CHAPTER XXIV
THOUGHTS ON UMBRELLAS
Tell me how a man uses his umbrella, and I will tell you his character.
The Anglo-Saxon Puritan always carried his umbrella open. If he rolled it, you might, at a distance, take that umbrella for a stick, which, he thinks, would give him a certain fast appearance. The miser does the same, because an umbrella that is never rolled lasts longer.
The man who always takes an umbrella out with him is a cautious individual, who never runs risks, and abstains from speculation. He will probably die rich; at all events, in cosy circumstances. On the contrary, the man who always leaves his umbrella behind him is generally one who makes no provision for the morrow. That man is thoughtless, reckless, always late for the train or an appointment, leaves the street-door open when he comes home late at night, and is generally unreliable.
The man who is always losing his umbrella is an unlucky dog, whose bills are protested, whose boots split, whose gloves crack, whose buttons are always coming off, who is always in trouble on account of one thing or another.
The man, who leaves a new umbrella in his club and hopes to find it there the following day, is a simpleton who deserves all the bad luck that pursues him through life.
The man who comes early to an 'at home' may not show his eagerness to present his respects to a hostess early so much as to aim at having a better chance to choose a good umbrella.
The man who is perpetually showing a nervous anxiety about his umbrella, and wondering if it is safe, is full of meanness and low suspicion. Let him be ever so rich, if he asks your daughter in marriage, refuse her to him. He will undoubtedly take more care of his umbrella than of his wife.
If you are fortunate enough to have your umbrella when it rains, and you meet a friend who has left his at home, and asks you to shelter him, try immediately to meet another friend or acquaintance to whom you will offer the same service. By so doing, you will be all right in the middle, you will have your sides also well protected, and, besides, you will have obliged two friends instead of one.
The possession of a well-regulated watch and a decent umbrella is to a great degree a sign of respectability. More watches and silk umbrellas are pawned than all the other pieces of man's apparel put together.
The man who carries a cotton umbrella is either a philosopher, who defies the world and all its fashionable conventions and prejudices, or an economist, who knows that a cotton umbrella is cheaper than a silk one, and lasts longer.
The man who walks with short, jerky steps, and never allows his umbrella to touch the ground, is a very proper man, and not uncommonly a downright hypocrite. On the other hand, the man who walks with a firm, long step, swinging his body slightly from right to left, and using his umbrella like a stick, is generally a good, manly fellow.
Once a man came to an afternoon 'at home,' and, when ready to leave the house, could not find his umbrella, a beautiful new one. He made somewhat of a fuss in the hall. The master of the house came to his rescue, and looked for the missing umbrella among the scores that were there.
'Are you sure you had an umbrella when you came?'
'Quite sure.'
'Perhaps you left it at the other party, where you went first.'
'No, no; that's where I got it.'
CHAPTER XXV
SOME AMERICAN TOPICS
As I sit quietly thinking over my seventh visit to the United States, some impressions take a definite shape. I may here repeat a phrase which I used yesterday while speaking to the representative of an English newspaper who had called to interview me:
'This last visit has left me more than ever impressed with the colossal greatness of the American people.'
The progress they have made during the last five years is perfectly astounding – progress in commerce and industry, progress in art and science, progress in architecture. The whole thing is simply amazing. And the ingenuity displayed in the smallest things!
Really, this morning I was pitying from the bottom of my heart a poor English carman, who was emptying sacks of coal into a hole made in the pavement, as in New York, in front of a house.
He had to go and fetch every sack of coal, put it on his back, carry it with his bent body, and then aim at the hole as best he could. In New York the cart is lifted one side by means of a handle, an inclined tray is placed at the bottom of the cart, with its head over the hole, and down goes the coal as the man looks at the work done for him.
It is in thousands of little things like this that you understand how the American mind is constantly at work. I do not know whether America makes more inventions than other nations (I believe that France is still leading), but there is no country where so many inventions are perfected.
In a great measure I attribute the commercial prosperity of the Americans to the soundness and practicability of their principles in the matter of the commercial education of their youth. It is partly due to the existence of the 'business college,' which has no counterpart in England, but which is as great and powerful an institution in the States as public schools are in England. Until Europe has such colleges, she will never breed leaders of commerce and industry as they are bred in America.
France possesses the best artisans in the world – glass-cutters, cabinet-makers, book-binders, gardeners – simply because boys of the working classes choose their trade early, work long apprenticeships, and study.
The English boy of these classes becomes a plumber at thirteen, then he tries everything afterward. He is in turn a mason, a gardener, anything you like 'for a job.' In America it is the mind of boys which is prepared for commerce in the business colleges. At twenty they are practical men.
Of course, my mind is full of trusts. Is it possible that in a few years all the great industries of America – its mines, its railroads, its telegraphic and telephonic systems, its land, its land produce – will all be amalgamated and transformed into trusts?
I am not inclined to look on this great system of trusts in too pessimistic a fashion. In my view, they may eventually lead to the nationalization of those gigantic enterprises, and in this way bring about the greatest good for the greatest number, by the simple reason that it will be much easier for the State to deal with all those different trusts than with thousands of different companies and individuals.
One day the earth will belong to its inhabitants, not to a privileged few. Trusts may lead to the solution of the question.
Another impression deeply confirmed more than ever: the English may talk of the 'blood-thicker-than-water' theory, but it will never stand the test of a political crisis.
Of course, there are the '400' of New York who are entirely pro-English, and half apologetic for being American; but the population of Greater New York is 4,000,000. If out of 4,000,000 you take 400, there still remain some Americans. And these have no love lost for England.
CHAPTER XXVI
SOME AMERICANS I OBJECT TO
An American was one day travelling with an Englishman friend of mine in the same railway compartment from Dieppe to Paris. During the conversation, the American did not care to own that he hailed from America, but went as far as to confess that he came from Boston, which, he thought, would no doubt atone for his being American in the eyes of his English companion.
'And where are you going to put up in Paris?' inquired the Englishman. 'Well,' replied the Bostonian, 'I was thinking of staying at Meurice's; but it's so full of d – d Americans! Where are you going to stop yourself?' 'H'm,' said the Englishman; 'I was thinking of stopping at Meurice's myself, but the place is so full of d – d English people!'
I object to the American who tells you that he spends the summer in Europe because America does not possess a summer resort fit to visit, and who regrets being unable to spend the winter in the South of France because there is not in the United States a decent place where to spend the winter months, who assures you that America does not possess a single spot historically interesting. In my innocence I thought that an American might be interested to visit the Independence Hall of Philadelphia, Mount Vernon in Virginia, Lexington, Bunker's Hill, Yorktown, Chattanooga, Gettysburg, and a few other places where his ancestors made America what she is now.
I thought that the Hudson River compared favourably with the Thames and the Seine, the Rocky Mountains with the Alps and the Pyrenees, the Sierras with Switzerland, and that Europe had nothing to offer to be mentioned in the same breath with the Indian summer of America, when the country puts on her garb of red and gold.
When you meet that American in Europe, he asks you if you have met Lord Fitz-Noodle, Lady Ginger, and the Marquis de la Roche-Trompette. When you confess to him that you never had the pleasure of meeting those European worthies, he throws at you a patronizing glance, a mixture of pity and contempt, which seems to say: 'Good gracious! who on earth can you be? In what awful set do you move?'
At fashionable places, on board steamers, he avoids his compatriots and introduces himself into the aristocracy, always glad to patronize people who have money. He makes no inquiry about the private character of those titled people before he allows his wife and daughters to frequent them. They are titled, and, in his eyes, that sanctifies everything. On board a steamer he works hard with the purser and the chief steward in order to be given a seat at the same table with a travelling lord. You never see him in anybody else's company.
A favourite remark of his is: 'The Americans one meets in Europe make me feel ashamed of my country and of my compatriots.'
How I do prefer to that American snob the good American who has never left the States, and who is perfectly convinced that America is the only country fit for a free man to live in – God's own country! At any rate, he is a good patriot, proud of his motherland. I even prefer to him that American (often to be met abroad) who damns everything in Europe; who prefers the Presbyterian church of his little city to Notre Dame, Westminster Abbey, and the cathedrals of Rouen, Cologne, and Milan; who thinks that England is such a tight little island that he is afraid of going out at night for fear of falling into the water; who thinks that French politeness and manners are much overrated, and who, when being asked if he likes French cuisine, replies: 'No; nor their cookery either.'
I love the man who sees only things to admire in his mother and his own country; and in America that man has his choice —une abondance de biens.
CHAPTER XXVII
PATIENCE – AN AMERICAN TRAIT
For power of endurance, give me the Americans. They are angels of patience. The best illustration is what they can put up with at their Custom House when they return home. Foreigners are more leniently dealt with, but if the American and his wife return from a trip to Europe and have with them twelve trunks and ten bags, these twelve trunks and ten bags have to be opened and thoroughly searched, and that although the said American has already signed a paper that he has nothing dutiable with him.
In every civilized nation of the world, there is a Custom House officer to inquire of the foreign visitor or the returning native whether he has anything to declare. He is not required to sign anything. He is asked the question on presenting himself with his baggage.
Never more than one piece of luggage is opened, and when the owner is a lady alone she is allowed to pass without having anything opened, unless, of course, she appears to be a suspicious character.
Everywhere in Europe any decent-looking man or woman who declares that he or she has nothing dutiable has one piece of luggage examined and no more. But in America not only is every trunk, every bag, opened, but everything in it most searchingly examined.
'Have you worn this?' says the man.
I knew a gentleman who had had ten trunks examined from top to bottom, but could not find the key to his hat-box, a light piece of luggage which, by its weight, was labelled innocent. The Custom House officer took a hatchet and smashed it.
I allowed myself to be told that the gentleman in question could obtain no redress against the man in authority. A lady, for that matter, would have been treated in exactly the same way. No respect for her sex, no consideration for the pretty things she had had so carefully packed; everything is taken out, felt, and replaced topsy-turvy.
When a favourite steamer arrives in New York, with 500 first and second class passengers, it means about 5,000 pieces of luggage to open and examine. If you have no servants to see it done for you, the odds are that you will be five hours on the wharf before you are able to proceed to your hotel.
The Americans grumble, but patiently endure the nuisance, as if they were not masters in their own home and able to put a stop to it. No Englishman would stand it a day. If it was a special order, it would be repealed at once. The only time when the thing was done in England was during the period of scare produced by the Irish dynamitards some twenty-five years ago.
To some American millionairesses fifty new dresses are less extravagant than two or three for other women; besides, if they are extravagant, that's their business. What does it matter so long as it is not some materials for sale or any other commercial purpose?
The Americans endure bureaucracy much more readily than the English. In that, as in many other traits, they more resemble the French, who, in spite of their reputation for being unruly, are the most docile, enduring, easily-governed people in the world, until they are aroused, when – then look out!
CHAPTER XXVIII
AMERICAN FEELINGS FOR FOREIGNERS
Jonathan has such a large family of his own to think of and look after at home that he has not much time to spare for concerning himself about what is going on in other people's houses.
He takes a general interest in them, likes to be kept acquainted with what is happening in the world, in Europe especially; he feels sympathy for most people, antipathy to one, but it would be difficult to say, so far as the names of the American people are concerned, that he has a predilection for any particular nation more than for any other.
The largest foreign element in the United States is German, Scandinavian, and Irish; but they are all now digested and assimilated, and they inspire no particular feeling in the breast of Uncle Sam for the respective countries they originally came from. He asks them to be, and they are, good American citizens, ready to fight his battles on election day or, if need be, on the battlefield.
There is no 'most favoured' nation in the American character, which in this respect is opportunist to the greatest degree.
During the war with Spain the Americans were pro-English, because they had the moral support of the English, or thought they had.
In 1895, during the Venezuelan difficulty, they were above all anti-English. Just at present their love of the English is somewhat cooler, because they wonder whether England was really friendly and sincere during the Spanish-American War, and because their sympathy was for the Boers who, in their eyes, rightly or wrongly, bravely fought for their liberty and independence as the Americans did 125 years ago.
When Prince Henry visited the United States, the Americans regarded his visit as a great compliment paid to their country, and a delicate advance and attention on the part of the German Emperor.
Then Germany naturally came to the front, and, at the time, might with reason have been called the nation nearest to the heart of Jonathan. Prince Henry was fêted, banqueted, liked, and when the steamer took him home, he was remembered with pleasure and forgotten, and Germany resumed her position of foreign nation, just like that of any other.
The English, who buy inventions, but seldom make them, are now starting the rumour that the Prince of Wales has been invited to visit the United States. The idea is not very original, not any more than that of King Edward having a racing yacht built in America, and sending his son over to be present at its launching and christening. That sort of thing may be overdone.
If, however, the Prince of Wales went to America, he would be received with open arms, the 'blood-thicker-than-water' business, and the 'kin-and-kith' cry would be indulged in during his visit, after which everything would resume its normal state.
If the President of the French Republic could be induced to visit America, the Americans would become pro-French; Lafayette, the 'never-to-be-forgotten helper of the Americans' in their struggle for liberty and independence, would be resurrected, and this visit would, perhaps, be the one most likely to go straight to the hearts of the Americans, as, in this case, the visit paid would bring to the United States the very head of the French nation and the President of a great Republic, the sister Republic.
But the visit over, I have no doubt that Jonathan would resume his business habits, forget all about it, and only remember a little excitement and a good time.
Let me, however, advise any royalty, English or other, to wait a little before visiting America. For a long time there will be no originality, no novelty even, about the presence of a real Prince in the United States, and the Americans are particularly fond of novelties. They want a constant change in the programme.
CHAPTER XXIX
SHOULD YOUNG GIRLS READ NOVELS?
A lady, an intimate friend of the late Alphonse Karr, was one day on a visit to the famous French author, and noticing in his library the statuettes of the Venus of Milo and a few other classical beauties, she said to him: 'I am afraid you are wrong to feast your eyes on those exquisite faces and perfect forms, because they very seldom exist in real life, and they can only make you feel disappointed and spoil your mind. When you go to a ballroom, I imagine that there are few women, if any, that you are not inclined to criticise.'
For the same reason I will answer a lady correspondent, who asks me whether she should encourage or even allow her daughters to read novels: No, young people should not read novels. Instead of infusing into their minds sensible ideas about the stern realities of life, they portray disinterestedness that is overdone, beauty that is rarely seen outside of museums, devotion that has been very uncommon since the days of the Crusaders, love that has been unheard of since the death of Orpheus and Eurydice, pluck that died with Bayard and Bertrand du Guesclin; and I am not sure that, loathsome as they are to me, I would not recommend the novels of the realistic school rather than those of the romantic school to young people of both sexes; for if the former make you feel fairly disgusted with humanity, they do not, like the latter, fill the minds of youth with illusions that are destined to be blown to the four winds of the earth by the realities of life. In fact, I know some novels which young people might read, and also some which they ought to read; but I believe I could count them all on the fingers of my two hands. Let young people study life from life, listen to the experience of those who have lived, frequent people who have found happiness and met with success in life. This will much better make them serve their apprenticeship.
Yes, I say, avoid reading all novels, and, above all, the sentimental ones – those that make young girls believe that husbands are lovers who spend their lives at the feet of their wives making love to them, and young men imagine that wives are sweethearts who have nothing to do but coo and try to look pretty. Let young people read books that will help make them sensible and cheerful, books of travels and adventures, books of pleasant philosophy, of common-sense and humour. Boyhood, girlhood, as well as young manhood and womanhood, should be spent in cheerful surroundings, for nothing leads better to morality than cheerfulness. If I had a house full of young people, I would have my house ring all day long with the peals of laughter of my boys and girls. Fun of the good, wholesome sort, humour and gaiety, should be the daily food of youth, and only books that supply it should be given to them.
On the whole, there is not much to choose between the novels of the realistic school, that would make you believe that the world is full of murderers, forgers, men and women with diseased minds, novels that reek of disinfectants, and make you feel as you do when you come out of a hospital and your clothes are permeated with a smell of carbolic acid, and the novels of the sentimental school, that would lead you to believe that all the male and female geese who are their heroes and heroines have the slightest chance of being successful in life.
People should already know a great deal of real life before they get acquainted with the way in which it is represented in novels.