Kitabı oku: «Diary in America, Series Two», sayfa 14
How blinded by his ill-will must Mr Cooper be, to enter into a long discussion in the work I refer to, to prove that England deserves the title, among other national characteristics, of a blackguarding nation! founding his assertion upon the language of our daily press. If the English, judged by the press, are a blackguarding nation, what are the Americans, if they are to be judged by the same standard? we must be indebted to the Americans themselves for an epithet. To wind up, he more than once pronounced the English to be parvenus. There is an old proverb which says, “A man whose house is built of glass should not be the first to throw stones;” and that these last two charges should be brought against us by an American, is certainly somewhat singular and unfortunate.
That there should be a hostile feeling when English men go over to America to compete with them in business or in any profession, is natural; it would be the same everywhere; this feeling, however, in the United States is usually shewn by an attack upon the character of the party, so as to influence the public against him. There was an American practising phrenology, when a phrenologist arrived from England. As this opposition was not agreeable, the American immediately circulated a report that the English phrenologist had asserted that he had examined the skulls of many Americans, and that he had never fallen in with such thick-headed fellows in his life. This was quite sufficient—the English operator was obliged to clear out as fast as he could, and try his fortune elsewhere.
The two following placards were given me; they were pasted all over the city. What the offence was I never heard, but they are very amusing documents. It is the first time, I believe, that public singers were described as aristocrats, and Englishmen of the first stamp.
“Americans:—
“It remains with you to say whether or not you will be imposed upon by these base aristocrats, who come from England to America, in order to gain a livelihood, and despise the land that gives them bread.
“Some few years since there came to this country three ‘gentlemen players,’ who were received with open arms by the Americans, and treated more as brothers than strangers; when their pockets were full, in requital to our best endeavours to raise them to their merit, the ungrateful dogs turned round and abused us. It is useless, at present, to give the names of two of those gentlemen, as they are not now candidates for public favour; but there is one, Mr Hodges, who is at present engaged at the Pavilion Theatre. This thing has said publicly that the Americans were all ‘a parcel of ignoramuses,’ and that ‘the yankee players’ were ‘perfect fools, not possessing the least particle of talent,’ etcetera. We must be brief—should we repeat all we have heard it would fill a page of the News.
“Will the Americans be abused in this way without retaliation? We are always willing to bestow that respect which is due to strangers; but when our kindness is treated with contempt, and in return receive base epithets and abuse, let us ‘block the game.’
“Once for all—will you permit this thing in pantaloons and whiskers, this brainless, un-ideaed cub, whom a thousand years will not suffice to lick into a bear, longer to impose upon your good-natures? If so, we shall conclude you have lost all of that spirit so characteristic of true born Americans.
“A word to Mr (?) Hodges.—When these meet your eye, a dignified contempt will most opportunely swell your breast—such is ever the case with the coward! In affected scorn, you will seek a shelter from the danger you dare not brave, but we warn you that one day must overtake you.
“Several Americans.”
“Americans Attend!
“Americans:– If there is a spark of that spirit in your blood with which your forefathers bequeathed you, I hope you will shew it when men come among us from a foreign shore to get a living, and while here to speak in terms towards our country and ourselves, derogatory to the feelings of an American to listen to. These men that I speak of are Mr Hodges and Mr Corri, Englishmen of the first stamp, who declare that the Yankees, (as we are all termed, and proud of the name I dare say,) ‘are a parcel of ignoramuses—cannibals—don’t know how to appreciate talent’—they possess very little I am certain. However, the thing stands thus: they have slandered our country, they have slandered us; and if they are permitted to play upon the boards of the Eagle Theatre, I shall conclude that we have lost all that spunk so characteristic in a True Born American.”
There certainly is no good feeling in the majority towards England, and this is continually shewn in a variety of instances, particularly if there is any excitement from distress or other causes. At the time that the great commercial distress took place, the abuse of England was beyond all bounds; and in a public meeting of democrats at Philadelphia, the first resolution passed was, “that they did not owe England one farthing,” and this is the general outcry of the lower orders when any thing was wrong. I have often argued with them on this subject, and never could convince them. This country has now fifty-five millions sterling invested in American securities, which is a large sum, and the majority consider that a war will spunge out this debt. Their argument which they constantly urged against me, has more soundness in it than would be supposed:– “If you declare war with us, what is the first thing you do, you seize all American vessels and all American property that you can lay hold of, which have entered into your ports on the faith of peace between the two countries. Now, why have we not an equal right to seize all English property whenever we can find it in this country?” But this, as I have observed, is the language of the democrats and locofocos. There are thousands of honourable men in America, not only as merchants, but in every other class, who are most anxious to keep on good terms with us, and have the kindest feelings towards England. Unfortunately they are but few compared to the majority, and much as they may regret the hostile feelings towards us, I am afraid that it is wholly out of their power to prevent their increase, which will be in exact proportion with the increase of the popular sway.
Volume Two—Chapter Five
Society.—General Character, etcetera
The character of the Americans is that of a restless, uneasy people—they cannot sit still, they cannot listen attentively, unless the theme be politics or dollars—they must do something, and, like children, if they cannot do anything else, they will do mischief—their curiosity is unbounded, and they are very capricious. Acting upon impulse, they are very generous at one moment, and without a spark of charity the next. They are good-tempered, and possess great energy, ingenuity, bravery, and presence of mind. Such is the estimate I have formed of their general character, independent of the demoralising effects of their institutions, which renders it so anomalous.
The American author, Mr Sanderson, very truly observes of his countrymen, that, “they have grown vicious without the refinements and distractions of the fine arts and liberal amusements.” The Americans have few amusements; they are too busy. Athletic sports they are indifferent to; they look only to those entertainments which feed their passion for excitement. The theatre is almost their only resort, and even that is not so well attended as it might be, considering their means. There are some very good and well-conducted theatres in America: the best are the Park and National at New York, the Tremont at Boston, and the Chesnut Street Theatre at Philadelphia. The American stock actors, as they term those who are not considered as stars, are better than our own; but were the theatres to depend upon stock actors they would be deserted—the love of novelty is the chief inducement of the Americans to frequent the theatre, and they look for importations of star actors from this country as regularly as they do for our manufactured goods, or the fashions from Paris. In most of the large cities they have two theatres; one for legitimate drama, and the other for melodrama, as the Bowery Theatre at New York, and the Walnut Street Theatre in Philadelphia; these latter are seldom visited by the aristocratical portion of the citizens.
The National Theatre at New York was originally built as an opera house, and the company procured from the Havannah; but the opera, from want of support, was a failure. It has since been taken by Mr James Wallack, in opposition to the Park Theatre. The two first seasons its success was indifferent; the Park having the advantage in situation, as well as of a long-standing reputation. But, latterly, from the well-known talent and superior management of Mr Wallack, and from his unwearied exertions in providing novelties for the American public, it has been very successful; so much so, that it is said this last year to have decidedly obtained the superiority over its rival. I have seen some splendid representations in the National Theatre, with a propriety in scenery and costume which is seldom exceeded even in our great theatres.
Indeed, in three seasons, Mr Wallack has done much to improve the national taste; and from his exertions, the theatres in general in America may be said to have been much benefited. But there is one objection to this rivalry between the Park and National; which is, that the stars go out too fast, and they will soon be all expended. Formerly things went on very regularly: Mr Price sent out to Mr Simpson, duly invoiced, a certain portion of talent for every season; and Mr Simpson, who is a very clever manager, first worked it up at New York, and then dispatched it to Boston, Philadelphia, and the other theatres in the Union. But, now, if Mr Simpson has two stars sent to him, James Wallack comes home, and takes out three; whereupon, Mr Price sends out a bigger star; and so they go on; working up the stars so fast, that the supply will never equal the demand. There are not more than two or three actors of eminence in England, who have not already made their appearance on the American boards; and next season will probably use them up. It is true, that some actors can return there again and again; as Power, who is most deservedly a favourite with them, and Ellen Tree, who is equally so. Celeste has realised a large fortune. Mrs Wood, and the Keeleys, were also very great favourites; but there are not many actors who can venture there a second time; at least, not until a certain interval has elapsed for the Americans to forget them. When there are no longer any stars, the theatres will not be so well attended; as, indeed, is the case every where. To prove how fond the Americans are of anything that excites them, I will mention a representation which I one day went to see—that of the “Infernal Regions.” There were two or three of these shewn in the different cities in the States. I saw the remnants of another, myself; but, as the museum-keeper very appropriately observed to me, “It was a fine thing once, but now it had all gone to hell.” You entered a dark room; where, railed off with iron railings, you beheld a long perspective of caverns in the interior of the earth, and a molten lake in the distance. In the foreground were the most horrible monsters that could be invented—bears with men’s heads, growling—snakes darting in and out, hissing—here a man lying murdered, with a knife in his heart; there—a suicide, hanging by the neck—skeletons lying about in all directions, and some walking up and down in muslin shrouds. The machinery was very perfect. At one side was the figure of a man sitting down, with a horrible face; boar’s tusks protruding from his mouth, his eyes rolling, and horns on his head; I thought it was mechanism as well as the rest; and was not a little surprised when it addressed me in a hollow voice: “We’ve been waiting some time for you, captain.” As I found he had a tongue, I entered into conversation with him. The representation wound up with showers of fire, rattling of bones, thunder, screams, and a regular cascade of the d—d, pouring into the molten lake. When it was first shewn, they had an electric battery communicating with the iron railing; and whoever put his hand on it, or went too near, received a smart electric shock. But the alarm created by this addition was found to be attended with serious consequences, and it had been discontinued.
The love of excitement must of course produce a love of gambling, which may be considered as one of the American amusements: it is, however, carried on very quietly in the cities. In the South, and on the Mississippi, it is as open as the noon day; and the gamblers may be said to have there become a professional people. I have already mentioned them, and the attempts which have been made to get rid of them. Indeed, they are not only gamesters who practice on the unwary, but they combine with gambling the professions of forgery, and uttering of base money. If they lose, they only lose forged notes. There is no part of the world where forgery is carried on to such an extent as it is in the United States; chiefly in the Western country. The American banks are particularly careful to guard against this evil, but the ingenuity of these miscreants is surprising, and they will imitate so closely as almost to escape detection at the banks themselves. Bank-note engraving is certainly carried to the highest state of perfection in the United States, but almost in vain. I have myself read a notice, posted up at Boston, which may appear strange to us. “Bank notes made here to any pattern.” But the Eastern banks are seldom forged upon. Counterfeit money is also very plentiful. When I was in the West, I had occasion to pay a few dollars to a friend: when I saw him a day or two afterwards, he said to me, “Do you know that three dollars you gave me were counterfeits?” I apologised, and offered to replace them, “Oh! no,” replied he; “it’s of no consequence. I gave them in payment to my people, who told me that they were counterfeit; but they said it was of no consequence, as they could easily pass them.” In some of the States lotteries have been abolished, in others they are still permitted. They are upon the French principle, and are very popular.
There is one very remarkable point in the American character, which is, that they constantly change their professions. I know not whether it proceeds simply from their love of change, or from their embracing professions at so early a period, that they have not discovered the line in which from natural talents they are best calculated to succeed. I have heard it said, that it is seldom that an American succeeds in the profession which he had first taken up at the commencement of his career. An American will set up as a lawyer; quit, and go to sea for a year or two; come back, set up in another profession; get tired again, go as clerk or steward in a steam-boat, merely because he wishes to travel; then apply himself to something else, and begin to amass money. It is of very little consequence what he does, the American is really a jack of all trades, and master of any to which he feels at last inclined to apply himself.
In Mrs Butler’s clever journal there is one remark which really surprised me. She says, “The absolute absence of imagination is of course the absolute absence of humour. An American can no more understand a fanciful jest than a poetical idea; and in society and conversation the strictest matter of fact prevails,” etcetera.
If there was nothing but “matter of fact” in society and conversation in America or elsewhere, I imagine that there would not be many words used: but I refer to the passage, because she says that the Americans are not imaginative; whereas, I think that there is not a more imaginative people existing. It is true that they prefer broad humour, and delight in the hyperbole, but this is to be expected in a young nation; especially as their education is, generally speaking, not of a kind to make them sensible to very refined wit, which, I acknowledge, is thrown away upon the majority. What is termed the under current of humour, as delicate raillery, for instance, is certainly not understood. When they read Sam Slick, they did not perceive that the author was laughing at them; and the letters of Major Jack Downing are much more appreciated in this country than they are in America. But as for saying that they are not imaginative, is a great error, and I have no doubt that Mrs B has discovered it by this time.
Miss Martineau says, and very truly, “The Americans appear to me an eminently imaginative people.” Indeed, it is only necessary to read the newspapers to be convinced it is the case. The hyperbole is their principal forte, but what is lying but imagination? and why do you find that a child of promising talent is so prone to lying? because it is the first effort of a strong imagination. Wit requires refinement, which the Americans have not; but they have excessive humour, although it is generally speaking coarse.
An American, talking of an ugly woman with a very large mouth, said to me, “Why, sir, when she yawns, you can see right down to her garters;” and another, speaking of his being very sea-sick, declared, “That he threw every thing up, down to his knee-pans.”
If there required any proof of the dishonest feeling so prevalent in the United States arising from the desire of gain, it would be in the fact, that almost every good story which you hear of an American is an instance of great ingenuity, and very little principle. So many have been told already, that I hesitate to illustrate my observation, from fear of being accused of uttering stale jokes. Nevertheless I will venture upon one or two.
“An American (Down East, of course), when his father died, found his patrimony to consist of several hundred dozen of boxes of ointment for the cure of a certain complaint, said (by us) to be more common in the North than in England. He made up his pack, and took a round of nearly a hundred miles, going from town to town and from village to village, offering his remedy for sale. But unfortunately for him no one was afflicted with the complaint, and they would not purchase on the chance of any future occasion for it. He returned back to his inn, and having reflected a little, he went out, inquired where he could find the disease, and having succeeded, inoculated himself with it. When he was convinced that he had it with sufficient virulence, he again set forth making the same round; and taking advantage of the American custom which is so prevalent, he shook hands with everybody whom he had spoken to on his former visit, declaring he was ‘’tarnal glad to see them again.’ Thus he went on till his circuit was completed, when he repaired to the first town again, and found that his ointment, as he expected, was now in great request; and he continued his route as before, selling every box that he possessed.”
There is a story of a Yankee clock-maker’s ingenuity, that I have not seen in print. He also “made a circuit, having a hundred clocks when he started; they were all very bad, which he well knew; but by ‘soft sawder and human natur,’ as Sam Slick says, he contrived to sell ninety-nine of them, and reserve the last for his intended ‘ruse.’ He went to the house where he had sold the first clock, and said, ‘Well, now, how does your clock go? very well, I guess.’ The answer was as he anticipated, ‘No, very bad.’ ‘Indeed! Well, now, I’ve found it out at last. You see, I had one clock which was I know a bad one, and I said to my boy, “you’ll put that clock aside, for it won’t do to sell such an article.” Well, the boy didn’t mind, and left the clock with the others; and I found out afterwards that it had been sold somewhere. Mighty mad I was, I can tell you, for I’m not a little particular about my credit; so I have asked here and there, everywhere almost, how my clocks went, and they all said that “they actually regulated the sun.” But I was determined to find out who had the bad clock, and I am most particular glad that I have done it at last. Now, you see I have but one clock left, a very superior article, worth a matter of ten dollars more than the others, and I must give it you in change, and I’ll only charge you five dollars difference, as you have been annoyed with the bad article.’ The man who had the bad clock thought it better to pay five dollars more to have a good one; so the exchange was made, and then the Yankee, proceeding with the clock, returned to the next house. ‘Well, now, how does your clock go? very well, I guess.’ The same answer—the same story repeated—and another five dollars received in exchange. And thus did he go round, exchanging clock for clock, until he had received an extra five dollars for every one which he had sold.”
Logic.—“A Yankee went into the bar of an inn in a country town: ‘Pray what’s the price of a pint of shrub?’ ‘Half a dollar,’ was the reply of the man at the bar. ‘Well, then, give it me.’ The shrub was poured out, when the bell rang for dinner. ‘Is that your dinner-bell?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘What may you charge for dinner?’ ‘Half a dollar.’ ‘Well, then, I think I had better not take the shrub, but have some dinner instead.’ This was consented to. The Yankee went in, sat down to his dinner, and when it was over, was going out of the door without paying. ‘Massa,’ said the negro waiter, ‘you not paid for your dinner.’ ‘I know that; I took the dinner instead of the shrub.’ ‘But, massa, you not pay for the shrub.’ ‘Well, I did not have the shrub, did I, you nigger?’ said the Yankee, walking away. The negro scratched his head; he knew that something was wrong, as he had got no money; but he could not make it out till the Yankee was out of sight.”
I do not think that democracy is marked upon the features of the lower classes in the United States; there is no arrogant bearing in them, as might be supposed from the despotism of the majority; on the contrary, I should say that their lower classes are much more civil than our own. I had a slap of equality on my first landing at New York. I had hired a truck-man to take up my luggage from the wharf; I went a-head, and missed him when I came to the corner of the street where I had engaged apartments, and was looking round for him in one direction, when I was saluted with a slap on the shoulder, which was certainly given with good-will. I turned, and beheld my carman, who had taken the liberty to draw my attention in this forcible manner. He was a man of few words; he pointed to his truck where it stood with the baggage, and then went on.
This civil bearing is peculiar, as when they are excited by politics, or other causes, they are most insolent and overbearing. In his usual demeanour, the citizen born is quiet and obliging. The insolence you meet with is chiefly from the emigrant classes. I have before observed, that the Americans are a good-tempered people; and to this good temper I ascribe their civil bearing. But why are they good-tempered? It appears to me to be one of the few virtues springing from democracy. When the grades of society are distinct, as they are in the older institutions, when difference of rank is acknowledged and submitted to without murmur, it is evident that if people are obliged to control their tempers in presence of their superiors or equals, they can also yield to them with their inferiors; and it is this yielding to our tempers which enables them to master us. But under institutions where all are equal, where no one admits the superiority of another, even if he really be so, where the man with the spade in his hand will beard the millionaire, and where you are compelled to submit to the caprice and insolence of a domestic, or lose his services, it is evident that every man must from boyhood have learnt to control his temper, as no ebullition will be submitted to, or unfollowed by its consequences. I consider that it is this habitual control, forced upon the Americans by the nature of their institutions, which occasions them to be so good-tempered, when not in a state of excitement. The Americans are in one point, as a mob, very much like the English; make them laugh, and they forget all their animosity immediately.
One of the most singular points about the lower classes in America is, that they will call themselves ladies and gentlemen, and yet refuse their titles to their superiors. Miss Martineau mentions one circumstance, of which I very often met with similar instances. “I once was with a gentleman who was building a large house; he went to see how the men were getting on; but they had all disappeared but one. ‘Where are the people?’ inquired he. ‘The gentlemen be all gone to liquor,’ was the reply.”
I bought one of the small newspapers just as I was setting off in a steam-boat from New York to Albany. The boy had no change, and went to fetch it. He did not come back himself, but another party made his appearance. “Are you the man who bought the newspaper?” “Yes,” replied I. “The young gentleman who sold it to you has sent me to pay you four cents.”
A gentleman was travelling with his wife, they had stopped at an inn, and during the gentleman’s momentary absence the lady was taken ill. The lady wishing for her husband, a man very good-naturedly went to find him, and when he had succeeded he addressed him, “I say, Mister, your woman wants you; but I telled the young lady of the house to fetch her a glass of water.”
There was no insolence intended in this; it is a peculiarity to be accounted for by their love of title and distinction.
It is singular to observe human nature peeping out in the Americans, and how tacitly they acknowledge by their conduct how uncomfortable a feeling there is in perfect equality. The respect they pay to a title is much greater than that which is paid to it in England; and naturally so; we set a higher value upon that which we cannot obtain. I have been often amused at the variance on this point between their words and their feelings, which is shewn in their eagerness for rank of some sort among themselves. Every man who has served in the militia carries his title until the day of his death. There is no end to generals, and colonels, and judges; they keep taverns and grog shops, especially in the Western State; indeed, there are very few who have not brevet rank of some kind; and I being only a captain, was looked upon as a very small personage, as far as rank went. An Englishman, who was living in the State of New York, had sent to have the chimney of his house raised. The morning afterwards he saw a labourer mixing mortar before the door. “Well,” said the Englishman, “when is the chimney to be finished?” “I’m sure I don’t know, you had better ask the colonel.” “The colonel? What colonel?” “Why, I reckon that’s the colonel upon the top of the house, working away at the chimney.”
After all, this fondness for rank, even in a democracy, is very natural, and the Americans have a precedent for it. His Satanic Majesty was the first democrat in heaven, but as soon as he was dismissed to his abode below, if Milton be correct, he assumed his title.
