A Frenchman in America: Recollections of Men and Things

It is just possible that in a few years colored students will have ceased to study at Oberlin College.

I can perfectly well understand that Jonathan should not care to associate too closely with the colored people, for, although they do not inspire me with repulsion, still I cannot imagine – well, I cannot understand for one thing how the mulatto can exist.

But since the American has to live alongside the negro, would it not be worth his while to treat him politely and honestly, give him his due as an equal, if not in his eyes, at any rate in the eyes of the law? Would it not be worth his while to remember that the “darky” cannot be gradually disposed of like the Indian, for Sambo adapts himself to his surroundings, multiplies apace, goes to school, and knows how to read, write, and reckon. Reckon especially.

It might be well to remember, too, that all the greatest, bloodiest revolutions the world has ever seen were set on foot, not to pay off hardships, but as revenge for injustice. “Uncle Tom’s Cabin” was called a romance, nothing but a romance, by the aristocratic Southerners; but, to use the Carlylian phrase, their skins went to bind the hundreds of editions of that book. Another “Uncle Tom’s Cabin” may yet appear.

America will have “to work her thinking machine” seriously on this subject, and that before many years are over. If the next Presidential election is not run on the negro question, the succeeding one surely will be.

CHAPTER XXXVIII

Mr. and Mrs. Kendal in New York – Joseph Jefferson – Julian Hawthorne – Miss Ada Rehan – “As You Like It” at Daly’s Theater New York, March 28.

The New York papers this morning announce that the “Society of Young Girls of Pure Character on the Stage” give a lunch to Mrs. Kendal to-morrow.

Mr. and Mrs. Kendal have conquered America. Their tour is a triumphal march through the United States, a huge success artistically, financially, and socially.

I am not surprised at it. I went to see them a few days ago in “The Ironmaster,” and they delighted me. As Claire Mrs. Kendal was admirable. She almost succeeded in making me forget Madame Jane Hading, who created the part at the Gymnase, in Paris, six years ago.

…

This morning Mr. Joseph Jefferson called on me at the Everett House. The veteran actor, who looks more like a man of fifty than like one of over sixty, is now playing with Mr. William J. Florence in “The Rivals.” I had never seen him off the stage. I immediately saw that the characteristics of the actor were the characteristics of the man – kindness, naturalness, simplicity, bonhomie, and finesse. An admirable actor, a great artist, and a lovable man.

At the Down-Town Club, I lunched with the son of Nathaniel Hawthorne – the greatest novelist that America has yet produced – Mr. Julian Hawthorne, himself a novelist of repute. Lately he has written a series of sensational novels in collaboration with the famous New York detective, Inspector Byrnes. Mr. Julian Hawthorne is a man of about forty-five, tall, well-proportioned, with an artistic-looking head crowned with grayish hair, that reminds a Frenchman of Alexandre Dumas, fils, and an American of Nathaniel Hawthorne. A charming, unaffected man, and a delightful causeur.

…

In the evening I went to Daly’s Theater and saw “As You Like It.” That bewitching queen of actresses, Miss Ada Rehan, played Rosalind. Miss Rehan is so original that it would be perfectly impossible to compare her to any of the other great actresses of France and England. She is like nobody else. She is herself. The coaxing drawl of her musical voice, the vivacity of her movements, the whimsical spontaneity that seems to direct her acting, her tall, handsome figure, her beautiful, intellectual face, all tend to make her a unique actress. She fascinates you, and so gets hold of you, that when she is on the stage she entirely fills it. Mr. John Drew as Orlando and Mr. James Drew as Touchstone were admirable.

It matters little what the play-bill announces at Daly’s Theater. If I have not seen the play, I am sure to enjoy it; if I have seen it already, I am sure to enjoy it again.

CHAPTER XXXIX

Washington – The City – Willard’s Hotel – The Politicians – General Benjamin Harrison, U. S. President – Washington Society – Baltimore – Philadelphia Washington, April 3.

Arrived here the day before yesterday, and put up at Willard’s. I prefer this huge hotel to the other more modern houses of the capital, because it is thoroughly American; because it is in its rotunda that every evening the leading men of all parties and the notables of the nation may be found; because to meet at Willard’s at night is as much the regular thing as to perform any of the official functions of office during the day; because, to use the words of a guide, which speaks the truth, it is pleasant to live in this historical place, in apartments where battles have been planned and political parties have been born or doomed to death, to become familiar with surroundings amid which Presidents have drawn their most important papers and have chosen their Cabinet Ministers, and where the proud beauties of a century have held their Court.

…

On the subject of Washington hotels, I was told a good story the other day.

The most fashionable hotel of this city having outgrown its space, the proprietors sent a note to a lady, whose back yard adjoined, to say, that, contemplating still enlarging their hotel, they would be glad to know at what price she would sell her yard, and they would hand her the amount without any more discussion. The lady, in equally Yankee style, replied that she had been contemplating enlarging her back yard, and was going to inquire what they would take for part of their hotel!

…

How beautiful this city of Washington is, with its wide avenues, its parks, and its buildings! That Capitol, in white marble, standing on elevated ground, against a bright blue sky, is a poem – an epic poem.

I am never tired of looking at the expanse of cloudless blue that is almost constantly stretched overhead. The sunsets are glorious. The poorest existence would seem bearable under such skies. I am told they are better still further West. I fancy I should enjoy to spend some time on a farm, deep in the country, far from the noisy, crowded streets, but I fear I am condemned to see none but the busy haunts of Jonathan.

…

In the evening I went to what is called a colored church. The place was packed with negroes of all shades and ages; the women, some of them very smartly dressed, and waving scarlet fans. In a pew sat a trio truly gorgeous. Mother, in black shiny satin, light-brown velvet mantle covered with iridescent beads, bonnet to match. Daughter of fifteen; costume of sky-blue satin, plush mantle, scarlet red, chinchilla fur trimmings, white hat with feathers. Second girl, or daughter, light-blue velvet, from top to toe, with large hat, apple-green and gold.

Every one was intently listening to the preacher, a colored man, who gave them, in graphic language and stentorian voice, the story of the capture of the Jews by Cyrus, their slavery and their delivery. A low accompaniment of “Yes!” “Hear, hear!” “Allelujah!” “Glory!” from the hearers, showed their approbation of the discourse. From time to time, there would be a general chuckle or laughter, and exclamations of delight from the happy grin-lit mouths, as, for instance, when the preacher described the supper of Belshazzar, and the appearance of the writing on the wall, in his own droll fashion. “’Let’s have a fine supper,’ said Belshazzar. ‘Dere’s ole Cyrus out dere, but we’ll have a good time and enjoy ourselves, and never mind him.’ So he went for de cups dat had come from de Temple of Jerusalem, and began carousin’! Dere is Cyrus, all de while, marchin’ his men up de bed ob de river. I see him comin’! I see him!” Then he pictured the state all that wicked party got in at the sight of the writing nobody could read, and by this time the excitement of the congregation was tremendous. The preacher thought this a good opportunity to point a moral. So he proceeded: “Now, drink is a poor thing; dere’s too much of it in dis here city.” Here followed a picture of certain darkies, who cut a dash with shiny hats and canes, and frequented bars and saloons. “When folks take to drinkin’, somefin’s sure to go wrong.” Grins and grunts of approbation culminated in perfect shouts of glee, as the preacher said: “Ole Belshazzar and de rest of ’em forgot to shut de city gate, and in came Cyrus and his men.”

They went nearly wild with pleasure over the story of the liberation of the Jews, and incidental remarks on their own freeing. “Oh, let dem go,” said their masters, when they found the game was up, “dey’ll soon perish and die out!” Here the preacher laughed loudly, and then shouted: “But we don’t die out so easy!” [Grins and chuckling.]

One old negro was very funny to watch. When something met with his approval, he gave off a little “tchsu, tchsu!” and writhed forward and back on his seat for a moment, apparently in intense enjoyment; then jumped off his seat, turning round once or twice; then he would listen intently again, as if afraid to lose a word.

“I see dis, I see dat,” said the preacher continually. His listeners seemed to see it too.

…

At ten minutes to twelve yesterday morning, I called at the White House. The President had left the library, but he was kind enough to return, and at twelve I had the honor to spend a few minutes in the company of General Benjamin Harrison. Two years ago I was received by Mr. Grover Cleveland with the same courtesy and the same total absence of red tape.

The President of the United States is a man about fifty-five years old; short, exceedingly neat, and even recherché in his appearance. The hair and beard are white, the eyes small and very keen. The face is severe, but lights up with a most gentle and kind smile.

General Harrison is a popular president; but the souvenir of Mrs. Cleveland is still haunting the minds of the Washingtonians. They will never forget the most beautiful lady who ever did the honors of the White House, and most of them look forward to the possibility of her returning to Washington in March, 1893.

…

Washington society moves in circles and sets. The wife of the President and the wives and daughters of the Cabinet Ministers form the first set – Olympus, as it were. The second set is composed of the ladies belonging to the families of the Judges of the Supreme Court! The Senators come next. The Army circle comes fourth. The House of Representatives supplies the last set. Each circle, a Washington friend tells me, is controlled by rigid laws of etiquette. Senators’ wives consider themselves much superior to the wives of Congressmen, and the Judges’ wives consider themselves much above those of the Senators. But, as a rule, the great lion of Washington society is the British Minister, especially when he happens to be a real live English lord. All look up to him; and if a young titled English attaché wishes to marry the richest heiress of the capital, all he has to do is to throw the handkerchief, the young and the richest natives do not stand the ghost of a chance.

…

Lectured last night, in the Congregational Church, to a large and most fashionable audience. Senator Hoar took the chair, and introduced me in a short, neat, gracefully worded little speech. In to-day’s Washington Star, I find the following remark:

The lecturer was handsomely introduced by Senator Hoar, who combines the dignity of an Englishman, the sturdiness of a Scotchman, the savoir faire of a Frenchman, and the culture of a Bostonian.

What a strange mixture! I am trying to find where the compliment comes in, surely not in “the savoir faire of a Frenchman!”

…

Armed with a kind letter of introduction to Miss Kate Field, I called this morning at the office of this lady, who is characterized by a prominent journalist as “the very brainiest woman in the United States.” Unfortunately she was out of town.

I should have liked to make the personal acquaintance of this brilliant, witty woman, who speaks, I am told, as she writes, in clear, caustic, fearless style. My intention was to interview her a bit. A telegram was sent to her in New York from her secretary, and her answer was wired immediately: “Interview him.” So, instead of interviewing Miss Kate Field, I was interviewed, for her paper, by a young and very pretty lady journalist.

… Baltimore, April 4.

I have spent the day here with some friends.

Baltimore strikes one as a quiet, solid, somewhat provincial town. It is an eminently middle-class looking city. There is no great wealth in it, no great activity; but, on the other hand, there is little poverty; it is a well-to-do city par excellence. The famous Johns Hopkins University is here, and I am not surprised to learn that Baltimore is a city of culture and refinement.

A beautiful forest, a mixture of cultivated park and wilderness, about a mile from the town, must be a source of delight to the inhabitants in summer and during the beautiful months of September and October.

I was told several times that Baltimore was famous all over the States for its pretty women.

They were not out to-day. And as I have not been invited to lecture in Baltimore, I must be content with hoping to be more lucky next time.

… Philadelphia, April 5.

After my lecture in Association Hall to-night, I will return to New York to spend Easter Sunday with my friends. Next Monday off again to the West, to Cincinnati again, to Chicago again, and as far as Madison, the State city of Wisconsin.

By the time this tour is finished – in about three weeks – I shall have traveled something like thirty thousand miles.

The more I think of it, the more I feel the truth of this statement, which I made in “Jonathan and His Continent”: To form an exact idea of what a lecture tour is in America, just imagine that you lecture to-night in London, to-morrow in Paris, then in Berlin, then in Vienna, then in Constantinople, then in Teheran, then in Bombay, and so forth. With this difference, that if you had to undertake the work in Europe, at the end of a week you would be more dead than alive.

But here you are not caged on the railroad lines, you can circulate. There is no fear of cold, no fear of hunger, and if the good, attentive, polite railway conductors of England could be induced to do duty on board the American cars, I would anytime go to America for the mere pleasure of traveling.

CHAPTER XL

Easter Sunday in New York New York, April 6 (Easter Sunday.)

This morning I went to Dr. Newton’s church in Forty-eighth Street. He has the reputation of being one of the best preachers in New York, and the choir enjoys an equally great reputation. The church was literally packed until the sermon began, and then some of the strollers who had come to hear the anthems moved on. Dr. Newton’s voice and delivery were not at all to my taste, so I did not sit out his sermon either. He has a big, unctuous voice, with the intonations and inflections of a showman at the fair. He has not the flow of ideas that struck me so forcibly when I heard the late Henry Ward Beecher in London; he has not the histrionic powers of Dr. Talmage, either. There was more show than beauty about the music, too. A bellowing, shrieking soprano overpowered all the other voices in the choir, including that of a really beautiful tenor that deserved to be heard.

…

New York blossoms like the rose on Easter Day. Every woman has a new bonnet and walks abroad to show it.

There are grades in millinery as there are in society. The imported bonnet takes the proudest rank; it is the aristocrat in the world of headgear. It does not always come with the conqueror (in one of her numerous trunks), but it always comes to conquer, and a proud, though ephemeral triumph it enjoys, perched on the dainty head of a New York belle, and supplemented by a frock from Felix’s or Redfern’s.

It is a unique sight, Fifth Avenue on Easter Sunday, when all the up-town churches have emptied themselves of their gayly garbed worshipers.

The “four hundred” have been keeping Lent in polite, if not rigorous, fashion. Who shall say what it has cost them in self-sacrifice to limit themselves to the sober, modest violet for table and bonnet decoration during six whole weeks? These things cannot be lightly judged by the profane. I have even heard of sweet, devout New York girls who limited themselves to one pound of marrons glacés a week during Lent. Such feminine heroism deserves mention.

And have they not been sewing flannel for the poor, once a week, instead of directing the manipulation of silk and gauze for their own fair forms, all the week long? Who shall gauge the self-control necessary for fasting such as this? But now Dorcas meetings are over, and dances begin again to-morrow. The Easter anthem has been sung, and the imported bonnet takes a turn on Fifth Avenue to salute and to hob-nob with Broadway imitations during the hour between church and lunch. To New Yorkers this Easter Church parade is as much of an institution in its way as those of Hyde Park during the season are to the Londoners. It was plain that the people sauntering leisurely on the broad sidewalks, the feminine portion at least, had not come out solely for religious exercise in church, but had every intention to see and to be seen, especially the latter. On my way down, I saw some folks who had not been to church, and only wanted to see, so stood with faces glued to the windows of the big clubs, looking out at the kaleidoscopic procession: old bachelors, I daresay, who hold the opinion that spring bonnets, whether imported or home-grown, ought to be labeled “dangerous.” At all events they were gazing as one might gaze at some coveted but out-of-reach fruit, and looking as if they dared not face their fascinating young townswomen in all the splendor of their new war paint. A few, perhaps, were married men, and this was their quiet protest against fifty-dollar hats and five-hundred-dollar gowns.

The sight was beautiful and one not to be forgotten.

…

In the evening I dined with Colonel Robert G. Ingersoll and the members of his family. I noticed something which struck me as novel, but as perfectly charming. Each man was placed at table by the side of his wife, including the host and hostess. This custom in the colonel’s family circle (I was the only guest not belonging to it) is another proof that his theories are put into practice in his house. Dinner and time vanished with rapidity in that house, where everything breathes love and happiness.

CHAPTER XLI

I Mount the Pulpit, and Preach on the Sabbath, in the State of Wisconsin – The Audience is Large and Appreciative; but I probably Fail to Please One of the Congregation Milwaukee, April 21.

To a certain extent I am a believer in climatic influence, and am inclined to think that Sabbath reformers reckon without the British climate when they hope to ever see a Britain full of cheerful Christians. M. Taine, in his “History of English Literature,” ascribes the unlovable morality of Puritanism to the influence of the British climate. “Pleasure being out of question,” he says, “under such a sky, the Briton gave himself up to this forbidding virtuousness.” In other words, being unable to be cheerful, he became moral. This is not altogether true. Many Britons are cheerful who don’t look it, many Britons are not moral who look it.

But how would M. Taine explain the existence of this same puritanic “morality” which can be found under the lovely, clear, bright sky of America? All over New England, and indeed in most parts of America, the same Kill-joy, the same gloomy, frowning Sabbath-keeper is flourishing, doing his utmost to blot the sunshine out of every recurring seventh day.

Yet Sabbath-keeping is a Jewish institution that has nothing to do with Protestantism; but there have always been Protestants more Protestant than Martin Luther, and Christians more Christian than Christ.

Luther taught that the Sabbath was to be kept, not because Moses commanded it, but because Nature teaches us the necessity of the seventh day’s rest. He says “If anywhere the day is made holy for the mere day’s sake, then I command you to work on it, ride on it, dance on it, do anything that will reprove this encroachment on Christian spirit and liberty.”

The old Scotch woman, who “did nae think the betterer on” the Lord for that Sabbath-day walk through the cornfield, is not a solitary type of Anglo-Saxon Christian. But it is when these Puritans judge other nations that they are truly great.

Puritan lack of charity and dread of cheerfulness often lead Anglo-Saxon visitors to France to misjudge the French mode of spending Sunday. Americans, as well as English, err in this matter, as I had occasion to find out during my second visit to America.

I had been lecturing last Saturday evening in the pretty little town of Whitewater, in Wisconsin, and received an invitation from a minister to address a meeting that was to be held yesterday, Sunday, in the largest church of the place to discuss the question, “How Sunday should be spent.” I at first declined, on the ground that it might not be exactly in good taste for a foreigner to advise his hosts how to spend Sunday. However, when it was suggested that I might simply go and tell them how Sunday was spent in France, I accepted the task.

The proceedings opened with prayer and an anthem; and a hymn in praise of the Jewish Sabbath having been chosen by the moderator, I thought the case looked bad for us French people, and that I was going to cut a poor figure.

The first speaker unwittingly came to my rescue by making an onslaught upon the French mode of spending the seventh day. “With all due respect to the native country of our visitor,” said he, “I am bound to say that on the one Sunday which I spent in Paris, I saw a great deal of low immorality, and I could not help coming to the conclusion that this was due to the fact of the French not being a Sabbath-keeping people.” He wound up with a strong appeal to his townsmen to beware of any temptation to relax in their observance of the fourth commandment as given by Moses.

I was called upon to speak next. I rose in my pew, but was requested to go into the rostrum.

With alacrity I stepped forward, a little staggered, perhaps, at finding myself for the first time in a pulpit, but quite ready for the fray.

“I am sorry,” said I, “to hear the remarks made by the speaker who has just sat down. I cannot, however, help thinking that if our friend had spent that Sunday in Paris in respectable places, he would have been spared the sight of any low immorality. No doubt Paris, like every large city in the world, has its black spots, and you can easily discover them, if you make proper inquiries as to where they are, and if you are properly directed. Now, let me ask, where did he go? I should very much like to know. Being an old Parisian, I have still in my mind’s eye the numerous museums that are open free to the people on Sundays. One of the most edifying sights in the city is that of our peasants and workmen in their clean Sunday blouses enjoying themselves with their families, and elevating their tastes among our art treasures. Did our friend go there? I know there are places where for little money the symphonies of Beethoven and other great masters may be and are enjoyed by thousands every Sunday. Did our friend go there? Within easy reach of the people are such places as the Bois de Boulogne, the Garden of Acclimation, where for fifty centimes a delightful day may be spent among the lawns and flower-beds of that Parisian “Zoo.” Its goat cars, ostrich cars, its camel and elephant drives make it a paradise for children, and one might see whole families there on Sunday afternoons in the summer, the parents refreshing their bodies with this contact with nature and their hearts with the sight of the children’s glee. Did our friend go there? We even have churches in Paris, churches that are crammed from six o’clock in the morning till one in the afternoon with worshipers who go on their knees to God. Now, did our friend go to church on that Sunday? Well, where did he go? I am quitting Whitewater to-morrow, and I leave it to his townspeople to investigate the matter. When I first visited New York, stories were told me of strange things to be seen there even on a Sunday. Who doubts, I repeat, that every great city has its black spots? I had no desire to see those of New York, there was so much that was better worth my time and attention. If our friend, our observing friend, would only have done in Paris as I did in New York, he would have seen very little low immorality.”