THE ARISTOCRATIC “CHAPPIE” _vs._ ABRAHAM LINCOLN.
As that satellite of McAllister, that scion of the line of
“Patriarchs,” parades Fifth Avenue, creating by his presence an
aristocratic atmosphere for the poor, Common People to enjoy, what a
picture he presents! How admirable and worthy of emulation!
How the mind naturally recalls specimens of the _genus_ Chappie when
the subject of the young male aristocrat recurs to us! This descendant
of a half-dozen fur traders, ferrymen, or land speculators, has become
elongated and attenuated by the non-exercise of the muscles of his
feet and legs in the long tramps that his forefathers used to take to
barter for the peltries of the untutored Indian, exchanging rum and bad
muskets therefor.
We will begin with Chappie’s lower extremities, because of the greater
importance of that part of his anatomy. The pimple which surmounts
his structure is hardly worthy to be called a head, and is the least
important part of his makeup. Around the thin shanks of his lower limbs
are imported striped trousers, in imitation of his English model; these
are turned up when it rains in London. His narrow, chicken-like bosom
is covered by a hand’s breadth of imported material. (There’s no heart
in his bosom, nor other organs worthy of naming within his whole body;
hence, a little cloth will cover his trunk.) From sloping shoulders
that would have done credit to a belle of the First Empire of France,
hangs, in badly wrinkled folds, the latest thing “from Poole’s, of
London, y’ know!” Rising from the apex formed by the slopes of his
shoulders is a thing through which he breathes, and which he calls a
neck; around which, to fence it from the cold blasts of heaven, he has
had built a structure which he calls a collar, modelled absolutely
after that of “our late lamented Prince Clarence.” Above that thing
he calls a neck is nothing; for that which in a human being would
represent a face, in this creature is but a simpering mask of idiocy,
arrogance, sensuality, intemperance, and licentiousness.
That thing he calls a face, with assured presumption and insulting
attitude, he thrusts before the gaze and upon the attention of the
daughters of the poor but honest workmen, whose children, not having
a fur trader for a grandfather, have to labor. This _thing_--this
“Chappie”--would assume the same privileges as one of the new nobility,
the creation of men like McAllister and the “Patriarchs,” as those
assumed by the curled and perfumed darlings of the court which
surrounded the licentious Louis XV. That which from fear he would not
dare to do or say among the “smart set,” he feels at liberty to do or
say when thrown among the children of the poor and defenceless on a
public street. It is nothing to him to insult the poor shop girl; he
would say, “That is one of the evidences that I am of the upper class.
It should be an honor to be spoken to by me.”
It was ever one of the idiosyncrasies of the upper classes, wherever
people have allowed them to exist, to insult innocence and outrage
honor. History teems with it, and “Chappie,” by tradition, thinks
that necessarily he must act it, to be of the “Prince’s set.”
“Chappie” thinks that the scandal of Cavendish Square was but a little
episode--nothing, in fact, because the children of the poor were the
only ones contaminated; for the brutes who led to these orgies in
Cavendish Square had already become decayed and rotten morally.
“Chappie” in his exalted position sees in every unprotected woman (and
he’ll make sure she’s unprotected) a victim upon whom to exercise
his wiles, and if, God help her! through weakness, love of dress,
finery, or pleasure, she allows herself to be led to lean upon his
honor, she’ll fall! For “Chappie’s” honor exists only as aristocracy in
America, that being a sham and a fraud, as is Chappie’s honor.
This outgrowth of accumulated wealth, this polluting toad in the pure
water of public life, never has and never will, nor can he, give one
atom of return to the Republic for the honor of living in it. He whose
life is spent in idleness, debauchery, and sensuality regards his
valet, coachman, cook, clerk, tailor, hatter, merchant, banker, as his
social inferior. And he is always attached, like a barnacle, to the
good Republican Ship built by Abraham Lincoln.
Is it a wonder that the people said, in November last: “We’ll burn the
ship rather than endure such barnacles?”
This thing, so amusingly written of by that most excellent comic paper,
_Life_, so ridiculed by _Puck_ and _Judge_, held up for derision by the
whole newspaper fraternity, is responsible for the loss of thousands of
votes to the Republican party. Indignant wives, sisters, and daughters
have returned with flaming cheeks to humble yet honest homes, and told
the story of the insults offered them on the streets of this and other
good cities in the Union by “Chappie” and those creatures of his kind;
and in their telling of the story have made more votes, more Common
People’s votes, than have been made by all the newspapers ever printed
in the interests of the Democratic party. Each tear that was shed upon
the bosom of the poor man by an honest working daughter became a nail
in the coffin of the Republican party. Justly or unjustly, such is the
case. The Grand Old Party had descended, in the People’s opinion, to
the level of enduring representation of it by such as “Chappie.” “How
have the mighty fallen!”
“Chappie,” with his vacant semblance of a head, with his trousers
carefully rolled up, with his insidious smile, insinuating manner,
his suggestive gestures, and ogling glances, has proven himself a
valuable assistant to Mr. Harrity, Chairman of the Democratic National
Committee. Steadily he has increased the waters of wrath in the
reservoir of the poor man’s heart, until, bursting all barriers, it
swept away “Chappie,” his “smart set,” and all, November 8, 1892.
“Chappie,” after his late and dainty breakfast and stroll down Fifth
Avenue (every city has its Fifth Avenue or something like it), enabling
the daughters of the poor to gaze upon his charming proportions;
delighting their fancy with the possibility in the shape of finery
that might be theirs would he only condescend to beckon to them; with
a few chosen spirits similar to himself--all of the “smart set,”
y’ know!--seeks that most discriminating and select of saloons,
Delmonico’s. (And every city has its Delmonico.) There, after tickling
his palate and tempting his satiated appetite with delicacies so rare
and difficult of procurement that the cost of each one of such dainties
would feed some poor man’s family for a fortnight; forgetting that
early grandfather, the fur trader, who considered pork a feast, leans
back in his chair and lisps in affected imitation of the English,
“Where shall we g-o, deah boys?”
Now let us draw the veil over where “Chappie” spends his evenings.
“Chappie’s” pleasures and “Chappie’s” unnatural amusements would cause
a blush of shame to redden the face of the humblest horny-handed son
of toil. “Chappie’s” exhausted nature has ceased to realize sensations
natural to _men_ and sons of God. “Chappie” is much poorer than his
progenitor, the old fur trader; for the old fur trader was rich in
all the natural inclinations and appetites created by a natural
and vigorous manhood. The old fur trader had no coat-of-arms; but,
“Chappie,” that old fur trader would blush at the decadence of his own
descendant! When the historian, “Chappie,” shall make up the records
of this great nation, that old fur trader, though he swindled the
Indians and debauched them with rum, had that which you, “Chappie,”
lack--manliness, courage, and character, even though the character was
of a peculiar kind.
You have no character, “Chappie.” The Common People have found you a
tumor, an excrescence upon the body politic. They have taken their
knife to amputate, from wholesome Americanism, a foreign infliction. Be
careful, “Chappie,” that the amputation does not include the severance
of that semblance of a head that you carry on your sloping shoulders.
Be warned in time; you and yours have wealth, luxury, influence, and
obedience upon the part of those you dominate. You have all that wealth
will buy--villas at Newport, yachts, palaces. You revel in banquets,
balls, and glittering assemblages. The poor man’s home is illuminated
alone by the light shed by honor. He who would steal or deprive him
of that one light, takes all from him that makes his life worth the
living. The poor man’s honor is the honor of his wife and children.
Your immoralities have increased, like appetite, by what they fed upon.
It is not after you, the deluge, but it is around you, the deluge. It
is in the air, because it is in the hearts of the Common People.
It is no exaggeration to say that the assumed license which young men
of the “Chappie” class exhibit in their lives, morals, and manners, has
done much to disgust the large mass of the people. The oft-repeated
expression, that “virtue and honesty in England is confined to the
great middle classes,” is reiterated by those of the “Chappie” class in
America as an excuse for their own misdemeanors. The flagrantly sinful
lives, filled with debauchery, which they lead, is an evidence, to
their poor intellects, of their being members of the sham aristocracy
with which America is cursed. The society of the kind composed of
“Chappies” is so objectionable to the decency and intelligence of the
Common People that its exclusiveness would be almost a virtue.
The Common People of respectability would never seek “Chappie’s”
society, and their hearts are filled with resentment at his
supercilious manner and ignoble intentions when seeking the society of
the Common People.
[Illustration: ABE, THE RAIL-SPLITTER.--The “Common People” Made Him
President.]
[Illustration: “Chappie” on Fifth Avenue.--The Worthless Product of
“Caste” and Sham Aristocracy.]
To some it will appear ridiculous to have devoted so much space in this
volume to such a nonentity. If we could confine the “nonentity,” like
an ape, in the Zoological Garden in Central Park, it is true so much
space would be wasted as he occupies in this volume. But, the fact is,
he is allowed to run at large, and in his peregrinations around
the country he creates a feeling of disgust among the Common People for
that political party to which he proudly asserts he belongs; claiming
it to be the “only respectable party.” Were he not, as a “sandwich
man,” a walking advertisement of the worst element that has become
attached, like an octopus, to the Republican party, “Chappie” would be
unworthy of the attentions he has here received.
But, in seeking for the true cause of the decisive and overwhelming
overthrow of Lincoln’s “Grand Old Party,” it is necessary to mix even
this worthless ingredient into the porridge of defeat with which the
leaders of the Republican party have been fed.
It is a relief to turn from the despicable object of “Chappie,” and
regard and compare in our minds with him the men who have “left
footprints on the sands of time” in the history of our nation.
What a contrast is presented when we shift “Chappie” from the scene of
our mental vision and bring forth the loved “Harry” Clay, the miller’s
boy. That barefoot boy, on a bony, ill-bred horse, with shaggy mane
and tail; holding a bag of corn in front of him, on his journey to the
mill for his widowed mother, is a more inspiring picture, decidedly,
than “Chappie” on his well-bred English cob whose coat is soft as fur
from constant currying, whose tail is cropped off _a la_ the fashion
for riding-horses in London. As “Chappie” sits on his little imported
English saddle, and daintily holds an imported English riding whip,
prepared for a ride, to give the “Common People” an exhibition of the
beauty, gallantry and horsemanship of the scion of sham aristocracy;
with all his glory, backed with all of his millions, “Chappie” does
not warm the hearts of the “Common People” like the picture of that
miller’s boy, Henry Clay, the great Commoner of Kentucky.
Daniel Webster, struggling as district school teacher in New England,
clothed in ill-fitting garments, would somehow furnish a better model
for the sculptor or painter who would make a statue or picture or a
head of him who was, indeed, a mighty man.
The music of the voice of grand old Daniel Webster, even though he did
not drawl in delightful imitation of the English, would give greater
delight to the “Common People,” plebeian as they are and unrefined,
than “Chappie’s” lispings.
There remains another figure, called to mind by the Common People
when they view “Chappie,” by reason of the vast difference between
the figure of “Chappie” and the “rail-splitter” of Illinois. The
long, uncouth, gangling, ungainly figure of a boy sprawled on his
back, lying on the floor of a humble log-cabin, seeking knowledge
in a well-thumbed book, by the light of a flickering fire, presents
something that speaks more eloquently to the hearts of the Common
People than “Chappie’s” gorgeous appearance and apparel; for they know
that the name of the lad before that fire was ABRAHAM LINCOLN, and that
from that uncouth figure, and by the aid of that difficultly-acquired
knowledge, resulted the production of that man who, as representative
of the Common People as their President, stood as the Rock of
Gibraltar when the fierce waves of fratricidal war swept over our
land; immovable, firm and unchangeable as that rock itself in the
determination that the Union should be preserved, and that the Stars
and Stripes should float over every inch of ground of the United States
of America. While others lost hope and many were downcast, groping for
support in the hour of gloom and peril to the national existence of our
country, that man, who was the outcome of the ungainly figure by the
fire, led the people of the nation as the pillar of fire of old led the
hosts of Israel.
While men like Jefferson, Jackson, Clay, Webster and Lincoln present
types which, to the minds of the Common People of America, are best
and greatest, the picture of “Chappie,” in all of his splendid
apparel, peculiar pronunciation, abnormal immoralities, will sink
into insignificance beneath the flood of the people’s contempt and
disapproval; just as the party to which “Chappie” had allied himself
were swept away and submerged, November 8, 1892.
[Illustration: ANDREW CARNEGIE.
A “Self-Made” Man. A Multi-Millionaire. Made $20,000,000 in America;
Lives in Scotland.]