Jonathan and His Continent Part 35

"How dare you wear my clothes?"

"Please, ma.s.sa, I got married yesterday," and the broad black face of Pompey was lit up with a rather sheepish-looking grin.

All the caricatures of the comic papers are outdone by realities in America.

These, for instance, are not caricatures, but facts:

Servant-maids will often refuse to enter your service if there is not a piano in the bas.e.m.e.nt.

Others will demand folding-beds. They will give you to understand that, when they receive their "gentlemen" friends, it is not proper and becoming to entertain them in a room where the bed on which they repose their charms at night is spread out.

I know a lady who, losing her patience with her housemaid one day, said to her:

"I expect my servants to do so and so."

"Your what?" cried the indignant damsel. "I'll just tell you what I think of you. You ain't no lady, that's certain."

Needless to say that American "helps" vie with their mistresses in display of toilette. Everyone knows that. Their diamonds are false, of course; but there are so many rhinestones worn by ladies who are not "helps" (even to their husbands), that it is difficult to distinguish the wife of a millionaire from her kitchenmaid by their diamonds.

Here are two advertis.e.m.e.nts which I extract from an Indianapolis newspaper:

"Situation as dishwasher required by a lady.--Apply _Sentinel_ Office."

"A lady (white) undertakes washing at home."--(Address follows.)

Democracy can no further go.

"I take care never to part on bad terms with my servants when they leave me." This was said to me one day by a clever Boston lady, who, to my thinking, lacks sufficient admiration for the democratic inst.i.tutions of America.

I guessed that she intended a covert satire on the greatest Republic in the world.

"Why?" I demanded.

"Because, when one of those girls leaves me, it is quite within the range of possibility that she will marry some Western ranchman; and one day, when her husband becomes a Senator, she may be useful to me at Washington."

CHAPTER x.x.xVIII.

_Jonathan's Table.--Danger of Steel Knives.--The Americans are Water-drinkers.--I discover a Snake in my Tumbler.--The Negro Waiter Comforts Me.--Accommodation for Travellers.--The Menu.--Abbreviated Dinner.--The Little Oval Dishes.--Turkey and Cranberry Sauce.--A not very Tempting Dish.--Consolation of Knowing that the Waitresses are well cared for.--Something to Eat, for Heaven's Sake!--Humble Apologies to Mine Host._

The great ma.s.s of the American people live on tough meat uncooked, and iced water unfiltered.

I take it for granted that sheep and cattle are born at as tender an age in America as elsewhere; but the Society for the Protection of Animals probably prevents their being killed for food while they are young enough to enjoy life, and so the patriarchs alone are reserved for the table.

That which renders the problem of dining almost past solving is, that the meat has to be attacked with plated knives, which tear but do not cut it. I suppose that, as half the lower-cla.s.s Americans still eat with their knives, it was necessary to abandon the idea of having steel knives, for fear of their accidentally gashing their faces. If sharp steel knives were in general use in America, the streets would be full of people with faces scarred and seamed like those of the Heidelberg students.

The Americans drink little else but water at table, and one cannot help wondering how it is that the filter seems to be an almost unknown inst.i.tution in the land. Leave your gla.s.s of water untouched on the table, and, in a few moments, a thick sediment of mud or sand will be visible at the bottom of it.

Down south it is worse still.

At Jacksonville, I was waited upon at table by an extremely obliging negro.

One day he brought me some water, put ice in it, and discreetly withdrew behind my chair.

I took up the gla.s.s, and minutely inspected its contents.

"Epaminondas!" said I.

"Dat's not my name, sah; I'm called Charles."

"Charles, look at this water; there is a snake in it."

Charles took the gla.s.s, looked at it, and then, with a reasurring grin, announced:

"It's dead, sah."

"That is comforting," said I; "but it may have left eggs, which will come to life by thousands inside me."

Charles was facetious, and was not to be put out of countenance for such a trifle. He took up the gla.s.s again, re-examined it, and replaced it on the table.

"Dere's no danger, sah; it's a male," he said.

In almost all hotels throughout the south, the waiters are coloured men.

The service is but poor. The negroes are slow: it is the guests who do the "waiting."

At Delmonico's especially, and in the princ.i.p.al hotels of New York, Boston, Washington, Philadelphia, and Chicago, you can dine admirably.

In the smaller towns you feed.

But let us take our seats at the _table d'hote_ of the best hotel in any second-rate town that you please in Ohio, Pennsylvania, or some other State of the Union.

No printed _menu_. A young woman, with an elaborate coiffure of curls, rolls, and bangs, but no cap, approaches, darts a look of contempt at you, and, turning her back upon you, gabbles off in one breath:

"Croutaupoturbotshrimpsauceroastbeefturkeycranberrysaucepotatoes- tomatoesspinachappletartmincepiecheesevanillacream."

Do not attempt to stop her; she is wound up, and when she is started is bound to go to the end. You must not hope that she will repeat the _menu_ a second time, either. If you did not hear, so much the worse for you. Unfortunately, the consequences are grave: it is not one dish that you miss, it is the whole dinner. You are obliged to order all your repast at once; and the whole is brought you, from soup to cheese, at one time.

I was so ill-inspired one day as to order some soup to begin with. The waitress refused downright to bring me anything more.