A Frenchman in America Part 16

So says La Bruyere. Every visitor to America, who wants to bring back a pleasant recollection of his stay there, should lay this to heart.

Such are the impressions that I formed of the American during my first trip to his country, and the more I think over the matter, the more sure I am that they were correct. Curiosity is his chief little failing, and good-fellowship his most prominent quality. This is the theme I will develop and send to the Editor of the _North American Review_. I will profit by having a couple of days to spend in New York to install myself in a cosy corner of that cosiest of clubs, the "Players," and there write it.

It seems that, in the same number of this magazine, the same subject is to be treated by Mr. Andrew Lang. He has never seen Jonathan at home, and it will be interesting to see what impressions he has formed of him abroad. In the hands of such a graceful writer, the "typical American"

is sure to be treated in a pleasant and interesting manner.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

CHAPTER XVI.

I AM ASKED TO EXPRESS MYSELF FREELY ON AMERICA--I MEET MRS. BLANK AND FOR THE FIRST TIME HEAR OF MR. BLANK--BEACON STREET SOCIETY--THE BOSTON CLUBS.

_Boston, January 25._

It amuses me to notice how the Americans to whom I have the pleasure of being introduced, refrain from asking me what I think of America. But they invariably inquire if the impressions of my first visit are confirmed.

This afternoon, at an "At Home," I met a lady from New York, who asked me a most extraordinary question.

"I have read 'Jonathan and His Continent,'" she said to me. "I suppose that is a book of impressions written for publication. But now, tell me _en confidence_, what do you think of us?"

"Is there anything in that book," I replied, "which can make you suppose that it is not the faithful expression of what the author thinks of America and the Americans?"

"Well," she said, "it is so complimentary, taken altogether, that I must confess I had a lurking suspicion of your having purposely flattered us and indulged our national weakness for hearing ourselves praised, so as to make sure of a warm reception for your book."

"No doubt," I replied, "by writing a flattering book on any country, you would greatly increase your chance of a large sale in that country; but, on the other hand, you may write an abusive book on any country and score a great success among that nation's neighbors. For my part, I have always gone my own quiet way, philosophizing rather than opinionating, and when I write, it is not with the aim of pleasing any particular public. I note down what I see, say what I think, and people may read me or not, just as they please. But I think I may boast, however, that my pen is never bitter, and I do not care to criticise unless I feel a certain amount of sympathy with the subject of my criticism. If I felt that I could only honestly say hard things of people, I would always abstain altogether."

"Now," said my fair questioner, "how is it that you have so little to say about our Fifth Avenue folks? Is it because you have seen very little of them, or is it because you could only have said hard things of them?"

"On the contrary," I replied; "I saw a good deal of them, but what I saw showed me that to describe them would be only to describe polite society, as it exists in London and elsewhere. Society gossip is not in my line; boudoir and club smoking-room scandal has no charm for me.

Fifth Avenue resembles too much Mayfair and Belgravia to make criticism of it worth attempting."

I knew this answer would have the effect of putting me into the lady's good graces at once, and I was not disappointed. She accorded to me her sweetest smile, as I bowed to her to go and be introduced to another lady by the mistress of the house.

[Ill.u.s.tration: FIFTH AVENUE FOLK.]

The next lady was a Bostonian. I had to explain to her why I had not spoken of Beacon Street people, using the same argument as in the case of Fifth Avenue society, and with the same success.

At the same "At Home," I had the pleasure of meeting Mrs. Blank, whom I had met many times in London and Paris.

She is one of the crowd of pretty and clever women whom America sends to brighten up European society, and who reappear in London and Paris with the regularity of the swallows. You meet them everywhere, and conclude that they must be married, since they are styled Mrs. and not Miss. But whether they are wives, widows, or _divorcees_, you rarely think of inquiring, and you may enjoy their friendship for years without knowing whether they have a living lord or not.

[Ill.u.s.tration: A TELEPHONE AND TICKER.]

Mrs. Blank, as I say, is a most fascinating specimen of America's daughters, and to-day I find that Mr. Blank is also very much alive, but that the companions of his joys and sorrows are the telephone and the ticker; in fact it is thanks to his devotion to these that the wife of his bosom is able to adorn European society during every recurring season.

American women have such love for freedom and are so cool-headed that their visits to Europe could not arouse suspicion even in the most malicious. But, nevertheless, I am glad to have heard of Mr. Blank, because it is comfortable to have one's mind at rest on these subjects.

Up to now, whenever I had been asked, as sometimes happened, though seldom: "Who is Mr. Blank, and where is he?" I had always answered: "Last puzzle out!"

Lunched to-day in the beautiful Algonquin Club, as the guest of Colonel Charles H. Taylor, and met the editors of the other Boston papers, among whom was John Boyle O'Reilly,[1] the lovely poet, and the delightful man. The general conversation turned on two subjects most interesting to me, viz., American journalism, and American politics. All these gentlemen seemed to agree that the American people take an interest in local politics only, but not in imperial politics, and this explains why the papers of the smaller towns give detailed accounts of what is going on in the houses of legislature of both city and State, but do not concern themselves about what is going on in Washington. I had come to that conclusion myself, seeing that the great papers of New York, Boston, Philadelphia, Chicago devoted columns to the sayings and doings of the political world in London and Paris, and seldom a paragraph to the sittings of Congress in Washington.

In the morning, before lunch, I had called on Mr. John Holmes, the editor of the Boston _Herald_, and there met a talented lady who writes under the _nom de plume_ of "Max Eliot," and with whom I had a delightful half-hour's chat.

I have had to-day the pleasure of meeting the editors of all the Boston newspapers.

In the evening, I dined with the members of the New England Club, who meet every month to listen, at dessert, to some interesting debate or lecture. The wine is supplied by bets. You bet, for instance, that the sun will shine on the following Friday at half-past two. If you lose, you are one of those who will have to supply one, two, or three bottles of champagne at the next dinner, and so on. This evening the lecture, or rather the short address, was given by Colonel Charles H. Taylor on the history of American journalism. I was particularly interested to hear the history of the foundation of the New York _Herald_, by James Gordon Bennett, and that of the New York _World_, by Mr. Pulitzer, a Hungarian emigrant, who, some years ago, arrived in the States, unable to speak English, became jack-of-all-trades, then a reporter on a German paper, proprietor of a Western paper, and then bought the _World_, which is now one of the best paying concerns in the whole of the United States. This man, who, to maintain himself, not in health, but just alive, is obliged to be constantly traveling, directs the paper by telegraph from Australia, from j.a.pan, from London, or wherever he happens to be. It is nothing short of marvelous.

I finished the evening in the St. Botolph Club, and I may say that I have to-day spent one of the most delightful days of my life, with those charming and highly cultured Bostonians, who, a New York witty friend of mine declares, "are educated beyond their intellects."

[Ill.u.s.tration]

FOOTNORE:

[1] J. B. O'Reilly died in 1890.

CHAPTER XVII.

A LIVELY SUNDAY IN BOSTON--LECTURE IN THE BOSTON THEATER--DR. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES--THE BOOTH-MODJESKA COMBINATION.

_Boston, January 26._

"Max Eliot" devotes a charming and most flattering article to me in this morning's _Herald_, embodying the conversation we had together yesterday in the Boston _Herald's_ office. Many thanks, Max.

A reception was given to me this afternoon by Citizen George Francis Train, and I met many artists, journalists, and a galaxy of charming women.

The Citizen is p.r.o.nounced to be the greatest crank on earth. I found him decidedly eccentric, but entertaining, witty, and a first-rate _raconteur_. He shakes hands with you in the Chinese fashion--he shakes his own. He has taken a solemn oath that his body shall never come in contact with the body of any one.

A charming programme of music and recitations was gone through.

The invitation cards issued for the occasion speak for themselves.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE CITIZEN SHAKES HANDS.]