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.
_Mons. Jourdain._--“Et comme l’on parle, qu’est-ce que c’est donc que
cela?”
_Le maître de philosophie._--“De la prose.”
_Mons. Jourdain._--“Quoi! quand je dis, ‘Nicole, apportez-moi mes
pantoufles, et me donnez mon bonnet de nuit,’ c’est de la prose?”
_Le maître de philosophie._--“Oui, monsieur.”
_Mons. Jourdain._--“Par ma foi! il y a plus de quarante ans que je dis
de la prose sans que j’en susse rien; et je vous suis le plus obligé
du monde de m’avoir appris cela.”
MOLIERE’S _Bourgeois Gentilhomme_, Act ii. Scene 5.
Those of my readers who are not aware of the fact that New York is
an excellent place for shell-fish, know in all probability little
or nothing of the many elegant subterraneous establishments called
“oyster-cellars” which adorn the principal avenues and public places
of the great American Persepolis. The good people of New York swear
that their oysters are the best in the world; and though I, for my
own part, greatly prefer the delicate little “natives” of Colchester,
or the still more savoury “green oysters of Ostend,” I never before
now dared to express my opinion on so delicate a subject, for fear of
becoming unpopular, and being eventually excluded from society. One
thing, however, I can testify; which is, that the Americans display,
in the different modes of _cooking_ and _dressing_ them, a degree of
refinement altogether incommensurate with the little progress they have
thus far made in other equally useful and important branches of the
culinary art.
The New-Yorkers alone have, I believe, twenty different ways of cooking
oysters; the Philadelphians, who will not suffer themselves to be in
anything outdone by their neighbours, twenty-one; and the Baltimorians
boast of a still greater variety of dishes prepared of that most
excellent shell-fish. This, in a country in which there is but one way
of dressing meat, and precisely the same number of sorts of gravy, is
certainly a most extraordinary phenomenon, and betokens an aristocratic
predilection in favour of that slippery _friandise_, sufficient to
establish its vast superiority over roast beef, the standing dish of
the great mass of the American people. Oysters, in fact, have acquired
a patrician reputation; though, like most of the distinctions lately
introduced into the United States, they are only to be found along
the sea-coast, and for the most part bedded _in sand_. Some of them
occasionally find their way to the “Western Country;” but they seldom
remain there long in _good odour_. I could tell a number of crack
stories on this subject; but, my diary having already grown longer than
I at first anticipated, I am obliged to omit them, and content myself
with mentioning the important schism, which, ever since the quakers
established themselves in Philadelphia, separated the respectable
inhabitants of that city from the enterprising descendants of the great
Knickerbocker.
The Philadelphians maintain that _their_ oyster-cellars are by far
the most elegant, the most costly, and the most select in point
of company, of any in the United States; which, they say, must
strike any one who will take the trouble of spending the hours from
ten in the evening till one in the morning in one of the splendid
subterraneous vaults of that sort in Chesnut-street. “Not only,” say
the Philadelphians, “would he be astonished at the taste and splendour
of all the arrangements,--at the vastness, and even magnificence of
the rooms, the excellence of the wines, &c.--but also at the number
of respectable young men, sons of the first families, who, by their
nightly presence, give a high _ton_ to these establishments. An
oyster-cellar may, indeed, be considered as a school for good breeding;
and is, in a singularly felicitous manner, emblematic of the happiness,
quiet, and self-sufficiency of the peaceable inhabitants of the city
‘of brotherly love.’ Besides, the oyster-cellars in Philadelphia are
mostly kept by _white_ men; which fact would of itself be sufficient to
establish their superiority over the negro and mulatto establishments
of that kind in the comparatively dirty city of New York.”
Hereupon the New-Yorkers remark “that the company which frequent
_their_ oyster-cellars, though perhaps not quite so respectable and
numerous in the _evening_, is nevertheless a great deal more so in
_day-time_; that the Philadelphia company is often _mixed_, and in
some instances absolutely _vulgar_, owing to the low price of oysters;
whereas in New York, where good oysters cannot be procured for less
than 37¹⁄₂ cents (equal to about 1_s._ 6_d._) a dozen, _loafers_ (this
is the American term for blackguards) are completely excluded, and
sent to the more plebeian beef-shops. As regards the stigma of having
their oyster-shops kept by negroes and mulattoes, it is to be observed
that of late a number of ‘clever white men’ have taken that lucrative
business out of the hands of the Africans, by whom it has been too
long degraded, and introduced a series of improvements in every respect
worthy of the high reputation which distinguishes New York among her
sister cities.”
But there is one point in which the New-Yorkers have an immeasurable
advantage over the Philadelphians,--an advantage which proves their
city as much superior to Philadelphia as Paris is to a country
town of France, or London to a rotten borough; viz. the New York
oyster-cellars remain open until three or four in the morning, whereas
the Philadelphians close theirs very soon after one: a custom which is
vulgar and provincial in the extreme; and prevents many a gentleman,
who has made but an indifferent supper at a party, from procuring
himself the gratification of the nightmare.
These preliminaries, I think, will be sufficient to introduce the
gentle reader to the sort of establishment towards which my friend and
I were now wending our way. The city hall clock had long ago struck
the hour of one; the crowd, which till late in the evening renders
Broadway a scene of busy activity, had dispersed to their respective
homes; and the inhabitants of the great commercial emporium of the New
World actually appeared to have gone to rest for the night; when, on
approaching the _Café de l’Indépendance_, the mingled sound of voices
and instruments convinced us that a certain portion of the Americans
at least were in the habit of keeping later hours than even the
Parisians.[11]
“Let us look in,” proposed my friend. “It’s quite a nice establishment.
The furniture alone cost more than fifty thousand dollars.”
“Is it not too late?” demanded I. “I thought I heard you say you wanted
some oysters: will they not shut up in the mean time?”
“No danger of that,” replied he: “the oyster-cellars of this city are
on the plan of the early breakfast houses in London; they give you a
supper or a breakfast, whichever you please.”
On entering the coffee-room, we found ourselves enveloped in a
dense cloud of smoke, which at first prevented us from discerning
the corps of German musicians that were regaling a motley group of
Europeans and Americans with some of the best compositions of their
countrymen. In justice to the Americans, I am bound to say that
nine-tenths of the whole company present were foreigners,--principally
Frenchmen and Spaniards, who seemed to be very little afflicted with
home-sickness,--enjoying, perhaps for the first time in their lives,
their _petit verre_ and cigar without the surveillance of the _haute
police_, or the disagreeable intrusion of some municipal guards.
“These Frenchmen,” said my friend, “cannot be happy without _cafés_ and
_estaminets_. Deprive them of their _demi-tasse_, their _petit verre_,
and their _partie de domino_, and you set them at once in a state of
rebellion; and yet I never saw a place in which they appear to be more
at home than in New York.”
“I have heard it said this morning that a Frenchman would rather live
in New York than in any town of France, except Paris.”
“And well he may,” rejoined my friend. “There is nothing more tiresome
than a residence in a provincial town of France.”
“What surprises me most,” resumed I, “is that the French in this
country take so little interest in politics.”
“That is easily accounted for,” observed my friend. “Politics, in
France, are the exclusive occupation of editors, from whom the people
receive their daily allowance, with such seasoning as suits the
peculiarity of their taste: in America, on the contrary, every man is
called upon to take an active part in them, which is more than a man is
willing to do who is as fond of amusement as a Frenchman.”
While he was delivering his opinion in this manner, an elderly
gentleman rose from behind a marble slab table, and, seizing the hand
of my friend, exclaimed, in an accent which very strongly resembled the
Gascon,
“_Que diable! faites-vous ici à cette heure-ci? Je croyais toujours
qu’il n’y avait que les Français qui se tenaient débout après
minuit! Et n’avez-vous pas peur qu’on vous dénonce demain dans les
journaux,--vous qui êtes un homme public?_”
“_Taisez-vous donc, monsieur_,” whispered my friend; “_vous me
trahissez_.”
“Is de gentleman vid you an American?” demanded the Frenchman in a low
voice, and in broken English.
“To all intents and purposes he is,” answered my friend.
“_Je vous comprends_,” said the Frenchman with a significant nod. “’Tis
is a very fine evening, sar!”
“Very fine, indeed,” responded I.
“Do you tink it vil rain to-morrow?”
“I hope it may; it is most excessively warm.”
“Dat is de reason I am ’ere,” said the Frenchman; “I cannot slip ven it
is so very ’ot!”
“And how is your lady?” demanded my friend.
“Very vel, I tank you, sar! Madame D***, you know, is most happy ven
she is alone. _C’est son caractère Bréton._”
“Have you been at the theatre this evening?” continued my friend in his
interrogatory.
“No, sar! I never go to de teatre,” replied the Frenchman. “I have
given lessons until very late, and just came ’ere to read _le Courier
des Etats-Unis_ before going to bed. _Puis-je vous offrir quelque
chose?_”
“I am much obliged to you; but it is too late,” replied my friend.
“Too late!” exclaimed the Frenchman with affected astonishment; then
suddenly recollecting himself, and taking out his watch, “_Upon my
honneur_,” cried he, “it is past two a clock. I ’ad no idee dat it vos
so late;” and, without saying another word, the poor fellow took up his
hat and cane, and vanished through the back entry.
“That Frenchman,” observed my friend, “is one of the most arrant
cowards I ever saw in this country. He has married an American lady;
and is afraid lest his being seen at a public-house should exclude
him from the society of his wife’s acquaintance. We have a good many
foreigners among us, on whom the dread of public opinion, and the
peculiar fashions of our people, act as a similar restraint. You can
hardly say of any man in this country that he is master _in his own
house_; much less is he at liberty to act as he pleases _in public_;
but there are very few Frenchmen among us, I assure you, at least among
the wealthier classes, who do not think with Molière’s _Tartuffe_,
‘_que ce n’est pas pêcher que de pêcher en silence_.’ But it’s now high
time to leave this place if we wish to take aught before going to bed.”
So saying, he threw some change on the plate which one of the musicians
presented to him, and, snatching up his hat, opened the door for our
exit.
When we re-entered Broadway, the moon had spread her mantle over the
house-tops; a delicious breeze, which during the heat of day had been
sleeping on the breast of the ocean, whispered comfort to the weary
citizens; the dim noise of the multitude had wholly subsided; and the
rattle of carriages, growing fainter and fainter, gradually died away
at a distance. On approaching the neighbourhood of the Park, however,
new traces of life appeared, until at last the brilliant façade of
the theatre, surrounded by a host of liquor-shops, eating-houses, and
oyster-cellars, presented itself through the dark-green foliage with
the magic light of an enchanted castle.
“This part of the town,” observed my friend, “is never quiet; it is the
_perpetuum mobile_ of America.”
Accordingly, as we came near the corner, everything appeared to be
animated: hackney-coaches stood in readiness to convey those who
either did not feel disposed or were no longer able to walk, to any
part of the city; and the doors of the eating-houses, tap-rooms, and
oyster-cellars were thrown open for the reception of company.
My friend, who happened to be somewhat acquainted in New York, selected
the establishment in the corner; which we entered, by descending
six or seven steps into a capacious bar-room, furnished in very good
style, and lit with gas as brilliantly as any saloon in London. This
was a sort of reception hall, intended for those who _drank without
stopping_; the real supper-rooms, with something like eighteen or
twenty boxes to preserve the incognito of the visiters, being lodged in
another part of the building.
The first thing which struck our attention was a large black board,
on which there were printed, in the shape of a bill of fare, the nice
little items of “wild duck,” “wild turkey with oyster sauce,” “roast
chicken,” “chicken salad,” “roast oysters,” “fried oysters,” “stewed
oysters,” “scolloped oysters,” &c. &c. &c.
We naturally took this as a favourable omen, and were about to betake
ourselves to the only empty box that was yet left, when my friend
recognised, in a gentleman that was entering the room, one of his
former classmates, who had just returned from Paris, where he had
devoted himself for several years to the study of medicine.
After the usual manifestations of joy, shaking of hands, and asking
of questions, which neither of them pretended to answer but by asking
fresh ones,--for my friend and his schoolfellow were both Southerners,
and not in the habit of finishing a thing of that sort by a laconic
“How d’ye do? I am very glad to see you,”--my friend at last succeeded
in getting the companion of his youth seated by his side, and eliciting
from him, as far as I am able to remember, the following honest
confession of his experience in foreign parts, and the state of things
he found on his return to his native country.
“I must freely confess to you,” said he, “that what I saw of my
countrymen abroad did not materially contribute to increase my respect
for them; neither did I think it calculated to enhance the respect with
which Europeans are wont to look upon the untried institutions of our
country. They hunt men of hereditary titles and privileges just as
much, and even more, than the English; the highest ambition which I
ever knew them guilty of being the desire of associating with a count
or a prince. And so different are their notions of rank and titles,
of superiority and inferiority, from those of Europeans in general,
that they make themselves not only hated by the admirers of republican
principles, but also ridiculous in the eyes of every sensible Tory.
“If one of our business men were to-day invited to a prince’s, and
to-morrow to a count’s or a baron’s, you might be sure of his playing
the aristocrat at the baron’s house, merely because he was before asked
to a prince’s; and if, by accident, he had the day following met with
one of his countrymen ‘not yet as high up in society as himself,’ he
would have deemed it a duty due to his new standing ‘to cut him dead,’
though he might have known him from his infancy.
“The petty jealousies among the Americans have equally disgusted me
in every part of Europe; and appeared to me the more ludicrous, as
the being admitted into society depended frequently on circumstances
altogether beyond their control. In one instance it was owing to a
letter of introduction, for which they were indebted to the politeness
of a friend, or the kind interference of a third person, to whom they
were entirely unknown; in the other, to a high regard for the country
of which they were, nominally at least, the representatives; and, in
not a few cases, I can assure you, to mere curiosity. And yet you ought
to have heard those people, who were thus by mere chance brought in
contact with persons enjoying hereditary distinctions, talk ‘of the
different orders of society,’ with the same degree of earnestness as
if, by associating with the higher classes, they had actually partaken
of their qualities!”
“And, then, what American, if he sets out to do it, cannot _force
himself_ into the best society by having recourse to a stratagem?
which, I believe, is altogether of our own invention, and consists in
the practice of asking people to whom we are recommended, to introduce
us to others with whom _they_ are acquainted; and so on. Not only does
our acquaintance, in this manner, wonderfully increase; but, as every
one of our friends must necessarily know some two or three persons
above him, we cannot but ‘_get up by degrees_,’ until we reach a
point infinitely above the level of our first introduction.[12] Some
conceited Englishmen have called this practice ‘the method of begging
one’s-self into society;’ but, with our _élite_, nothing is deemed
unfair which is not absolutely opposed to the established laws of the
country.”
“But some of our people keep elegant establishments in Paris, and, I am
told, actually ruin themselves by entertaining the nobility,” observed
my friend.
“Some _may_ injure themselves in that way,” replied the young
physician; “but I am sure others make money by it. Trust a Yankee to
himself!”
“I do not quite understand you,” observed my friend.
“The thing is plain enough,” rejoined the physician; “the society of
the nobility procures them the custom of their own countrymen, who
consider a man of that sort as ‘a stepping-stone to something better;’
and he, poor innocent soul! makes them pay for the use they make of
him.”
“_A propos_,” demanded my friend, “have you dined with Mr. L***?”
“I was _invited_ to dine there; but merely listened to the gentleman’s
own eulogy of his wines, and the eloquent description of every dish
that was put upon the table, in order, afterwards, quietly to sneak
off, and appease the cravings of my stomach at some snug little
_restaurant_ on the other side of the water. The gentleman you allude
to has, moreover, lately turned jockey, and is now entertaining
clergymen and physicians with nothing but horse-flesh. He probably
thinks that this will ingratiate him with the English, and, in some
respects, place him on the same footing with Lord S--r.”
“All I have heard of that extraordinary little man, who, as I
understand, has already risen to the dignity of ‘_un homme de
passage_,’[13] convinces me that he is acting the _bourgeois
gentilhomme_, for the peculiar gratification of the less rich, but more
refined, gentlemen of the old _régime_; only that he is not quite so
generous as his original in the inimitable comedy of Molière.”
“Neither does he trouble himself with so many _masters_. He is, in this
respect at least, a true independent American, whose conversation would
convince you in a moment that he has never had a master in his life. So
far from it, he has himself turned schoolmaster, teaching a certain
portion of his _raw_ countrymen, not indeed the art of _eating_, but
of _preparing_ savoury dishes. Let one of those persons have the most
trifling advantage over any of his fellow beings, and he is sure to use
it as a means of establishing his superiority; for the scrambling for
rank is born with them, and is only increased by a residence in Europe.”
“Neither does it merely apply to such ordinary characters as you have
just mentioned,” added my friend. “I have known American _editors_
assume in Paris--seldom, I believe, in London--an air of supercilious
dignity, which would have been amusing if it had not been too absurd
to be tolerated. They would _allow_ Chevalier, and other writers of
the French periodical press, to _cultivate_ their acquaintance, and
occasionally ‘condescend to _receiving_ them at their houses;’ as if
the hospitality they had received in Paris, and the willingness of
certain people of fashion to come to their _soirées_, had actually
given to their talents--which, if they had remained in America, would,
in all probability, have never been known to the world--an additional
lustre, that outshone the merits of their European contemporaries.”
“There might have been another reason for the aristocratic presumption
of the American editor,” observed the physician. “The American may
have kept a _valet_, while his French colleague was probably satisfied
with the service of the _garçon_ of his hotel. A thing of this sort
separates an American man of letters from an European as effectually as
if the ocean rolled its waves between them.”
“That _must_ be the case,” resumed my friend; “for, if literary
reputation were the sole basis of their respective ranks, I think our
American editors would be obliged to give in.”
“And yet they pretend to pity the political ignorance of the French,
and even the English; forgetting that those nations have two thousand
years’ history on their backs, which must necessarily form the
precedent to the great majority of their conclusions.”
“But have you not seen the famous Mr. Thistle?” demanded my friend. “I
understand he keeps the crack house in Paris.”
“He certainly does,” replied the physician; “and there is at least
something in his manner of entertaining people which appears to be
frank and generous, though a great many of our first society think him
excessively vulgar for not inviting them. The fact is, he can command
better company in Paris than that of his own countrymen; and, under
these circumstances, he is not to be censured for excluding those who
otherwise would have excluded _him_. On the whole, I am rather glad
that a character like his should be somewhere established in Europe;
it is a living parody of the leading features of our aristocracy,
illustrative of the true principle on which our ‘first people’ claim
equality with the _noblesse_ of Europe, and the conditions on which
the latter are willing to admit it. Mr. Thistle, moreover, has quite a
patrician bearing, which is truly burlesque when compared to the less
than ordinary carriage of those who will have nothing to do with him,
because they never associated with him in his own country.”
“And what does Mr. Thistle care for the slander-hurling tongues of
his countrymen?--he whose mansion has been repeatedly graced by the
presence of princes of the blood? And where is the fashionable American
who, in spite of his fox-like protestations to the contrary, would not
be glad to have the _entrée_ of a house, the _réunion_ of the best and
most ancient society of Paris?”
“Mr. Thistle is not merely admitted into the best society, he is
actually one of them; though the preliminary steps of his promotion are
kept as secret as those of the candidates for admission into the oldest
fraternity on earth, and perhaps somewhat humiliating, as are said to
be the first introductions to that honourable body. One little fact,
however, could not entirely be concealed from the world; which is this,
that when the _élite_ of the _faubourg St. Germain_, who first took him
by the hand, put it to the vote what persons should be admitted to his
parties, the master of the house himself was excluded.
“The most sensible American I met in Paris,” continued the physician,
“was Mr. ***, a tailor from Boston; and the most insipid of my
countrymen were those for whom he made the uniforms for presentation at
court. These, in the absence of any fixed rule, (I have no doubt that,
in case of Mr. Van Buren’s being ousted, a bill will be introduced
into Congress prescribing the uniforms to be worn by American citizens
abroad,) were altogether left to the fancy of the artist, who never
failed to recommend to every inexperienced Yankee courtier to put _a
star_ on his coat, in opposition to the _eagle_ worn by the servants
of the American minister. In this manner, he assured his patrons, they
would neither risk being taken for servants, nor would they have to be
ashamed of wearing plain coats by the side of persons all decorated
with ribbons. Those who held a high rank in the militia he always
advised to be presented in the uniform of colonel, that being the
lowest title a respectable American ought ever to assume in Europe;
and a military dress being the best excuse for the natural _brusquerie_
of men fresh taken from business. In this manner the shrewd Yankee
tailor not only acquires a fortune, but also sees his reputation
travel, with his coats, from shore to shore; there being Americans
that will never cross the British Channel without a suit of military
clothes, in case they should be invited to dine or breakfast with a
nobleman.
“But I do not wish to dwell any longer on the absurdities of our people
abroad, for we are in this respect just like the English; our true
character being only to be found at home, where it developes itself
under the immediate influence of our institutions. Nothing, therefore,
could be more preposterous than to judge us by the specimens we send
abroad; and it was a wise remark of Thomas Jefferson, though, I
believe, sufficiently misunderstood by his countrymen, that an American
who has lived above seven years in Europe is a stranger to his own
country, and no longer fit for any office of responsibility, even if
he should have been employed during all that time as a diplomatic
agent of his government.”
“Thomas Jefferson,” observed my friend, “has said a number of clever
things, and warned us against a great many mistakes into which we have
since fallen. He particularly dreaded the influence of British example
on our public and private character; and the result has proved that he
was not mistaken.”
“And yet how little did he suspect that our political partisans would
find professional statesmen willing to become the fee’d advocates of
their doctrines, after the manner of O’Connell!” rejoined the physician.
“What do you mean?” interrupted I, astonished at the boldness of the
remark.
“I mean what I say,” replied he; “I know a senator for whom the
manufacturers of his district are said to make an annual purse, on the
ground that his Congressional duties interfere with the exercise of his
profession as a lawyer.”
“I cannot believe it,” interrupted my friend with some vehemence; “and
I will not believe it: but, even if it were true,” added he, with a
sardonic smile, “the honourable senator would, for the honour of his
State, be the very reverse of the vulgar Irish agitator; one is paid by
his rich and respectable constituents, the other by the very beggars
of his country! None of our Whig senators, I am sure, would ever
condescend to become the hired advocates of the mob.”
“A fine piece of news this!” ejaculated the physician; “but I suspected
as much as this when I saw the change wrought on the manners and
customs of our people since my absence; how the simple, unsophisticated
habits of our citizens have given way to cold formality and
conceit,--and how the generous hospitality which was wont to grace our
people is fast yielding to a vulgar and ostentatious display of wealth.
“I am actually afraid of meeting my old acquaintance, and it is for
this reason you see me play the owl at this late hour; at which, at
least, I am allowed to have my own way, without being intruded upon by
my friends, or pushed aside by the busy multitude, to whom I must for
ever remain an unprofitable stranger.”
FOOTNOTES:
[11] It is well known that, except during the Carnival, the
coffee-houses in Paris shut up shortly after the close of the theatres,
which is seldom later than twelve o’clock.
[12] In some instances a mere name will answer the purpose of an
introduction. Mr. ***, of Boston, meets in Paris Mr. W***, with whom he
became acquainted in Philadelphia. “Do you know Chateaubriand?” asks
the Bostonian.--“I meet him very often.”--“Is he worth knowing?”--“Most
assuredly.”--“Adieu!”--The day following Mr. W*** meets Chateaubriand.
“_Un drôle de corps_ that!” says Chateaubriand, “you sent me
yesterday.”--“Who, I?”--“Yes, you, sir!”--“Whom?”--“The American.” The
conclusion of the dialogue may be imagined.
[13] This, as is well known, is the term applied by the witty Parisians
to those distinguished personages whose caricatured busts are exhibited
in the principal arcades of the city.