new friend,” said one of my companions. “I hope you
will be gratified with making his acquaintance. Monsieur de *** from
Germany.”
Hereupon all the gentlemen rose, one by one, and shook hands with me;
each of them saying, “How d’ye do? Very glad to see you.” At last one
of them, by way of entering into conversation, told me that he was
exceedingly glad to meet with a gentleman from that country. “I have
myself,” said he, “passed a long time in Germany.”
“What part of Germany?” demanded I.
“Oh, no particular part,” replied he; “only principally up and down
the Rhine. Capital country that!--excellent hock!--fine historical
associations!--excellent people the Germans!”
“I am very glad you liked them,” said I.
“Yes, indeed, I always did. What noble castles those! How do you call
that beautiful ancient castle opposite Coblenz? Erin-bright-in-steen?”
“You mean Ehrenbreitenstein,” said I; “that is a Prussian fortress.”
“No matter what you call it,” said he, “it is a splendid specimen of
architecture. I wish we had something like it in this country.”
“I really do not see the use of it,” said I.
“But I do,” said he; “we want a little chivalry of that sort,--our
people are altogether too prosaic.”
“They are too much occupied with politics,” observed another gentleman.
“Altogether too much, sir,” repeated the admirer of Germany.
“But they say it is all for their own good; it improves their
condition.”
“I don’t want to know their condition. Heaven save me from politics!”
“It is certainly not a flourishing trade in this country,” said I.
“Not only that, sir; but it is not a respectable one.”
“And why not?”
“Because every blackguard meddles with it.”
“But not every blackguard is successful in it.”
“Quite the reverse; it is only the blackguard who is successful.”
“That’s an old one,” cried an elderly-looking gentleman.
“But who will talk politics on a hot day without taking a julep? Hollo,
John! a dozen fresh juleps, with plenty of ice,--and rather stiff, mind
ye.”
“It’s no use to talk politics to us, sir,” observed a Mr. *** of
Baltimore, addressing me in a calm, tranquil voice, which had something
of the tone of advice and condescension in it; “we are no longer green.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I mean precisely what I say,” replied he. “We have all more or less
passed the age in which respectable Americans take an interest in
politics; and are, thank God! not yet sufficiently old and decrepit to
recur to it once more because we are unfit for everything else.”
“Yes, yes!” interrupted a highly respectable gentleman, whom I had
known in Boston, and who had a high reputation for being fond of cards;
“a man never takes to politics in this country unless he is ruined in
business. I have seen a hundred instances of it in my own city. Let a
man have a falling-out with work, and he is sure to turn patriot.”
“Because patriotism is the last refuge of a scoundrel, as Johnson
said,” remarked a young barrister, visibly contented with having had an
opportunity of exhibiting his erudition.
“Happy country this!” observed one of my companions, “in which every
scoundrel turns patriot!”
“Say, rather, in which every patriot is a scoundrel,” rejoined the
lawyer.
“Why, Tom!” exclaimed the Bostonian, “you have broken out in a new
place!”
“Why, a man will say a good thing now and then,” replied the
professional man. “But where the d--l is that nigger with the juleps?
I’ll be hanged if a person can get waited upon in New York without
bribing the servants!”
Here the waiter entered.
“What have you been about, sirrah? It’s more than a quarter of an hour
since that gentleman” (pointing to the Baltimorian) “asked for some
juleps. Can’t you move quicker?”
“I goin’ as fast as I kin,” grinned the negro; “but dere are too many
gem’men at de bar.”
“I find,” observed a grave-looking New-Yorker, who until now had not
opened his mouth, except for the purpose of admitting the julep, “that
our black servants are getting worse and worse every day ever since
that bigoted scoundrel T*** has commenced preaching abolition. Those
black devils have always been a nuisance; but now ‘a respectable white
man’ can hardly walk up and down Broadway of a Sunday afternoon without
being jostled off the side-walk by one of their desperate gangs.”
“And it is still worse in Philadelphia,” observed Major ***, “owing to
the philanthropy of our quakers. One of those black beasts, not more
than a week ago, actually eyed my sister through a quizzing-glass as
she was walking in Chestnut-street, accompanied by her younger sister.”
“Good God!” cried the New-Yorker, “has it come to this? Must our
respectable females be insulted in the streets by a set of dastardly
slaves!”
“I can hardly believe it,” said a Virginian, who appeared to be
displeased with the turn the conversation had taken. “The example must
have been set him by some white person. Your Philadelphia dandies have,
the whole live-long day, no other amusement but staring women out of
countenance.”
“Well explained!” ejaculated a young man who had just returned from
Paris; “a negro is a mere ape,--he is but a link between man and
monkey. _C’est en effet un singe dégénéré._”
“Witty dog!” said the Philadelphian; “just returned from France!”
“For Heaven’s sake!” cried the Virginian, “let us not talk about
negroes and abolition. I am resolved never to mention the subject again
to friend or foe. If any of those emancipation preachers ever comes to
my plantation, I have left the strictest order with my overseer to hang
him on the spot. My neighbours are resolved to do the same, and I trust
to God the custom will become general throughout the country.”
“Bravo!” exclaimed the Philadelphian,--“Virginia for ever!”
“You may well drink to Virginia,” exclaimed the gentleman from that
state; “it is the pearl of the Union!”
“So it is, so it is!” shouted the company. “It has produced the
greatest men in the United States!”
“George Washington!” cried the Virginian.
“George Washington!” echoed the company.
“Thomas Jefferson!” continued the Virginian.
“Don’t mention him, for mercy’s sake!” bellowed the Philadelphian;
“that vile blasphemer!--that infidel scoundrel!--that godless father of
democracy, who has been the ruin of our country.”
“In what manner has he ruined it?” demanded I.
“By introducing that vilest of curses, universal suffrage.”
“But I see the country prosper more and more every year.”
“You do not see far enough, sir,” said he. “You do not understand the
working of universal suffrage. An example, perhaps, may illustrate the
case. You may have heard of Mr. B***, who is one of our first citizens,
has always been at the head of the very first society, and is worth, at
least, half a million of dollars in bank stock, independent of a very
respectable real estate. Well, sir: this same Mr. B***, at our last
election, went himself to the ballot-box, and, with his own hand, put
in his vote as if he were one of our simplest citizens. Was not that
republican? Was there ever a better republican than Mr. B***?”
“Certainly not. But what has that to do with the theory of universal
suffrage, except that he was obliged to do so if he wished to vote at
all?”
“Hear me out, sir; hear me out!” shouted the Philadelphian. “Scarcely
had Mr. B*** deposited his vote, when one of your regular ‘whole-hog,
hurrah-for-Jackson men,’ who, according to every appearance, was not
worth five dollars in the world, stepped up, and, right within hearing
of our Mr. B***, told the officer with the most impudent sneer that he
intended to destroy Mr. B***’s vote. These, sir, are the consequences
of universal suffrage.”
“And then people wonder if we are not seen at the ballot-boxes,” said
the New-Yorker. “Who the d--l would scramble up among a parcel of
ragamuffins in order to exercise a privilege shared by every pauper! I
would as lief do common militia duty.”
“What you have told of your friend Mr. B*** in Philadelphia has
happened to my friend Mr. H*** in Baltimore,” cried the Virginian.
“And to myself,” added the Bostonian; “and since that time I am
determined never to disgrace myself again by voting at an election,
except to oblige a friend.”
“Jefferson has ruined the country!” shouted the whole company.
“I only wonder,” said one of my friends, “he has left sufficient brandy
in the country for you to get drunk on.”
“We get that from France,” rejoined the witty gentleman; “the
Americans produce nothing but whisky and rum, and those only of the
most inferior quality. Whenever we want anything decent, we are obliged
to send for it from abroad.”
“That’s a fact,” added the Bostonian; “and pay the dealer a hundred per
cent, profit on it.”
“And, after all, get it adulterated,” said the New-Yorker.
“I cannot conceive,” remarked the Philadelphian, “how a gentleman of
fortune can possibly live in this country.”
“He is a great fool if he does,” replied the French wit. “England
for a rich man, and France for a man of moderate fortune! that’s my
motto; and as for us,--I mean the higher classes of Americans,--we
are everywhere at home--except in the United States. _En Amérique les
étrangers sont chez eux, tandis que les Américains ne sont chez eux que
quand ils sont à l’étranger._”
Here the company burst into a horse-laugh.
“Just returned from Paris,” whispered the Philadelphian; “capital
fellow!”
“Won’t you translate it to me?” asked the Bostonian; “I used to know
French when I went to school, but I have forgotten it since.” (With a
significant look.) “You know our girls don’t speak it.”
“‘Strangers are in America at home, while the Americans themselves are
only at home when they are abroad,’ said our friend Charles, and he is
certainly right; for America, ever since we are overrun by Irish and
German paupers, is not fit for a gentleman to live in.”
“If I had my own way,” observed the Gallicised American, “I would never
live in any other place but Paris.”
“And I in London,” remarked the Bostonian.
“Our tastes are _so_ different,” rejoined the former; “you like
everything that is English,--I love all that is French. Besides, in
France one gets so much more easily into society; the English, you
know, are ridiculously exclusive.”
“But have we not a minister in London? Can we not always be presented
at court?”
“Not always; there are too many applicants.”
“But it is precisely the same thing in France. One of my acquaintances
wrote me from Paris, that the American minister, during the space
of one year, received no less than fifteen hundred applications for
presentation to their French majesties.”
“That may be: but in England one is often obliged to put up with the
society of the middle classes, or at best with a sort of respectable
gentry; while in France we never associate with anything less than
a count or a marquis. My aunt would not speak to a _bourgeois_! She
is descended from the Princess of M----y, which, you know, is one of
the most ancient families of France; and likes Paris so much, that I
don’t think she will ever return to the United States. She can’t bear
America!”
“She would not be wise if she did,” observed my friend, half
ironically; “she receives a great deal more attention there than she
would at home.”
“So do all our women,” observed the lawyer. “Our people do not know how
to treat them, and our women do not know how to take advantage of their
position; they are only fit ‘to suckle fools and chronicle small beer.’”
“Very well brought in by our professional friend!” cried the Bostonian.
“I say, Tom! what did your mother say when you left home to practise
law in this city?”
“She gave me her blessing, and told me, ‘Go, my son, and improve the
talent God has given you, and you cannot fail to make money.’ It was
very kind in her, poor soul! she little expected I would draw on her
regularly every quarter.”
“But how do you spend your time,” demanded the Bostonian, “if you do
not practise law?”
“Literature, literature!” exclaimed the lawyer, emptying his glass. “We
all dabble, more or less, in that.”
“True,” rejoined the Bostonian, “I forgot all about literature.”
“What o’clock is it?” demanded the child of Paris, stretching himself
with the air of an _homme blasé_.
“Nearly ten,” answered my friend.
“Then I wish we might have breakfast, as I have promised to call upon a
young lady at one.”
“Don’t you get yourself into a scrape, Charles.”
“Don’t you be concerned about me,” replied Charles; “I have lived too
long in Paris to be easily taken in.”
“But our women are not like the French.”
“That’s one reason why I don’t like them. Their everlasting
pretensions, their air of superiority, and, above all, that imperious
spirit which receives all our _petits soins_ as a mere tribute which
is due to them, have often completely disgusted me. I like to be at my
ease with a woman; it’s so much more natural.”
“You are not singular in that,” remarked the gentleman from New York;
“I have had the same taste ever since I was a boy of sixteen.”
“What! without having been in Europe?”
“Certainly; but then I was brought up in New York, which, you know, is
a little Europe of itself. I have heard Frenchmen say, that, next to
Paris, there is nothing like it in the world.”
“Pooh!” cried the Bostonian, “I’d rather live in Boston ten times over;
and so would you, if you knew it as well as I do; but that, you know,
takes time.”
“Don’t talk to me about Boston,” said the Philadelphian; “your women
don’t even know how to dress.”
“And run up bills at the mantua-makers,” rejoined the Bostonian.
“The prettiest women in the United States are in Baltimore,” observed
the Baltimorian.
“Say rather _girls_,” interrupted the Gallo-American; “I have never
seen a handsome woman in America yet: if there were one, you would not
see her in society; she would stay at home nursing her babies.”
“And send her young daughters into company for our boys to dance with.”
“And dance they must, because they can’t talk.”
“What would you have a girl of sixteen talk of, pray?”
“Nothing that I care for. When I was in Paris, I only talked to married
women. They alone understand the most delicate allusions, listen with
dignity to our affecting tales, and are grateful for the slightest
attention, without expecting an immediate proposal and saddling
themselves on you for life.”
“That would not do in this country,” said the Bostonian with great
earnestness; “our women are brought up in a different manner.”
“Why, upon my word!” exclaimed the Philadelphian with a horse-laugh,
“our Boston friend talks to us as gravely as a New England
schoolmaster. If you don’t leave off some of these ridiculous Yankee
notions, you’ll never cut a figure in the fashionable world. But you
must excuse him, gentlemen; a certain puritanical air always sticks to
these ‘Boston folks’ even after they have turned rakes.”
“Oh! he would get over that too, quick enough,” cried the lover of
France, “if he were to stay a year or two in Paris. But, upon my
honour! I cannot stay for breakfast; Miss L*** would never speak to me
again.”
“I thought you only cared for married women?” remarked the lawyer.
“Neither do I care for anybody else,” said the Frenchman; “but you know
our girls, who have nothing to do but to walk Broadway in the forenoon,
and to go to a party in the evening, govern society; and, if one does
not wish to be considered an absolute boor, one must humour them.”
“Then you consider your civility a mere act of duty,--a sacrifice
brought to society?”
“Precisely so; and in the same light it is viewed by Miss L***.”
“The d--l take your attention then! When I want to pay my court to a
woman, I do not want to do so in public.”
“Miss L***, I assure you, courts nothing but satin velvet and gros de
Naples. She will to-day, with her own soft hands, caress every piece of
French silk which has passed the Hook for a week past; and I shall have
the honour of accompanying her to every fashionable shop in Broadway.”
“Delightful occupation this!” exclaimed the lawyer; “I had rather read
law.”
“Or drink juleps,” cried the Philadelphian.
“Or play cards,” said the New-Yorker.
“Or go to meeting,” added the Bostonian.
“You may do what you like; but Miss L*** is worth a hundred thousand
dollars if she is worth a cent; and she has sworn never to marry,
except an European or an American who has remained long enough in
Europe to become civilized.”
“Delightful creature that!” cried the Bostonian: “then I presume I
should stand no chance with her at all.”
“_C’est selon. Vous êtes beau garçon, appartenez à une bonne famille;
vous avez de quoi vivre: mais vous chiquez, et, surtout vous crachez,
et Mademoiselle L*** ne pardonne nullement de pareils forfaits._”
Here the finished Parisian stepped before the looking-glass, tightened
his cravat so as to give himself a colour, drew the pale emaciated
fingers of his right hand a dozen times through his front hair, studied
the most becoming position of his hat, arranged most tastefully
two large curls which concealed the cavities of his temples, put
on his French kid gloves, exercised himself in balancing a small
switch,--which altogether did not take him more than thirty-five
minutes,--and then left the room as if he had never known any one of
its occupants.
“Clever fellow that!” exclaimed the Philadelphian: “spent all his
father’s property in learning how to live, and is now marrying one of
our richest girls.”
“Capital hit!” cried the Bostonian.
“Equal to a profession,” ejaculated the lawyer.
“Pray, what may your profession be worth a-year?” asked the New-Yorker.
“The profession is worth a great deal, but I myself get nothing by it,”
replied the barrister.
“How long is it since you practised law?”
“Five years.”
“And how much did you make by it?”
“Twenty-five dollars, or thereabouts.”
“How much rent do you pay for your office?”
“One hundred dollars per annum.”
“And what do you give to the boy that sweeps it?”
“One dollar a month.”
“Why don’t you rather take him into partnership?”
“He would scorn the idea.”
“And how many lawyers like you are there in New York?” demanded my
friend.
“Between three and four hundred, I suppose; most of them sons of our
first citizens. All the law business is done by half-a-dozen vulgar
upstarts who come here from the country, and whom the public, God knows
why, is taking into favour. The profession of physic is a great deal
better; the veriest humbug is making money by it.”
“Because dead people tell no tales, I presume?”
“Not so much for that, as because a physician often hits where he
strikes at random; and because, when a physician is not doing well with
his professional practice, he is always sure to make a respectable
living by quackery.”
“Provided he has money enough to pay for advertising in the newspapers.
But then physicians do not rank nearly as high in society as lawyers.”
“Neither should they: our profession is, _par excellence_, that of a
gentleman.”
“And I can assure you,” interrupted the New-Yorker, “that, in this
city, there is no higher rank in society than that ‘of a rich man.’ I
would rather have the reputation of Mr. A*** than that of our learned
chancellor K***.”
“So would I,” rejoined the lawyer. “Mr. A*** must now be ‘pretty
considerably’ richer than Stephen Gerard ever was; and when a man is
once rich, you know, he can do everything.”
“I believe myself,” said the New-Yorker, “that we are a ‘leetle’ too
much given to money-making.”
“And that every person connected with trade is too easily admitted into
our first society,” added the Philadelphian.
“In what other country,” exclaimed the Virginian, “would you see a
parcel of drummers or clerks admitted into the company of statesmen and
legislators?”
“In none,” interrupted my friend, “except where merchants and their
agents hold a higher rank than statesmen and legislators; in which
it is a disgrace to be a politician, and a reproach to be called a
patriot.”
At this moment one of the waiters announced breakfast; which agreeable
news put us all into the best possible humour, and, amid the hilarity
excited by hock and champaign, we soon forgot fashions, politics,
professions, and even the riches of this world.
While we had thus been wasting our time, a hundred ships had probably
discharged their cargoes; a thousand emigrants from all parts of the
globe had landed with big hearts and stout hopes to realise their
dreams of the free and happy West. Many of them might have already
commenced their peregrination towards the Mississippi, where their
friends and relatives who preceded them were already clearing the
wilderness, or enjoying the fruits of their labour. Fortunes might have
been lost or won, merchants established or ruined, politicians raised
or undone. Many an enterprising pioneer might have formed a plan for
a new settlement; while hundreds of others were probably employed in
transporting the produce of the fertilized West to the seaports of the
Atlantic. Wealth and misery had perhaps been expected by thousands with
the arrival of the mail or packet. Fathers might have been separated
from their children,--husbands from their wives,--in the eager and
universal quest of fortune, and many a heart left bleeding with the
loss of all it held dear; while others, happier than these, might have
greeted the unexpected return of their friends and relatives.
Is it not strange, thought I, before I had drunk the first glass of
champaign, that in a country which more than any other convinces
one of the vanity of human pursuits,--in which wealth, honour, and
distinction are mere bubbles floating on the surface of society,--men
should be more eager after aristocratic distinctions, than where these
are founded on an historical basis, and in accordance with the customs
of the people? Such, however, is the irony of Fate, inseparable from
nations as from individuals.