Part 16 (1/2)

”Nothing like it?” I repeated, looking at him.

”Why no,” he said. ”You never see an open fire in America. All you have is steam pipes running all around the room.”

I looked at him again to see if he was in earnest; and then I tried gently to disabuse his mind of that idea. But it was no use. Indeed, he got rather huffy when I said I had never seen a room with steam pipes running all around it.

The savage insularity of the average Englishman is matter for never-ending amus.e.m.e.nt, once one has grown accustomed to his contempt.

He believes that all American men are money-grubbers, and all American women social climbers, who chew gum and talk loudly, while their daughters are forward minxes who call their fathers ”popper,” and that men, women, and children are alike wholly lacking in culture and good-taste. The peculiar thing about it is that he never for an instant doubts his own good taste in telling one all this frankly to one's face.

This is no fancy sketch. My own opinion is that the average Englishman has no genuine feeling of friends.h.i.+p for America, and his ignorance of things American is abysmal. One day, on the boat coming home, a well-educated Englishman whom I had got to know, asked me the name of a man with whom I had been talking.

”That is Senator So-and-so,” I answered.

”What is a senator?” he inquired.

I remember that one day Betty and I and two other Americans happened to be driving through the Tyrol in a coach with two Englishmen, and they began to discuss American railway accidents--a favourite topic with Englishmen when Americans are present; and one of them remarked that it was no wonder there were so many accidents in America, since when Americans built a railroad all they did was to lay the ties along on top of the ground and spike the rails to them. I asked him if he had ever been to America, and he said no, and I advised him to run over and pay us a visit some time. This huffed him.

”Ah!” he said. ”But what you Americans would give for a king!”

”Give for a king?”

”Yes; you would give anything for a king. Then you could have a court and an aristocracy, and some real society. You're sick of your limping, halting, make-believe government, and you know it!”

We all four stared at him in astonishment, wondering if he had gone suddenly mad. Then Betty got her breath.

”No,” she said; ”you're really wrong about that. You see we settled the king question back in 1776.”

The rest was silence.

But really Englishmen aren't to blame for their distorted ideas of America, for they get those ideas from the English newspapers, and the only kind of American news most English newspapers publish is freak news. During that week, for instance, almost the only American news in any of the papers was about the terrific heat-wave, about Harry Thaw's escape from Matteawan, and about some millionaire who had taken b.i.+.c.hloride of mercury by mistake, and lived for ten days or so afterwards, occupying the time very cheerfully in closing up his affairs. After his death, one of the great London dailies published a column editorial about the affair, reasoning in the most solemn manner that his survival for so long a time could have been due only to the remarkable tonic properties of the American climate.

With the Irish it is entirely different. In the first place, America is to them the haven to which a million Irishmen have fled from English persecution; and in the next place, their knowledge of the country comes not from newspapers but from letters written by relatives and friends.

The letters are somewhat rosier, I fear, than the facts warrant, but they establish a kindly feeling which makes every Irishman ready to welcome the pa.s.sing American as a friend and brother. The only trouble is that he is also apt to regard him as necessarily a millionaire.

It is undoubtedly true that a large portion of the lower-cla.s.s Irish consider it no disgrace to beg from an American. Not that they are habitual beggars, but when an American comes their way, they seem to consider it a waste of opportunity if they do not apply for a small donation. In tourist centres, such as Dublin and Killarney, they are very persistent, especially the children, and will follow along for minutes on end telling the tale of their poverty and distress in queer bated voices, as though they lacked the strength to speak aloud. But Betty accidentally discovered a cure for this nuisance, quite as effective as John Minogue's, and I take pleasure in pa.s.sing it on.

Like most other people who have lived together for a long time, we have developed a lot of symbols and pa.s.s-words, without meaning to any one but ourselves; and it has become a rather foolish habit of mine when we are together and I see something I especially admire, to express my admiration by uttering the single word ”Hickenlooper.” And Betty, if she agrees, says ”Oppenheimer,” and we understand each other and pa.s.s on.

One day in Cork, a group of children were unusually annoying, and followed along and followed along, until Betty, losing patience, turned upon them sharply, pointed her finger at them, and said ”Oppenheimer!” I shall never forget the startled look in their eyes, as they stopped dead in their tracks, stared at her for an instant, and then fled helter-skelter. We decided afterwards that they thought she was putting a curse on them. She tried it more than once thereafter, and it never failed to work; so, if you are annoyed beyond endurance by juvenile beggars in Ireland, turn upon them sharply, point your finger at them, and say ”Oppenheimer!”

And since I am giving advice, I will give one bit more before I close this chapter.

Among the purchases which Betty had made in New York, just before we sailed, was a small electric torch. I had derided it as unnecessary, but she had insisted on bringing it along, and had put it in our travelling-bag when we were sorting over our luggage in Dublin. The first night at Thurles, in a dreary little room, with only the flickering candle for a light, I acknowledged her wisdom, for the bright glow of the torch was very welcome. Again at Glengarriff candles were the only illumination, and that night at Killarney, when I got to our room, I found her in animated conversation with the chambermaid by the light of a single tallow dip. They were talking about America, I think, and the maid's eyes were s.h.i.+ning with excitement and her cheeks were flushed and the beautiful soft brogue was rolling off her tongue, when a sudden gust from the open window blew the candle out. Betty picked up the torch from the dresser and pressed the b.u.t.ton.

”Glory be to G.o.d! What's that?” cried the girl, as the glare flashed into her astonished eyes.

”It's only a torch,” said Betty. ”It won't hurt you.” And then, when I had lighted the candle again, she showed the girl how it worked.

”Glory be to G.o.d!” she cried again. ”The wonder of it! You would niver be gettin' that in Ireland!”