The expression “Little Englander,” much used of
late to designate an inhabitant of the Mother Isle in
contra-distinction to other subjects of Her Majesty, expresses
neatly the feeling of our insular cousins not only as regards
ourselves, but also the position affected toward their colonial
brothers and sisters.
Have you ever noticed that in every circle there is some
individual assuming to do things better than his
comrades—to know more, dress better, run faster, pronounce
more correctly? Who, unless promptly suppressed, will turn
the conversation into a monologue relating to his own exploits
and opinions. To differ is to bring down his contempt upon
your devoted head! To argue is time wasted!
Human nature is, however, so constituted that a man of this
type mostly succeeds in hypnotizing his hearers into sharing his
estimate of himself, and impressing upon them the conviction that
he is a rare being instead of a commonplace mortal. He is
not a bad sort of person at bottom, and ready to do one a
friendly turn—if it does not entail too great
inconvenience. In short, a good fellow, whose principal
defect is the profound conviction that he was born superior to
the rest of mankind.
What this individual is to his environment, Englishmen are to
the world at large. It is the misfortune, not the fault, of
the rest of the human race, that they are not native to his
island; a fact, by the way, which outsiders are rarely allowed to
lose sight of, as it entails a becoming modesty on their
part.
Few idiosyncrasies get more quickly on American nerves or are
further from our hearty attitude toward strangers. As we
are far from looking upon wandering Englishmen with suspicion, it
takes us some time to realize that Americans who cut away from
their countrymen and settle far from home are regarded with
distrust and reluctantly received. When a family of this
kind prepares to live in their neighborhood, Britons have a
formula of three questions they ask themselves concerning the
new-comers: “Whom do they know? How much are they
worth?” and “What amusement (or profit) are we likely
to get out of them?” If the answer to all or any of
the three queries is satisfactory, my lord makes the necessary
advances and becomes an agreeable, if not a witty or original,
companion.
Given this and a number of other peculiarities, it seems
curious that a certain class of Americans should be so anxious to
live in England. What is it tempts them? It cannot be
the climate, for that is vile; nor the city of London, for it is
one of the ugliest in existence; nor their
“cuisine”—for although we are not good cooks
ourselves, we know what good food is and could give Britons
points. Neither can it be art, nor the opera,—one
finds both better at home or on the Continent than in
England. So it must be society, and here one’s wonder
deepens!
When I hear friends just back from a stay over there enlarging
on the charms of “country life,” or a London
“season,” I look attentively to see if they are in
earnest, so incomparably dull have I always found English house
parties or town entertainments. At least that side of
society which the climbing stranger mostly affects. Other
circles are charming, if a bit slow, and the
“Bohemia” and semi-Bohemia of London have a delicate
flavor of their own.
County society, that ideal life so attractive to American
readers of British novels, is, taken on the whole, the most
insipid existence conceivable. The women lack the sparkle
and charm of ours; the men, who are out all day shooting or
hunting according to the season, get back so fagged that if they
do not actually drop asleep at the dinner-table, they will nap
immediately after, brightening only when the ladies have retired,
when, with evening dress changed for comfortable smoking suits,
the hunters congregate in the billiard-room for cigars and brandy
and seltzer.
A particularly agreeable American woman, whose husband insists
on going every winter to Melton-Mowbray for the hunting, was
describing the other day the life there among the women, and
expressing her wonder that those who did not hunt could refrain
from blowing out their brains, so awful was the dulness and
monotony! She had ended by not dining out at all, having
discovered that the conversation never by any chance deviated far
from the knees of the horses and the height of the hedges!
Which reminds one of Thackeray relating how he had longed to
know what women talked about when they were alone after dinner,
imagining it to be on mysterious and thrilling subjects, until
one evening he overheard such a conversation and found it turned
entirely on children and ailments! As regards wit, the
English are like the Oriental potentate who at a ball in Europe
expressed his astonishment that the guests took the trouble to
dance and get themselves hot and dishevelled, explaining that in
the East he paid people to do that for him. In England
“amusers” are invited expressly to be funny; anything
uttered by one of these delightful individuals is sure to be
received with much laughter. It is so simple that
way! One is prepared and knows when to laugh. Whereas
amateur wit is confusing. When an American I knew, turning
over the books on a drawing-room table and finding Hare’s
Walks in London, in two volumes, said, “So you part
your hair in the middle over here,” the remark was received
in silence, and with looks of polite surprise.
It is not necessary, however, to accumulate proofs that this
much described society is less intelligent than our own.
Their authors have acknowledged it, and well they may. For
from Scott and Dickens down to Hall Caine, American appreciation
has gone far toward establishing the reputation of English
writers at home.
In spite of lack of humor and a thousand other defects which
ought to make English swelldom antagonistic to our countrymen,
the fact remains that “smart” London tempts a certain
number of Americans and has become a promised land, toward which
they turn longing eyes. You will always find a few of these
votaries over there in the “season,” struggling
bravely up the social current, making acquaintances, spending
money at charity sales, giving dinners and fêtes, taking
houses at Ascot and filling them with their new friends’
friends. With more or less success as the new-comers have
been able to return satisfactory answers to the three primary
questions.
What Americans are these, who force us to blush for them
infinitely more than for the unlettered tourists trotting
conscientiously around the country, doing the sights and asking
for soda-water and buckwheat cakes at the hotels!
Any one who has been an observer of the genus
“Climber” at home, and wondered at their way and
courage, will recognize these ambitious souls abroad; five
minutes’ conversation is enough. It is never about a
place that they talk, but of the people they know. London
to them is not the city of Dickens. It is a place where one
may meet the Prince of Wales and perhaps obtain an entrance into
his set.
One description will cover most climbers. They are, as a
rule, people who start humbly in some small city, then when
fortune comes, push on to New York and Newport, where they carry
all before them and make their houses centres and themselves
powers. Next comes the discovery that the circle into which
they have forced their way is not nearly as attractive as it
appeared from a distance. Consequently that vague
disappointment is felt which most of us experience on attaining a
long desired goal—the unsatisfactoriness of success!
Much the same sensation as caused poor Du Maurier to answer, when
asked shortly before his death why he looked so glum,
“I’m soured by success!”
So true is this of all human nature that the following recipe
might be given for the attainment of perfect happiness:
“Begin far down in any walk of life. Rise by your
efforts higher each year, and then be careful to die before
discovering that there is nothing at the top. The
excitement of the struggle—‘the rapture of the
chase’—are greater joys than achievement.”
Our ambitious friends naturally ignore this bit of
philosophy. When it is discovered that the
“world” at home has given but an unsatisfactory
return for cash and conniving, it occurs to them that the fault
lies in the circle, and they assume that their particular talents
require a larger field. Having conquered all in sight,
these social Alexanders pine for a new world, which generally
turns out to be the “Old,” so a crossing is made, and
the “Conquest of England” begun with all the
enthusiasm and push employed on starting out from the little
native city twenty years before.
It is in Victoria’s realm that foemen worthy of their
steel await the conquerors. Home society was a too easy
prey, opening its doors and laying down its arms at the first
summons. In England the new-comers find that their little
game has been played before; and, well, what they imagined was a
discovery proves to be a long-studied science with
“donnant! donnant!” as its fundamental
law. Wily opponents with trump cards in their hands and a
profound knowledge of “Hoyle” smilingly offer them
seats. Having acquired in a home game a knowledge of
“bluff,” our friends plunge with delight into the
fray, only to find English society so formed that, climb they
never so wisely, the top can never be reached. Work as hard
as they may, succeed even beyond their fondest hopes, there will
always remain circles above, toward which to yearn—people
who will refuse to know them, houses they will never be invited
to enter. Think of the charm, the attraction such a
civilization must have for the real born climber, and you, my
reader, will understand why certain of our compatriots enjoy
living in England, and why when once the intoxicating draught
(supplied to the ambitious on the other side) has been tasted,
all home concoctions prove insipid.
