(March 1887)
A TERRIBLE danger is hanging over the Americans in London. Their future
and their reputation this season depend entirely on the success of
Buffalo Bill and Mrs. Brown-Potter. The former is certain to draw; for
English people are far more interested in American barbarism than they
are in American civilization. When they sight Sandy Hook they look to
their rifles and ammunition; and, after dining once at Delmonico’s, start
off for Colorado or California, for Montana or the Yellow Stone Park.
Rocky Mountains charm them more than riotous millionaires; they have been
known to prefer buffaloes to Boston. Why should they not? The cities of
America are inexpressibly tedious. The Bostonians take their learning
too sadly; culture with them is an accomplishment rather than an
atmosphere; their “Hub,” as they call it, is the paradise of prigs.
Chicago is a sort of monster-shop, full of bustle and bores. Political
life at Washington is like political life in a suburban vestry.
Baltimore is amusing for a week, but Philadelphia is dreadfully
provincial; and though one can dine in New York one could not dwell
there. Better the Far West with its grizzly bears and its untamed
cowboys, its free open-air life and its free open-air manners, its
boundless prairie and its boundless mendacity! This is what Buffalo Bill
is going to bring to London; and we have no doubt that London will fully
appreciate his show.
With regard to Mrs. Brown-Potter, as acting is no longer considered
absolutely essential for success on the English stage, there is really no
reason why the pretty bright-eyed lady who charmed us all last June by
her merry laugh and her nonchalant ways, should not—to borrow an
expression from her native language—make a big boom and paint the town
red. We sincerely hope she will; for, on the whole, the American
invasion has done English society a great deal of good. American women
are bright, clever, and wonderfully cosmopolitan. Their patriotic
feelings are limited to an admiration for Niagara and a regret for the
Elevated Railway; and, unlike the men, they never bore us with Bunkers
Hill. They take their dresses from Paris and their manners from
Piccadilly, and wear both charmingly. They have a quaint pertness, a
delightful conceit, a native self-assertion. They insist on being paid
compliments and have almost succeeded in making Englishmen eloquent. For
our aristocracy they have an ardent admiration; they adore titles and are
a permanent blow to Republican principles. In the art of amusing men
they are adepts, both by nature and education, and can actually tell a
story without forgetting the point—an accomplishment that is extremely
rare among the women of other countries. It is true that they lack
repose and that their voices are somewhat harsh and strident when they
land first at Liverpool; but after a time one gets to love those pretty
whirlwinds in petticoats that sweep so recklessly through society and are
so agitating to all duchesses who have daughters. There is something
fascinating in their funny, exaggerated gestures and their petulant way
of tossing the head. Their eyes have no magic nor mystery in them, but
they challenge us for combat; and when we engage we are always worsted.
Their lips seem made for laughter and yet they never grimace. As for
their voices they soon get them into tune. Some of them have been known
to acquire a fashionable drawl in two seasons; and after they have been
presented to Royalty they all roll their R’s as vigorously as a young
equerry or an old lady-in-waiting. Still, they never really lose their
accent; it keeps peeping out here and there, and when they chatter
together they are like a bevy of peacocks. Nothing is more amusing than
to watch two American girls greeting each other in a drawing-room or in
the Row. They are like children with their shrill staccato cries of
wonder, their odd little exclamations. Their conversation sounds like a
series of exploding crackers; they are exquisitely incoherent and use a
sort of primitive, emotional language. After five minutes they are left
beautifully breathless and look at each other half in amusement and half
in affection. If a stolid young Englishman is fortunate enough to be
introduced to them he is amazed at their extraordinary vivacity, their
electric quickness of repartee, their inexhaustible store of curious
catchwords. He never really understands them, for their thoughts flutter
about with the sweet irresponsibility of butterflies; but he is pleased
and amused and feels as if he were in an aviary. On the whole, American
girls have a wonderful charm and, perhaps, the chief secret of their
charm is that they never talk seriously except about amusements. They
have, however, one grave fault—their mothers. Dreary as were those old
Pilgrim Fathers who left our shores more than two centuries ago to found
a New England beyond the seas, the Pilgrim Mothers who have returned to
us in the nineteenth century are drearier still.
Here and there, of course, there are exceptions, but as a class they are
either dull, dowdy or dyspeptic. It is only fair to the rising
generation of America to state that they are not to blame for this.
Indeed, they spare no pains at all to bring up their parents properly and
to give them a suitable, if somewhat late, education. From its earliest
years every American child spends most of its time in correcting the
faults of its father and mother; and no one who has had the opportunity
of watching an American family on the deck of an Atlantic steamer, or in
the refined seclusion of a New York boarding-house, can fail to have been
struck by this characteristic of their civilization. In America the
young are always ready to give to those who are older than themselves the
full benefits of their inexperience. A boy of only eleven or twelve
years of age will firmly but kindly point out to his father his defects
of manner or temper; will never weary of warning him against
extravagance, idleness, late hours, unpunctuality, and the other
temptations to which the aged are so particularly exposed; and sometimes,
should he fancy that he is monopolizing too much of the conversation at
dinner, will remind him, across the table, of the new child’s adage,
“Parents should be seen, not heard.” Nor does any mistaken idea of
kindness prevent the little American girl from censuring her mother
whenever it is necessary. Often, indeed, feeling that a rebuke conveyed
in the presence of others is more truly efficacious than one merely
whispered in the quiet of the nursery, she will call the attention of
perfect strangers to her mother’s general untidiness, her want of
intellectual Boston conversation, immoderate love of iced water and green
corn, stinginess in the matter of candy, ignorance of the usages of the
best Baltimore Society, bodily ailments, and the like. In fact, it may
be truly said that no American child is ever blind to the deficiencies of
its parents, no matter how much it may love them.
Yet, somehow, this educational system has not been so successful as it
deserved. In many cases, no doubt, the material with which the children
had to deal was crude and incapable of real development; but the fact
remains that the American mother is a tedious person. The American
father is better, for he is never seen in London. He passes his life
entirely in Wall Street and communicates with his family once a month by
means of a telegram in cipher. The mother, however, is always with us,
and, lacking the quick imitative faculty of the younger generation,
remains uninteresting and provincial to the last. In spite of her,
however, the American girl is always welcome. She brightens our dull
dinner parties for us and makes life go pleasantly by for a season. In
the race for coronets she often carries off the prize; but, once she has
gained the victory, she is generous and forgives her English rivals
everything, even their beauty.
Warned by the example of her mother that American women do not grow old
gracefully, she tries not to grow old at all and often succeeds. She has
exquisite feet and hands, is always _bien chaussée et bien gantée_ and
can talk brilliantly upon any subject, provided that she knows nothing
about it.
Her sense of humour keeps her from the tragedy of a _grande passion_,
and, as there is neither romance nor humility in her love, she makes an
excellent wife. What her ultimate influence on English life will be it
is difficult to estimate at present; but there can be no doubt that, of
all the factors that have contributed to the social revolution of London,
there are few more important, and none more delightful, than the American
Invasion.