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 towards 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.
_Silence._--“Ah, sirrah! quoth-a, we shall
Do nothing but eat and make good cheer,
And praise Heaven for the merry year.”
_Second Part of King Henry IV._ Act V. Scene 3.
Germans are by English writers accused of heaviness of style and
laborious dulness; produced partly by their predilection for
metaphysics, and partly by their inclination towards mysticism.
_Martinus Scriblerus_ was born at Munster; and, although a German[9]
has since actually discovered the _materia subtilis_ ridiculed by Pope,
the prejudices of the practical philosophers of England, and in later
days of America, remain still as strong against them as ever. Every
one, I believe, is willing to concede to them the greatest quantity
of abstract learning; very few will give them credit for practical
knowledge, and a nice appreciation of the good things of this life.
I remember being once told by an Englishman that he did not think it
possible for a German to tell the difference between mutton and lamb,
inasmuch as both were served up in little bits at the best private
tables in Germany. Such a remark offered to a Frenchman would have made
his blood boil with rage, and probably have ended in a duel; but _I_
resolved upon taking a German vengeance, and proposed writing a small
dissertation on the origin, progress, and various applications of
eating to scientific, sociable, and political purposes.
Eating, according to the oldest and best records, was invented in
Paradise,--where we have strong reasons to suppose it constituted
the principal amusement of the first man. From this we may safely
infer that it was necessary to _primitive_ happiness; although, from
a singular perversity of taste, dinners then consisted merely of
desserts,--that is, of a choice variety of raw fruit: the chemical
process of cooking, the scientific arrangement by which thinking man
assimilates and subjects the universe to his own body, was reserved for
subsequent periods. The first sin was an _appetite_ for knowledge,--the
latter being communicated by the simple process of eating; which fact
is still commemorated, in the shape of regular anniversary dinners, by
most of the learned societies in England and on the Continent.
But eating was not long confined to learning; it extended itself
gradually to all other human pursuits, and, in course of time,
associated itself with politics, morals, and even religion. The
Christian Protestant religion is the only one which does not
prescribe a particular diet; and I have heard it asserted in
Frankfort-on-the-Maine, (a place where Jews are better known than
anywhere else,) that an Israelite may be considered as converted from
the moment he has tasted roast pork. With regard to morality, every
one knows the influence of a man’s diet on his passions, and how often
mildness and amiability of disposition are chiefly the result of a
particular regimen.
With regard to the fine arts, it has been observed by a celebrated
French professor of gastronomy, and with great justice too, that we
borrow the whole nomenclature from the taste,--that is, from the
palate. What would be tragedy or comedy without the words “bitter,”
“sour,” “sweet,” “mild,” &c.?--where would be your “sweet-hearts,
your sweet faces, sweet voices, and sweet dispositions?” And again,
what would become of your “sour dispositions,” your “bitter
disappointments,” and “galling vexations?” The strongest and most
lasting impressions are produced by the palate,--that is, by eating;
and hence poets and common people refer to them more frequently than
to the sensations conveyed by the other senses. “The pleasures of
the palate,” says the French philosopher, “are the most lasting,
and compensate us in our old age for the loss of nearly every other
enjoyment.”
But the most important influence of eating is exhibited in politics.
Here we observe, in the first place, the fact that a substantial
diet in a people is, with scarcely one exception inseparable from a
certain degree of rational freedom. It is for this reason principally
that the nations of the North are with great difficulty reduced to
slavery; while the South, more abstemious in eating, has always been
more easily conquered and subdued. This rule, however, I can assure
my readers, does not apply to the Southern States of America, whose
gallant inhabitants are as much used to turtle as any alderman of the
city of London, and as loyal as any British subject whenever they
are called upon to fire a “royal salute,” or, in other words, “empty
twenty-seven bumpers of madeira,” in honour of any of their celebrated
public characters. As a general rule, however, it may be remarked that
beef and mutton countries are the most difficult to be governed, or
rather that the people of those countries are more capable of governing
_themselves_ than any other; and that a nation becomes fit for a
democratic or _self_-government in exactly the same proportion as its
diet consists principally of meat.
With the knowledge of these facts, I would direct the attention of
travellers in the United States to the _stereotype_ bills of fare
they will find in nearly all the principal public houses; which, in
my opinion, will best enable them to form a correct estimate of the
republican sentiments of the Americans. As far as my experience goes,
they all run thus:--
“Roast beef, roast mutton, roast lamb, roast veal, roast pork, roast
pig, roast turkey, roast goose, roast chickens, roast pigeons, roast
ducks,” &c. To which, merely by way of appendix, are added the
comparatively insignificant items of “pudding, pastry, and dessert.”
For these, however, nobody cares; but the roasts generally go off well,
constituting both the pith and luxury of an American table. A few
aristocratic innovations on this rule have, indeed, been attempted by
the keepers of some of the crack boarding-houses and hotels; but they
were soon obliged to come back to the old standard of beef and mutton.
Even at private parties the roasts form the principal ornament of the
table; though, of late, some fashionable people, preceded by the ***
minister in Washington, have attempted, though in vain, to popularize
the taste for “_pâtés au foie gras_” and “_aux truffes_.”
The Americans eat _cold_ roast meat four times a day, viz. at
breakfast, lunch, tea, and supper; and _hot_ roast beef or mutton
twice, at breakfast and dinner:--hence, in spite of all the manœuvres
of the Whig and Bank party in the United States to overthrow the
democratic principles established by Jefferson, Jackson, and Van Buren,
the latter have always prevailed, in the same manner as the quantity
of beef consumed exceeded that of all other roast and boiled meats
taken together. This correspondence between a man’s food and political
principles was beautifully illustrated by the late Dr. Johnson, when,
in his reply to the American ditty,--
“Who rules o’er freemen must himself be free,” he sensibly remarked,--
“Who drives fat oxen must himself be fat.” That _impromptu_ alone was
worth three hundred a-year.
The use of _public dinners_ in a free country I need not dwell
upon; every one knows that they are the most powerful _stimulus_ to
patriotism and virtue. It is only after dinner that gentlemen can be
supposed to listen patiently to a long political argument, intended to
prove their antagonists to be arrant knaves, and their partisans men of
sound public principles. Calumny and eulogy are the necessary dessert
of a public meal,--a sort of _confiture_ taken after the appetite for
solid food has been appeased in a more satisfactory manner.
Dinners and suppers are also made use of for the purposes of
_diplomacy_; or, as is the case in the United States and in England,
for making political proselytes. Napoleon, used to conquest, knew yet
the value of good dinners. Instead of repeating the rules and maxims
laid down by Machiavelli for a young prince,--instead of echoing the
vile saying of Richelieu, “_Dissimuler, c’est regner_,”--he gave to his
parting ministers no other injunctions than “_Tenez bonne table, et
soignez les femmes_.”
A whole world lies in this injunction! “_Tenez bonne table_” precedes
the command “_Soignez les femmes_;” a proof that he considered the
latter, if not impossible, at least useless, without the former.
Talleyrand added to his political sagacity the most perfect
appreciation of good eating; both qualities being absolutely
indispensable to an ambassador. The compliment he paid to the
English, “that he never knew what French cooking was until he came
to England,” may be considered at once as a proof of his diplomatic
wisdom and taste. Count A----y, who keeps the diplomatic crack house in
Paris, maintains his influence with all parties by the most tasteful
entertainments; and it is generally believed that Count P----o di
B----o’s cook has as much contributed to the widespread reputation of
his master, as the consummate talents with which the latter has managed
the interests of his sovereign. Lord P----, as we are assured by a most
able writer in one of the best periodicals of the present day, has a
winning way of conciliating Tory ladies with Whig dinners: and if Lord
M----ne is less successful in this most important art of a minister, it
is, I am quite sure, because he prefers dining out to entertaining his
friends at home; a practice for which no public man was ever pardoned
in any country.
In a similar manner is eating made a means of making political converts
in the United States; but with the exception of two or three wealthy
families in Philadelphia, and half-a-dozen of the same kind in New York
and Baltimore, the _democrats_ are not in the habit of entertaining
people; (in England, according to the most respectable testimony, the
Whig lords entertain more than the Tories;) and it is on this account,
principally, that their case seems to be hopeless--in good society.
In the Western States there is a great deal of “treating” among the
“republicans;” but the honour of giving regular dinner-parties and hot
suppers belongs almost exclusively to “the aristocracy.”
These dinners and suppers are given to public men as a sort of
“_douceur_” for their honourable conduct; but, once accused of
democracy, its “no song, no supper.” The higher classes of Americans
apply the same method by which beasts are tamed and tutored, to the
representatives of the people; they feed them when they behave well,
and kick at them when they show themselves self-willed and disobedient.
In a few instances some of the government officers in Boston and
Philadelphia gave parties, at which there was a profusion of iced
champaign and chicken-salad; and the thing went off well enough:
the Whigs, _alias_ Tories, _alias_ National Republicans, _alias_
Federalists, came, as they always do when they are invited to a supper,
drank the wine, emptied the dishes, and went off saying, “It’s no use
for these people to imitate _us_; you cannot make a gentleman out of a
democrat.”
If it were not for the excellent dinners given by the President, and
the delightful circles at Mr. Secretary W***’s, the democratic senators
and members of Congress would never quit their messes, or would be
obliged to content themselves with a steak or a chop at one of the
two mulatto _restaurants_ in the Capitol. General Jackson, who was
great in everything, had also an excellent French cook; his dinners,
as Miss Martineau can testify, were in the best style, and his wines
of the most superior quality. “Oh, he is a delightful old gentleman!”
exclaimed a truly aristocratic lady of Baltimore,--“how amiable in his
private intercourse!--no one can be with him without loving him! I wish
he _were_ ambitious, and met with a better fate than Cæsar!”
The worst objection to democracy is, that, except taverns and
coffee-houses, both of which are in exceeding bad repute in the United
States, its followers have no regular _rendezvous_, no _réunions_, no
_petits comités_ amongst themselves, where its zealots might mutually
inspire one another with patriotic sentiments, after the example of
the Whigs, who, from time to time, refresh their dying love of liberty
with the best West India madeira, furnished by their own cellars. And
yet man is a gregarious animal, and, as we all know, woman still more
so; both like company, or, as the Americans express it, “love company,”
“admire company,” “dote upon company.” “They cannot always stick at
home;” the young ladies want to dance and to get married,--the young
gentlemen want to have an opportunity of addressing an heiress, and of
appearing to advantage in society. And of what use, after all, _are_
their good manners if they cannot show them? All these things operate
against democracy, and tend, in a considerable degree, to swell the
ranks of the opposition. The people, assuredly, are in possession of
all political power; but a very small number of individuals take it
upon themselves to fix the conventional standard.
“With whom are you going to dine to-day?” said a gentleman from
Philadelphia to one of his friends in Washington.
“With Mr. W***,” was the answer.
“Whom will you meet there?”
“Only General F----s, Mr. C***, and Mr. B***.”
“None of the _corps diplomatique_?”
“None that I know of.”
“No senator?”
“Only Mr. B*** and Dr. L***.”
“No Whig senator?”
“I believe not.”
“Why, then, do you go? You will neither dine well, nor will you be
amused; and, as for the wine, I never knew a democrat to be a good
judge of that article.”
This was the death-blow to the young man’s democracy. He was a
Virginian, and, as such, knew that it was impossible to be a gentleman
without being a good judge of wine and horse-flesh. He at first
blushed, but soon recovered from his embarrassment by sending “a
regret” to his democratic acquaintance. The day following he dined
_en petit comité_ with Mr. G***, where the ridicule thrown on popular
institutions undermined his principles still further; and in the
evening the ladies converted him fully to the principles of the
opposition.
With the knowledge of all these facts, I could not but tremble for the
fate of my pantalooned country representative, who, standing by the
side of one of the most enchanting Whig ladies of New York, was now
tucking up his cuffs in order to prepare himself for a valiant attack
on a goose. This substantial bird, so unjustly ridiculed by the most
odious comparisons with the more aristocratic but infinitely less
useful swan, is in America--where swans are fabulous animals--the
king of bipeds; capons being, either from natural charity to animals,
or from want of the higher refinements, seldom to be met with at an
American table. Admiral C----n, it is true, came to the United States
to teach the Americans the science of preparing fowl in that manner;
but, as he was himself but indifferently skilled in it, (his victims
usually crowed the third day after the operation,) the thing was given
up, as a practice too cruel to be indulged in “by an enlightened,
intellectual, and moral community,” and the admiral obliged to
return to England without the slightest hope of securing to himself
that enduring fame which future generations award to the lights and
benefactors of their race.
The attack now began simultaneously on all sides, the square-built
tribune still keeping his position near the lady of the house, and
looking upon her more and more tenderly as he was cutting away at
the goose. There was a mixture of gratitude and benevolence in his
smile which seemed to tell her that she had not been mistaken; that
there was still some hope of winning him,--some slight chance of
teaching him refinement and good taste. Accordingly, when he had done
eating,--that is, when he could eat no more,--and had rinsed his mouth,
in the only way he ever went through that process, by swallowing, in
rapid succession, something like half-a-dozen glasses of madeira,--the
lady took his arm, whispering, in one of her softest accents, that
she disliked a crowd, and that they had better have some chat in the
parlour.”
“With all my heart,” said the tribune, wiping his mouth with a
checkered pocket-handkerchief; “I really do not see what business
people have here after they have supped.”
“At my house, sir,” replied the lady, every one is at liberty to do as
he pleases.”
“Quite a _clever_ party, ma’am,” rejoined he, turning down the cuffs of
his coat.
“I am glad you amuse yourself.”
“Oh that I do! I always amuse myself at a party.”
Here the lady made a confused sign of acknowledgment.
“But when we give a party in _our_ place,” continued the unabashed man
of the people, “we don’t give such suppers: I have heard the gentleman
next to me say that the table, just as it was, must have cost three
hundred dollars.”
“Why,” stammered the lady, “it’s impossible for me to say.”
“I dare say it cost a great deal more,” continued the tribune; “I
should not like to father the bill.”
“How old is your eldest daughter, sir?” demanded the lady, by way of
changing the conversation.
“Pretty nearly sixteen; she is quite a woman, ma’am.”
“Why don’t you bring her to town? I should be happy to make her
acquaintance.”
“Very much obliged to you for your kindness, ma’am; but it won’t do.
New York is too expensive a place; I should not be able to keep my
daughter in the fashions, and, without that, she would not find much
pleasure in a stay in this city.”
“Come, come, that’s an old-fashioned notion of yours; you would not
bring up your daughter as a country girl, would you?”
“Not exactly that; but still I like her to know something about
housekeeping. Your fine city ladies do not seem to trouble themselves
much about that.”
“Why, they have other things to do,” said the lady, almost impatiently.
“I know that,” said the imperturbable representative; “and those things
are precisely the ones I do not like my girl to learn.”
“But how are you off for society in your village, or rather
_town_?--isn’t it a _town_?”
“Yes, ma’am, it _is_ a town, and quite a flourishing one too. We have
this year built a new school-house and a tavern.”
“Very fine buildings, I dare say.”
“Oh no, ma’am! only of wood. We can only afford to build our
school-houses of wood; there is no stone building in our place, _except
the bank_. We are not as rich as the people of New York, and have
not as much credit either; but, if things go on well, we shall build
another school-house in the course of a year or two, and add a new
wing or story to the tavern. We have raised the schoolmaster’s _wages_
already a dollar a month; and, if the place goes on increasing, we
shall have to look out for an usher.”
“I am glad you are doing so well.”
“Thank you, ma’am. We have had more than a hundred new people settling
among us during the last two years; some of them quite respectable.
Mr. Smith, an Englishman, is a very good blacksmith, and understands
breaking colts; a young man of the name of Biddle--no relation to
the great Nic’las Biddle though--is a good tanner; then we had a new
accession of carpenters and day-labourers from Ireland, ‘as many as you
can shake a stick at.’”
“But, in a growing place, it must be difficult to find agreeable people
to visit.”
“We don’t think of visiting; we have other things to do.”
This was the cue for the lady.
“Oh! you are probably taken up with _politics_,” said the lady; “a’n’t
you?”
“Why, we are a pretty patriotic set, ma’am; all republicans to the
back-bone.”
“I am glad to hear that,” replied the lady; “I am myself a republican.”
“That’s right, ma’am; it’s of no use to be anything else in _this_
country. I can’t, for my life, see how people _can_ be anything else.”
“Nor I either,” replied the lady. “I am sure I am as proud of my
country as any one else.”
“And good reasons you have to be so,” added the tribune; “it’s the
first country in the world for an industrious man, such as I know your
husband to be.”
“I don’t mean in that way,” observed the lady, somewhat embarrassed; “I
am proud of its republican institutions.”
“It’s the only free country in the world, you may depend upon it.”
“Besides _England_. I think our people go too far in their liberty.”
“I don’t think people _can_ go too far in that; the freer the better,
is my motto.”
“That’s a very dangerous principle, sir; it leads necessarily to
anarchy.”
“I have often heard it said, but I never believed it. In our town, for
instance, we are all democrats, and yet I never knew a row there ever
since I was born; while your nice people of New York run riot on the
most trifling occasion.”
“That’s owing to the great number of foreigners we have among us;
people who have been slaves at home, and on that account have the most
extravagant notion of liberty.”[10]
“Why, ma’am, our town consists almost wholly of foreigners, and is
as quiet as possible. I think that people who have been oppressed
before, may be as much attached to liberty as those who, from its daily
enjoyment, have grown indifferent towards it.”
“Why, what singular notions you have, Mr. ***!” exclaimed the lady; “I
hope you are not an advocate of the _rabble_?”
“Certainly not; I represent the _people_ of my township.”
“You do not understand me. When I speak of ‘the rabble,’ I mean those
who have no interest whatever in maintaining our institutions,--foreign
paupers and adventurers, and particularly the Irish. I have no
objection to liberty in the abstract. I think all men, with the
exception of our negroes, ought to be free; but I cannot bear the
ridiculous notion of equality which seems to have taken hold of our
people, and which, if it be not counteracted by persons who have
the power to do so,” (here she bestowed a significant look upon the
tribune), “must eventually prove the ruin of our country.”
“I have heard this before,” replied he, “and I saw it in print too; but
I never believed a word of it. It’s all got up for party purposes; you
may depend upon it, ma’am.”
“Ah, sir! but I see the truth of it every day of my life.”
“In what manner, pray?”
“Good gracious! do you ask me that question? Is it not a matter of
fact? Can there be the least doubt about a thing which is known to all?
Why, it seems you live somewhat out of the world. Do you ever read the
newspapers?”
“Indeed I do. There are two of them published in our town,--an
administration and an opposition paper.”
“Which of the two do you subscribe to?”
“To the administration paper of course. I have always been a democrat.”
“Oh! you are a dem-o-crat, are you?”
“My friends call me one at least.”
“Ah, then you are a democrat for a particular purpose. _That_ I can
understand. A man may have a particular object in calling himself a
democrat, especially in this country; but no well-informed gentleman,
I am sure, would be so mad as to seriously advocate a doctrine which
administers to the passions of the mob, at the expense of the rights
and privileges of the better classes. You would not intrust the
government to paupers, would you?”
“I believe we have very few paupers in this country, except those who
are unwilling to work,” replied the representative.
“But if you saw the number of Irish and Germans that are landing here
every day--”
“The country is large enough to furnish work for all.”
“But they come sometimes five thousand in a week.”
“The more the better.”
“But would you make citizens of them? Would you allow them to vote?”
“Why not, if they have become naturalized according to law?”
“Do you think those wretches can ever feel what _we_ do,--_whose
fathers fought and bled for liberty_?”
“But, by granting the privilege of voting only to those that are
_born_ in the country, you necessarily make citizenship an hereditary
distinction, contrary to the spirit of the American constitution.”
“But are not hereditary distinctions necessary to a certain degree of
greatness? Look at the English, at their literature, their refinement,
their manners; and compare them with ours!”
“I know very little about the English, and care less,” replied the
tribune. “I do not think that the institutions of Europe would answer
for this country. We are a young people. Our wants are few, and easily
satisfied; and, as we had in the outset no other interests to protect
but those of the masses, I do not see of what use hereditary privileges
could be to us, except to make the proud prouder, and the rich more
influential, than they already are, much to the dissatisfaction of our
party; and, as for manners and refinement, I think we are doing very
well, considering that our fashionable people have _to import_ them
from Europe. We are essentially an industrious people,” added he; “and
nothing promotes industry so much as to let all men start fair and
even, the foreigner himself not excepted. When there will be no more
land to be disposed of to new settlers, then there will come the time
for making laws for the _preservation_ of property; at present our
chief duty is to facilitate its _acquisition_.”
“And would you make no allowances for superior education and learning?’”
“To be sure I would; for such learning as may be applied to some useful
purpose,--‘not for the fiddle-stick accomplishments of your capering
young boys.’”
“But don’t you think democracy has a natural tendency towards vulgarity
and bad manners?”
“Certainly not, ma’am! certainly not! I am a great advocate of
politeness,--good manners, I say,--give me good manners by all means!”
“But how do you reconcile good manners with the everlasting hurrahing
for General Jackson and Martin Van Buren?”
“That has nothing to do with good manners; that’s what we call
_enthusiasm_.”
“_We_, sir, call it madness--downright madness! Jackson has ruined the
country.”
“I see some folks are doing pretty well, for all that.”
“The country went on prosperously until Jackson took it into his head
to quarrel with the Bank. He has set the poor against the rich.”
“Why, ma’am, when I went last up the river to Albany, and then down
again to Philadelphia, I found there was quite as much travelling
going on this season as in former years,--just as much wine drunk,
just as much eaten; and, compared to last year, rather a little more
brandy used than might be thought consistent with the reports of
our temperance societies. And, as for setting the poor against the
rich, that is a mere matter of opinion. The question of the Bank is
a party question. We have attacked it on constitutional grounds, and
the opposition have defended it from mercantile policy. We think the
constitution of greater importance than anything which is done under
it.”
“I see, sir, you are wholly taken up with those doctrines which will
eventually prove the destruction of the country. For my own part, I
want no better proof of the justice or injustice of either principle
_than the comparative respectability of the men who advocate it_.”
Here the lady drew herself back, and cast a side glance at the tribune,
who, keeping his eyes fixed upon the points of his boots, appeared for
the first time disconcerted by the argument of his fair antagonist.
He attempted a reply, stammered a few words which were inaudible, and
then looked again at his boots. The lady, perceiving his embarrassment,
and the effect of applying the argument _ad hominem_, came to his
aid by assuring him that she had, in her time, known a great many
“smart democrats” who had all gradually become “respectable Whigs.”
“Democracy,” said she, “is a very good beginning,--a sort of political
breakfast, prepared in haste, which sits very well on an empty stomach;
but it is not the thing a man can dine on, it is altogether too common
for that.
“In a little time,” added she, “you will be convinced of your error,
as many an honest man has been before you. Colonel W***, for instance,
has become quite respectable since he gave up General Jackson. Mr.
O*** H*** came round in due time; and the list of converts is expected
to swell from day to day, in proportion as the people become more and
more civilized. It is only in _that_ way that politicians can expect to
have a standing in society; which democrats seldom have, owing to the
peculiarity of their doctrines.”
These words, pronounced with a strong emphasis, and with all the
aristocratic dignity she could summon to her aid, were not entirely
lost upon the tribune, who now looked the lady full in the face,
without proffering a single syllable. He probably reflected on his
children, on the impossibility of ever introducing them into society as
long as he professed to be an advocate of the people: his experience
as a public man had probably shown him that he could leave to his
children no worse inheritance than the remembrance of his being “a
regular democrat;” that his sons would be avoided, and his daughters
remain unnoticed, if he did not change his political doctrines.
He knew, or might have known, that the inquisition in Spain never
exercised so direct and deadening an influence on the minds of the
Spaniards, as the intolerance of the higher classes in the United
States on the minds of aspiring politicians; and that, in general,
the despots of Europe are more willing to make allowances for youth,
inexperience, enthusiasm, and political conviction, than the wealthy
aristocrats of the American republic. Yet his honesty and fortitude
triumphed; he remained imperturbable. But he felt the sting of her
satire; and perceiving that he had mistaken his place, and that it
was best for him to associate with his _equals_, he “sneaked off,”
if possible, with a stronger hatred and contempt for the haughty
aristocracy of New York than he had entertained before he had tasted of
its hospitality.
“Shall I not see you to-morrow at my counting-room?” whispered the
master of the house into his ears when he saw him ready to leave the
room.
“I don’t know whether I shall have time,” replied the country
representative sulkily.
“Why, what’s the matter, sir? I shall not let you go until you have
tasted my old sherry; come, Mr. ***, let us have a glass of wine
together.”
“Thank you, sir! I a’n’t dry. _I have had quite as much as I could wish
for._ Good night!”
The gentleman looked for an explanation of this extraordinary conduct
to his wife, and in an instant all was clear.
“How can you trouble yourself with such a bore?” whispered he;
“that’s not the way to win him. If you cannot effect your purpose by
flattery,--censure, I am sure, will not do it. These proud, stupid,
stubborn country fellows require more management than you are aware
of. You must puff them up; impress them with the notion of their own
importance; show them how their talents might be employed in a nobler
cause, &c. If that won’t answer, you must endeavour to alienate their
wives and children by instilling into them a taste for fashionable
society, and, if possible, run them in debt. When their habits have
become extravagant, when they are once in debt, then we talk to them
differently,--one _accommodation_ requires another.”
“That man,” observed my friend, “understands his business well; but
his wife is a mere tyro in the art of converting people to her own
persuasion. That representative may yet be won. I have seen better men
corrupted, and with less means than will be employed against him; but,
should he hold out, nothing will equal the abuse which will be heaped
upon him.
“It is indeed strange,” continued he, “to see how these two parties
hate one another; how there is not the least communion or good
fellowship amongst them; how they avoid each other on all occasions;
and what a complete system of proscription is practised by the higher
classes with regard to the unfortunate democrats! Prince Metternich
cannot hold the Radicals in greater abhorrence than they are held by
the wealthy merchants, lawyers, and bankers in the United States. And,
as regards our Whig politicians, they might go to Europe to learn
_moderation_ and _tolerance_ at the courts of absolute sovereigns.
“And is it not strange, that, in a country in which the _passion_ of
love is probably less felt than anywhere else, _hatred_ should form so
great an ingredient in the national composition? And what hatred too!
the most constant,--the most steady,--the most unceasing that has ever
been known to separate individuals or nations!
“‘Hatred,’ says Goethe, ‘like love, dies when it ceases to increase;’
but he had no idea of the cool, calm, collected, slow hatred of certain
classes of Americans. They are not like the French, who, when offended,
cannot rest until they are revenged; not like the Germans, who are not
easily offended; but being ‘wrought, perplexed in the extreme,’ they
can wait for years until a _convenient_ opportunity offers itself for
paying off an insult or destroying an enemy.
“I remember, a short time ago, when a public man in Philadelphia had
acted a double part towards me, to have called upon an acquaintance and
expressed my indignation at what I thought ungentlemanly and villanous
conduct. ‘What is the use of your saying so now?’ said he with great
calmness; ‘why don’t you keep cool, and wait for an opportunity of
paying him off in his own coin with interest?’
“Nor is it always possible to tell when they _are_ offended. They have
too much self-respect to show that they are wrought, but calmly wait
for the proper time of seizing upon their victim. The hatred of most
men dies when the object of their dislike is removed,--when they are
revenged,--when their victim is passed to another world. Not so with
the educated Americans. They hate even the _memory_ of those that have
thwarted their designs. Robespierre is not more detested in France,
than Jefferson and Jackson are among the higher classes of Americans.
I have seen fashionable women in Boston and Philadelphia almost thrown
into convulsions at the very mention of their names. And what appears
most strange is, that this hatred is hereditary; for it is a fact,
no less interesting than instructive, that the higher classes in the
United States have no political conviction at all. Their professions
that way are the result of mere bias, produced by the opinions and
sentiments of their early friends and associates. Democracy is in bad
odour among the fashionable circles, which is quite sufficient for
every coxcomb to despise it, and to affect an abhorrence of its ‘vulgar
and profligate’ champions. There exists, in America, the same feeling
with regard to republicanism which characterized the French shortly
after the publication of the works of Voltaire and Rousseau with regard
to religion: every one wants to escape from the lash of satire, and
therefore shows in words and actions that he is one of those to whom it
does not apply.
“It is quite common for educated and travelled Americans to _apologize_
to Englishmen for the extraordinary degree of freedom enjoyed by the
lower orders. Their usual excuse is, ‘that the constitution of the
United States was the work of momentary enthusiasm, which, when the
people shall have cooled down, must necessarily undergo such wholesome
alterations and modifications as reason and experience shall dictate.’
In the mean while they must go on as well as they can, until the
influence of wealth and the gradual return to the sound doctrines of
English statesmanship, or, perhaps, also ‘the evils incidental to a
popular government,’ shall have prepared the people for a different
administration of their affairs, more suitable to the tranquil
enjoyment of life. If it were not for the hue and cry raised by
Jefferson and Jackson, the thing might have been done long ago; but,
unfortunately for the peace and prosperity of the country, there will
always be vagabonds enough--people who have everything to gain, and
nothing to lose,--ready to follow such leaders!”
“As a proof of the attachment of certain old families to England,” said
I to my friend, “and the ludicrous notions of their own importance, I
must repeat to you the speech of a gentleman from the Eastern States,
with whom I had the honour of dining three or four years ago. Dinner
went off prosperously; and, the company being small, the bottle came
round faster than some of us could wish, until, as a finish, one of the
gentlemen present proposed that each of us should give a toast. When it
came to my turn, I, as a loyal German, could not but propose the health
of the Archduke Charles of Austria. ‘Bravo!’ shouted the master of the
house, ‘a good old toast that! drunk many a time at my father’s house
with three times three and all the honours! I shall not do worse by the
duke than my parent.’ And hereupon the health of the archduke was drunk
in a bumper.
“‘But,’ said I, ‘in 1809, the Archduke of Austria was an ally of
England; and at that time matters in America were assuming a serious
aspect, the war with Britain being considered as unavoidable.’
“‘I know that,’ rejoined mine host: ‘but what would have become of
England if _we_ had forsaken her at that time?’
“What a debt of gratitude does England owe to America! and yet what an
ill-natured, peevish, ungenerous return do the English make for so much
kindness bestowed upon them by their friends across the Atlantic!”
“But do you not think,” demanded I of my friend, “that this English
aristocratic feeling--this going in mourning for monarchy of the old
Federalists,--is gradually dying away?”
“To be sure it is,” replied he; “but another, much more arrogant in
its nature, is taking the place of it. ‘The old Federalists,’ as you
are pleased to call them, who, if not attached to England, at least
openly avowed their admiration of the British constitution, were, in
spite of their predilection in favour of English manners, infinitely
less exclusive and intolerant, and much less addicted to the spirit of
castes, than our ‘aristocratic Whigs’ of the present day, who would
rather shut themselves up in hermetically sealed houses than share
the light of heaven with a mechanic. The former acknowledged at least
some power at home or abroad, to which they considered themselves
responsible; the latter aim at the absolute government of the country.
“‘England,’ say our _first people_, ‘is the freest country in the
world,’ (which I, for one, am not disposed to deny, inasmuch as a man
may speak his opinion there, without setting the whole nation against
him, and running the risk of being tarred and feathered,) ‘and yet in
England,’ they say, ‘there exists the least equality of conditions.
Do we wish to be wiser than the English? Shall we shake hands with
every one? associate with every one, and treat every one as our equal,
because, forsooth, his _vote_ is as good as ours?’
“Some years ago,” continued my friend, “I remember being told very
seriously by a red-nosed friend of mine,--who, by the by, was a
great advocate of te-totalism, but had lived rather freely in his
youth,--that most Europeans, but especially the vulgar English,
have a notion that in America there is no rank or distinction of
castes. ‘Here,’ said he, ‘is a letter I just received from an English
music-master, to whom I was obliged to send a note in consequence of
his want of punctuality in paying his rent. The note, of course, was
written in a plain _business style_, reminding him merely of the fact
that the money would fall due on the 15th instant. Now what do you
think _the fellow_ did? He wrote me back a note couched in precisely
the same terms, and, if possible, more cavalierly than my own; as
if the whole were a transaction between two individuals of the same
standing.’ Here he read me the note, which, as far as I am able to
recollect, ran thus:
“‘Mr. *** has received Mr. ***’s note of this morning, and, in reply to
it, assures Mr. *** that his rent will be ready _when due_, and that
it would equally have been so without Mr. *** reminding him of it.’
“‘Such,’ said he, ‘are the notions of the low English that come to this
country!”
“‘Did you take any further steps in the matter?” demanded I.
“‘Oh, no, sir; I thought it best to take no notice of him.”
“Now, where was the impudence of the man, who was dunned before he
became a debtor? and what English landlord would have been more shocked
with the insolence of his tenant, under similar circumstances?
“Another species of tyranny,” continued my friend, “exercised by the
higher classes of Americans consists in the proscription of all people
belonging, or rather attempting to belong, to different sets. If you
belong to the first society, you must not by any chance accept an
invitation to the second, or shake hands in a friendly manner with
people who are supposed to be of an inferior standing, except it be
on election day for a political purpose. If you belong to the second,
you may, of course, try with all your might ‘to push for the first;’
but, if you are once seen with the third, you have done even with the
second: and so on.
“The French had, even under Charles X, too much democracy in their
composition to be taken for safe models by the enlightened Americans;
and, now, even the English are becoming too far liberalised to serve as
a proper standard for our aristocracy.
“If the manners of the English are, in general, stiff and reserved,
those of our fashionable people are rude and repulsive; for we have
the peculiar faculty of improving on everything we borrow from Europe,
commencing with the cut of our clothes, and ending with our language
and manners.
“It is for this reason the dress of our young ladies--and especially
the _costume de bal_--is less becoming than that of the French;
their _air dégagé_ is apt to be mistaken for forwardness; and their
conversation, where the thing is at all attempted, is fraught with the
slang--or, what is worse, the _learning_--of the boarding-school.
Whenever one of our girls ‘gets an European education,’ an attempt
is made to make her a walking encyclopædia of arts and sciences; and
this, not so much for the sake of developing her mind, as to make her
‘superior to other girls,’ whom she is to outshine in society. I once
heard a gentleman recommend an instructor to teach his daughter ‘a
little of everything.’ ‘I want her,’ said he, ‘to know _a little_ of
Latin and Greek, a little of mathematics, a little of astronomy, and a
little of everything else; in short, I never want her to be embarrassed
in society, let the conversation turn on what it may.’ There is a
young lady of that description here. She has just done spouting Virgil
to one man, and Euclid to another, and now she is playing a waltz
on the piano. She has a whole circle of admirers, fresh from the
counting-room, around her, who, I dare be sworn, look upon her as the
eighth wonder of the world; only an Englishman was impudent enough
to observe that her acquirements tasted, one and all, of ‘Murray’s
Elements.’
“As a _pendant_ to the fashionable lady, you may notice, opposite
the looking-glass, one of our American exquisites. His dress was made
in London, but his manners are those of the most accomplished French
coxcomb. His air, gait, and voice are affected, the latter being almost
screwed to a childish treble; his conversation is copiously sprinkled
with foreign idioms, and he has the vanity of inviting the young
ladies of his acquaintance to smell his hair, which he assures them is
_scented with real Persian perfume_! Could you expect such a man to be
in favour of a less rigid distinction of castes? Could you imagine him
to associate with people whose hair is only greased with pomatum, or,
as is but too frequently the case in this country, with nothing but
natural grease?
“And now look, for one moment, on our _middle-aged_ gentlemen and
ladies. Among the first we reckon those who are settled down in some
respectable business; the latter term comprises all the married women
in the country. At a party you can always distinguish them, even if
they should happen to be _young_, by their greater sobriety; the men
being satisfied with talking about business, and the women, if they do
not belong to the very tip-top of fashion, being quietly seated near
the wall, or in some corner of the room, talking, at times, very loud
amongst themselves, but modestly answering the embarrassing variety of
questions addressed to them by the gentlemen, of which unfortunately I
was never able to remember more than two, viz. ‘How do you do, ma’am?’
and then, in the course of a quarter of an hour, with a pathetic
emphasis and a sigh, ‘How do you do again?’
“It has been asserted that, notwithstanding our many social
deficiencies, there is yet a vast deal of _intelligence_ in many of
our small evening circles. This, in general, may be true; but I do
not think our people understand the art of amusing themselves. We
have little of the _laisser aller_ of the French, and still less of
_la bagatelle_. Moreover, we do not trust one another sufficiently,
even at our parties. We always are, or imagine ourselves to be, in
public, where we may meet with the eye of a reporter, and, perchance,
see ourselves in print. Some of our first people went to Europe for
the express purpose of learning how to live; but, on their return,
never did more than go through the regular exercises of entertaining
people,--a thing which proved to be as great a source of annoyance to
themselves, as it was one of cheerless dissipation to their friends.
“Our people, in fact, will continue to remain tyros in the art of
living, until they will have learned how to _laugh_. The occasional
shaking of the diaphragm--absolutely necessary to the health of
people not in a habit of taking active exercise--is a practice only
popular among the negroes in the Southern States, who, to judge from
appearances, are the happiest people in the Union. In New England
I have only, now and then, remarked a spasmodic contraction of the
muscles of the face approaching a smile or a grin; and in Boston, a
city of more than eighty thousand inhabitants, there were but two
gentlemen--one of English and the other of German extraction--who
were known to have ever burst out in a horse-laugh. The much-praised
intelligence of the higher classes of that ‘learned’ city resembles
truly a December sun;--it gives you enough light to see by, but you
require a fire to be comfortable.”
Hardly had he spoken these words before a new general move betokened
the breaking-up of the party. The married ladies and gentlemen had, in
fact, been ready to go home ever since supper was over; but remained,
either to oblige their children, or out of politeness to their
entertainers, who were particularly anxious of the honour of keeping
_late_ hours. Sundry gapes and heavy eyelids had, indeed, long ago
indicated their disposition to go to rest; but they were not taken
notice of by the dancers, who appeared to be as fresh as ever, and
prepared for the by no means unusual thing of a second supper. The good
sense of the elderly portion, however, prevailed; and in a few moments
every young _gallant_ was on his knees--to assist his fair partner
to put on her India rubber overshoes, (for in the United States no
servant is permitted to touch the foot of a lady,) and the company
separated, after saluting the lady of the house, and shaking the hand
of the gentleman.
FOOTNOTES:
[9] Mr. Encke of Berlin.
[10] This is an argument I have constantly heard used against
Europeans.