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PHILADELPHIA—NEW-YORK—BOSTON.
Satirists have said that all the concerns, great
and small, of this bustling world, its love and war,
laws, literature, and business, have self for their
beginning and self for their end; and that even
charity to others is only a more refined species
of self-love. Whether these suppositions be correct
or not, will, like the destiny of the lost pleiad, and
the powers of the general government, always remain
matters of opinion; and far be it from me to
attempt to settle, and thereby render of no effect,
such interesting topics of conversation and speculation.
In putting pen to paper, it is certainly best to
avoid all new and hazardous assertions, and to
content one's self with advancing, in a fearless
manner, what no one can possibly doubt. I may,
therefore, in the language of some writers, who display
a large quantity of superfluous valor and determination
when there is no occasion for it, boldly
no rarity in this world of ours. It manifests itself
in a variety of ways, some of which are exceedingly
curious and amusing, and as pleasant to
laugh at as a friend's misfortunes. One of its most
ludicrous forms is the way in which men interest
themselves in little localities, the pride they feel in
them, and the additional importance which they
imagine attaches to themselves, in consequence of
the celebrity of the city or district to which they
belong, for some small matter or other. Thus, a
Philadelphian identifies himself with the breed of
horned cattle in the vicinity of that city—he considers
their fame and his own as inseparable, and
looks down upon a citizen of New-York because
the cows of Pennsylvania give richer milk than
those of Long Island; a Bostonian thinks he ranks
considerably higher in the scale of creation on account
of the occult mystery of making pumpkin
pies having attained a state of perfection in Boston
as yet unknown in the regions of the south, north,
and west; while a New-Yorker is apt to be dogmatical
on all things connected with canals, though
perhaps he never saw one in his life, merely because
the longest one in the world was accomplished
in his native state.
They say “there is but one step from the sublime
and love with which a man looks upon his native
country, are very proper and natural; and though,
in the eye of cold-blooded philosophy, a person is
neither any thing the better nor the worse for the
spot of earth which he may chance to have been
born upon, yet men generally never have been, nor
ever will be of that opinion. The laws and institutions
of a country, the fame of its literature and
science, and the long train of glorious deeds that
have been accumulating for ages, descend to a man
as a species of national property, and there is no
one but who values himself so much the more for
his share in it, and looks upon himself as braver
and wiser on account of the brave and wise men
his native land has bred. There is something noble
in this feeling in the aggregate; but when it
comes to be frittered away upon small matters—to
be divided and subdivided into counties, towns, and
villages, it is simply ridiculous. Some persons
carry their local feelings to an extraordinary extent:
not only is their own country the greatest in
the world, but their city, for some reason or other,
is the best in the country; the street in which they
reside the best in the city, the house they occupy
the best in the street, their room the best in the
house, and themselves, by all odds, the best in the
are people who form little local attachments about
their own persons, and fall in love with an eye, a
nose, a cheek, a chin, or a finger-nail. One of the first
vocalists on the British stage, is known absolutely to
doat on the construction of his leg; he thinks, that
since legs were made, nature never constructed such
a pair as he is the possessor of, and he accordingly
takes every opportunity of obtruding them upon
the observation of the audience. The earnestness
with which he details their circumference, in various
parts, to his friends and acquaintance, and the complacency
with which he regards them when only
covered with thin black silk stockings, would be a
fine subject for any clergyman who wished to
preach a sermon on the vanities of this world.
Unfortunately the costume of English opera but
seldom affords an opportunity for the display of the
pedestals on which the musical hero's body is erected,
and those of Mr.—were too often doomed
to be secluded in long wide trowsers, from the admiration
of the public. But the fates were not
always averse, and times would occur when thin
black silk stockings were not at variance with the
stage regulations. Alexander the Great was a
proud and happy man when he crossed the Granicus;
Henry the Fifth when the battle of Agincourt
at dice for him, captives at his feet; Apelles when
his rival mistook his curtain picture for reality, and
Brigadier General—the tailor, when surrounded
by the best dressed staff in the militia, arrayed in
coats of superfine cloth of his own making; but
none of them were so proud and happy as this vocalist
when he at last obtained an opportunity of
submitting his unexceptionable pair of legs to the
public view. He would rush upon the stage and
pour forth his excited feelings in song, and there
were few who could entrance an audience with the
melody of sound like him—they would hang with
breathless attention upon every accent, and he never
failed to make his exit amid the most deafening
applause. This he was far from attributing altogether
to his vocal powers. “Ah!” he would say, as
he reached the side wing, at the same time slapping
the objects of his admiration with affectionate familiarity—“Ah!
it is some time since they have
seen such a leg as that!”
This is a long episode, but as it is a fact, and at
the same time shows the length to which men will
carry their local partialities, it may perhaps be excused.
I was greatly amused last week on board a
steam-boat, by listening attentively to a disputatious
conversation between a Bostonian, a New-Yorker,
excellencies of their several cities. The Bostonian
was the most learned and pedantic, the New-York
man the most loquacious and grandiloquent,
and the Philadelphian the most sensitive and uncompromising.
The first discoursed in a lofty strain
of the classic charms of antiquity, and the advanced
state of literature and the fine arts in the regions
round about Cape Cod. “The unequalled state of
our literary and scientific institutions,” said he, “and
the extreme beauty of many of our public buildings
must be admitted”—
“Public buildings,” interrupted the Philadelphian,
cutting short the thread of the man of Boston's discourse,
“if you want to see a public building, look
at our market, look at our bank, look at our”—
“And if you talk of architectural beauty,” said
the New-Yorker, “look at our City-hall and St.
Paul's church, and the Park theatre; and as for
the fine arts,” continued he with solemnity, “I regard
them as introducing luxury and corruption—
as fitted only for the tainted atmosphere of Europe
—as inconsistent with the genius of our political
institutions, and, I thank heaven, the charge of encouraging
them cannot be laid to New-York. No!”
quoth he, gathering strength as he went along, like
a stone rolling down a hill,—“give me the useful
custom-house yearly pays into the national treasury
—when I behold our docks crowded with shipping
—when I survey our spacious bay, studded with
islands, and our waters covered with”—
“Your waters!” interrupted the Philadelphian,
unable any longer to withstand this torrent of eulogium,
“your waters! why there isn't a drop of
water fit to drink in your whole town. If you
want water, go to Philadelphia; or if you want
milk, or peaches, or shad, or straight streets, or fresh
butter, or fresh air, or”—
“Fresh air!” interrupted York, in a supercilious
tone, and with an ironical though somewhat agitated
expression of countenance, “why, you have
no air worth speaking of in Philadelphia; look at
our fresh air—our fresh sea breezes daily wafted
from the vast Atlantic through our streets.”
“Through your streets!” reiterated the descendant
of William Penn in a fury; “through your
streets! Let me tell you, sir, your sea-breezes may
be good enough, but your streets are so cursedly
crooked that the breezes cannot find their way
through them—let me tell you that, sir.”
The blood of the man of York was up; but he
endeavored to keep down his rising wrath, and
then in a voice of affected calmness, though trembling
straight streets, and boldly affirmed that crooked
ones were infinitely better for a variety of reasons
that he did not think proper to mention, and that
any man of taste would decide that Pearl-street was
a finer street than any in Philadelphia.
This was perfectly unbearable, and the Philadelphian,
after swearing in a very wicked manner,
went on to more than insinuate that his opponent
was a fool, an ass, an idiot, and no gentleman; and
they might have proceeded to settle whether straight
or crooked streets were best by knocking each other's
brains out, if the company had not interfered. Happily
at this crisis the dinner-bell rang, and to those
who have traveled much in steam-boats, I need say
no more to account for the instant cessation of all
symptoms of hostility. Never did the clock striking
twelve in a romantic melo-drama produce so
dramatic an effect, as the ringing of the dinner-bell
on board of a steam-boat. All previous topics of
conversation, argumentation, or disputation, are
instantly swept away, and a universal rush is made
towards the savory cabin. You may know an old
traveler by observing him take his station near the
hatchway as the time approaches. As soon as the
welcome sound strikes his ear, he gives a look of
triumph round the deck for a single instant at the
have been gratifying their passion for the picturesque,
and immediately dives below. Then may
be seen the hurry and trepidation of the novice, the
struggle on the part of the gentlemen between the
attention and politeness due to the ladies, and their
own love of victuals—the painful efforts of the ladies
to preserve an air of unconcern and composure,
and their anxiety touching the delicate first-cuts
from the bosoms of capons and turkeys—then may
be seen the utter looks of consternation of those unfortunate
people who happen to be at the bows of
the boat, and the glare of horrid malignity with
which all the company above regard any corpulent
old gentleman who takes his time in descending
the ladder. The most impudent thing I ever witnessed
in the whole course of my existence, was
during a scene of this kind, on board a steam-boat
last summer. An astonishingly fat old man was, by
reason of his previous advantageous locality, almost
the first who reached the entrance to the cabin when
the dinner-bell rang. He swung his unwieldly
mass of brawn slowly and heavily into the doorway,
completely obstructing the passage, and proceeded
to descend at a snail's pace, amid the smothered
execrations of the company. After a considerable
interval of time, he succeeded in reaching
the fat old man did? He actually came to
a full stop, took his hat from his head, drew from
thence a pocket-handkerchief, proceeded deliberately
to wipe his forehead, then one cheek, then the
other, and concluded by drawing it leisurely across
his chin, after which he deposited it in his hat
again, placed his hat on his head, and continued on
his way as if he had done nothing amiss. It speaks
volumes for the morals of the people and the state
of society, when I affirm, though it may seem incredible,
that he escaped without the slightest violence!
As the lady says in the tragedy, “curses
kill not;” and it was lucky for the fat old gentleman
that this was the case, otherwise he would have
been a lifeless corpse before dinner that day.
I have rather wandered from the subject of localities,
and it is now too late to recur to it again. I
may, however, state, that the Bostonian, Philadelphian,
and New-Yorker spoke no more during the
passage, and doubtless parted with a hearty contempt
for each other; thus adding one more to the
many instances of the utility of warm disputes
about nothing at all.
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