THE AMERICAN INVASION
A terrible danger is hanging over the Americans in London. Their
future and their reputation this season depend entirely on the
success of Buffalo Bill and Mrs. Brown-Potter. The former is
certain to draw; for English people are far more interested in
American barbarism than they are in American civilization. When
they sight Sandy Hook they look to their rifles and ammunition;
and, after dining once at Delmonico's, start off for Colorado or
California, for Montana or the Yellow Stone Park. Rocky Mountains
charm them more than riotous millionaires; they have been known
to prefer buffaloes to Boston. Why should they not? The cities
of America are inexpressibly tedious. The Bostonians take their
learning too sadly; culture with them is an accomplishment rather
than an atmosphere; their "Hub," as they call it, is the paradise
of prigs. Chicago is a sort of monster-shop, full of bustle and
bores. Political life at Washington is like political life in a
suburban vestry. Baltimore is amusing for a week, but Philadelphia
is dreadfully provincial; and though one can dine in New York
one could not dwell there. Better the Far West with its grizzly
bears and its untamed cowboys, its free open-air life and its
free open-air manners, its boundless prairie and its boundless
mendacity! This is what Buffalo Bill is going to bring to London;
and we have no doubt that London will fully appreciate his show.
With regard to Mrs. Brown-Potter, as acting is no longer considered
absolutely essential for success on the English stage, there is
really no reason why the pretty bright-eyed lady who charmed us
all last June by her merry laugh and her nonchalant ways, should
not--to borrow an expression from her native language--make a
big boom and paint the town red. We sincerely hope she will; for,
on the whole, the American invasion has done English society
a great deal of good. American women are bright, clever, and
wonderfully cosmopolitan. Their patriotic feelings are limited
to an admiration for Niagara and a regret for the Elevated Railway;
and, unlike the men, they never bore us with Bunkers Hill. They
take their dresses from Paris and their manners from Piccadilly,
and wear both charmingly. They have a quaint pertness, a delightful
conceit, a native self-assertion. They insist on being paid
compliments and have almost succeeded in making Englishmen
eloquent. For our aristocracy they have an ardent admiration;
they adore titles and are a permanent blow to Republican principles.
In the art of amusing men they are adepts, both by nature and
education, and can actually tell a story without forgetting the
point--an accomplishment that is extremely rare among the women of
other countries. It is true that they lack repose and that their
voices are somewhat harsh and strident when they land first
at Liverpool; but after a time one gets to love those pretty
whirlwinds in petticoats that sweep so recklessly through society
and are so agitating to all duchesses who have daughters. There
is something fascinating in their funny, exaggerated gestures and
their petulant way of tossing the head. Their eyes have no magic
nor mystery in them, but they challenge us for combat; and when we
engage we are always worsted. Their lips seem made for laughter
and yet they never grimace. As for their voices they soon get them
into tune. Some of them have been known to acquire a fashionable
drawl in two seasons; and after they have been presented to Royalty
they all roll their R's as vigorously as a young equerry or an old
lady-in-waiting. Still, they never really lose their accent; it
keeps peeping out here and there, and when they chatter together
they are like a bevy of peacocks. Nothing is more amusing than to
watch two American girls greeting each other in a drawing-room
or in the Row. They are like children with their shrill staccato
cries of wonder, their odd little exclamations. Their conversation
sounds like a series of exploding crackers; they are exquisitely
incoherent and use a sort of primitive, emotional language. After
five minutes they are left beautifully breathless and look at each
other half in amusement and half in affection. If a stolid young
Englishman is fortunate enough to be introduced to them he is
amazed at their extraordinary vivacity, their electric quickness
of repartee, their inexhaustible store of curious catchwords. He
never really understands them, for their thoughts flutter about
with the sweet irresponsibility of butterflies; but he is pleased
and amused and feels as if he were in an aviary. On the whole,
American girls have a wonderful charm and, perhaps, the chief
secret of their charm is that they never talk seriously except
about amusements. They have, however, one grave fault--their
mothers. Dreary as were those old Pilgrim Fathers who left our
shores more than two centuries ago to found a New England beyond
the seas, the Pilgrim Mothers who have returned to us in the
nineteenth century are drearier still.
Here and there, of course, there are exceptions, but as a class
they are either dull, dowdy or dyspeptic. It is only fair to the
rising generation of America to state that they are not to blame
for this. Indeed, they spare no pains at all to bring up their
parents properly and to give them a suitable, if somewhat late,
education. From its earliest years every American child spends
most of its time in correcting the faults of its father and
mother; and no one who has had the opportunity of watching
an American family on the deck of an Atlantic steamer, or in
the refined seclusion of a New York boarding-house, can fail
to have been struck by this characteristic of their civilization.
In America the young are always ready to give to those who are
older than themselves the full benefits of their inexperience.
A boy of only eleven or twelve years of age will firmly but
kindly point out to his father his defects of manner or temper;
will never weary of warning him against extravagance, idleness,
late hours, unpunctuality, and the other temptations to which
the aged are so particularly exposed; and sometimes, should he
fancy that he is monopolizing too much of the conversation at
dinner, will remind him, across the table, of the new child's
adage, "Parents should be seen, not heard." Nor does any
mistaken idea of kindness prevent the little American girl from
censuring her mother whenever it is necessary. Often, indeed,
feeling that a rebuke conveyed in the presence of others is
more truly efficacious than one merely whispered in the quiet
of the nursery, she will call the attention of perfect strangers
to her mother's general untidiness, her want of intellectual
Boston conversation, immoderate love of iced water and green
corn, stinginess in the matter of candy, ignorance of the
usages of the best Baltimore Society, bodily ailments, and
the like. In fact, it may be truly said that no American child
is ever blind to the deficiencies of its parents, no matter
how much it may love them.
Yet, somehow, this educational system has not been so successful
as it deserved. In many cases, no doubt, the material with
which the children had to deal was crude and incapable of real
development; but the fact remains that the American mother is a
tedious person. The American father is better, for he is never
seen in London. He passes his life entirely in Wall Street and
communicates with his family once a month by means of a telegram
in cipher. The mother, however, is always with us, and, lacking
the quick imitative faculty of the younger generation, remains
uninteresting and provincial to the last. In spite of her,
however, the American girl is always welcome. She brightens
our dull dinner parties for us and makes life go pleasantly
by for a season. In the race for coronets she often carries
off the prize; but, once she has gained the victory, she is
generous and forgives her English rivals everything, even
their beauty.
Warned by the example of her mother that American women do
not grow old gracefully, she tries not to grow old at all
and often succeeds. She has exquisite feet and hands, is
always bien chaussee et bien gantee and can talk brilliantly
upon any subject, provided that she knows nothing about it.
Her sense of humour keeps her from the tragedy of a grande
passion, and, as there is neither romance nor humility in her
love, she makes an excellent wife. What her ultimate influence
on English life will be it is difficult to estimate at present;
but there can be no doubt that, of all the factors that have
contributed to the social revolution of London, there are few
more important, and none more delightful, than the American
Invasion.
~~~~~~~ THE END ~~~~~~~
|
