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THE WIT AND HUMOR OF AMERICA
In Ten Volumes
VOL. II
[Illustration: JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY]
THE WIT AND HUMOR OF AMERICA
EDITED BY MARSHALL P. WILDER
_Volume II_
Funk & Wagnalls Company
New York and London
Copyright MDCCCCVII, BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY
Copyright MDCCCCXI, THE THWING COMPANY
CONTENTS
PAGE
Archæological Congress, An Robert J. Burdette 390
Aunt Dinah's Kitchen Harriet Beecher Stowe 335
Ballad Charles Godfrey Leland 355
Barney McGee Richard Hovey 223
Beecher Beached, The John B. Tabb 232
Boy's View of It, A Frank L. Stanton 393
Budd Wilkins at the Show S.E. Kiser 352
Colonel's Clothes, The Caroline Howard Gilman 396
Comin' Thu Anne Virginia Culbertson 333
Dutchman Who Had the "Small Pox," The Henry P. Leland 295
Evening Musicale, An May Isabel Fisk 325
Familiar Authors at Work Hayden Carruth 289
Fascination John B. Tabb 222
Golfer's Rubaiyat, The H.W. Boynton 319
Go Lightly, Gal (The Cake Walk) Anne Virginia Culbertson 317
Grandma Keeler Gets Grandpa Ready
for Sunday-School Sarah P. McLean Greene 266
Hoosier and the Salt Pile, The Danforth Marble 357
How "Ruby" Played George W. Bagby 311
Letter, A Petroleum V. Nasby 282
Lost Word, The John Paul 293
Love Sonnets of a Hoodlum Wallace Irwin 307
Mr. Dooley on Gold-Seeking Finley Peter Dunne 304
Mr. Dooley on Reform Candidates Finley Peter Dunne 321
Natural Perversities James Whitcomb Riley 350
Nautical Ballad, A Charles E. Carryl 348
Old Deacon's Version of the Story
of the Rich Man and Lazarus, The Frank L. Stanton 227
Our Best Society George William Curtis 233
Plagiarism John B. Tabb 316
Recruit, The Robert W. Chambers 230
"Ringworm Frank" James Whitcomb Riley 395
Rival Entertainment, A Kate Field 362
Samuel Brown Phoebe Cary 259
Seffy and Sally John Luther Long 372
She Talked Sam Walter Foss 264
Strike at Hinman's, The Robert J. Burdette 342
Two Brothers, The Carolyn Wells 281
Two Farmers, The Carolyn Wells 258
Two New Houses, The Carolyn Wells 221
Two Suitors, The Carolyn Wells 229
Vive La Bagatelle Gelett Burgess 280
Walk William Devere 300
Way it Wuz, The James Whitcomb Riley 261
Yawcob Strauss Charles Follen Adams 370
Yes? John Boyle O'Reilly 222
COMPLETE INDEX AT THE END OF VOLUME X.
THE TWO NEW HOUSES
BY CAROLYN WELLS
Once on a Time, there were Two Men, each of whom decided to build for
himself a Fine, New House.
One Man, being of an Arrogant and Conceited Nature, took counsel of
Nobody, but declared that he would build his House to suit himself.
"For," said he, "since it is My House and I am to Live in It, why should
I ask the Advice of my Neighbors as to its Construction?"
While the House was Building, the Neighbors came often and Looked at it,
and went away, Whispering and Wagging their Heads in Derision.
But the Man paid no Heed, and continued to build his House as he Would.
The Result was that, when completed, his House was lacking in Symmetry
and Utility, and in a Hundred ways it was Unsatisfactory, and for each
Defect there was a Neighbor who said, "Had you asked Me, I would have
Warned you against that Error."
The Other Man, who was of a Humble and Docile Mind, went to Each of his
Neighbors in Turn, and asked Advice about the Building of his House.
His Friends willingly and at Great Length gave him the Benefit of their
Experiences and Opinions, and the Grateful Man undertook to Follow Out
all their Directions.
The Result was that his House, when finished, was a Hodge-Podge of
Varying Styles and Contradictory Effects, and Exceedingly Uncomfortable
and Inconvenient to Live In.
MORALS:
This Fable teaches that In a Multitude of Counselors there is Safety,
and that Too Many Cooks Spoil the Broth.
YES?
BY JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY
The words of the lips are double or single,
True or false, as we say or sing:
But the words of the eyes that mix and mingle
Are always saying the same old thing.
FASCINATION
BY JOHN B. TABB
Among your many playmates here,
How is it that you all prefer
Your little friend, my dear?
"Because, mamma, tho' hard we try,
Not one of us can spit so high,
And catch it in his ear."
BARNEY MCGEE
BY RICHARD HOVEY
Barney McGee, there's no end of good luck in you,
Will-o'-the-wisp, with a flicker of Puck in you,
Wild as a bull-pup, and all of his pluck in you--
Let a man tread on your coat and he'll see!
Eyes like the lakes of Killarney for clarity,
Nose that turns up without any vulgarity,
Smile like a cherub, and hair that is carroty--
Whoop, you're a rarity, Barney McGee!
Mellow as Tarragon,
Prouder than Aragon--
Hardly a paragon,
You will agree--
Here's all that's fine to you!
Books and old wine to you!
Girls be divine to you,
Barney McGee!
Lucky the day when I met you unwittingly,
Dining where vagabonds came and went flittingly.
Here's some _Barbera_ to drink it befittingly,
That day at Silvio's, Barney McGee!
Many's the time we have quaffed our Chianti there,
Listened to Silvio quoting us Dante there--
Once more to drink Nebiolo spumante there,
How we'd pitch Pommery into the sea!
There where the gang of us
Met ere Rome rang of us,
They had the hang of us
To a degree.
How they would trust to you!
That was but just to you.
Here's o'er their dust to you,
Barney McGee!
Barney McGee, when you're sober you scintillate,
But when you're in drink you're the pride of the intellect;
Divil a one of us ever came in till late,
Once at the bar where you happened to be--
Every eye there like a spoke in you centering,
You with your eloquence, blarney, and bantering--
All Vagabondia shouts at your entering,
King of the Tenderloin, Barney McGee!
There's no satiety
In your society
With the variety
Of your esprit.
Here's a long purse to you,
And a great thirst to you!
Fate be no worse to you,
Barney McGee!
Och, and the girls whose poor hearts you deracinate,
Whirl and bewilder and flutter and fascinate!
Faith, it's so killing you are, you assassinate--
Murder's the word for you, Barney McGee!
Bold when they're sunny, and smooth when they're showery--
Oh, but the style of you, fluent and flowery!
Chesterfield's way, with a touch of the Bowery!
How would they silence you, Barney machree?
Naught can your gab allay,
Learned as Rabelais
(You in his abbey lay
Once on the spree).
Here's to the smile of you,
(Oh, but the guile of you!)
And a long while of you,
Barney McGee!
Facile with phrases of length and Latinity,
Like honorificabilitudinity,
Where is the maid could resist your vicinity,
Wiled by the impudent grace of your plea?
Then your vivacity and pertinacity
Carry the day with the divil's audacity;
No mere veracity robs your sagacity
Of perspicacity, Barney McGee.
When all is new to them,
What will you do to them?
Will you be true to them?
Who shall decree?
Here's a fair strife to you!
Health and long life to you!
And a great wife to you, Barney McGee!
Barney McGee, you're the pick of gentility;
Nothing can phase you, you've such a facility;
Nobody ever yet found your utility--
There is the charm of you, Barney McGee;
Under conditions that others would stammer in,
Still unperturbed as a cat or a Cameron,
Polished as somebody in the Decameron,
Putting the glamour on price or Pawnee.
In your meanderin',
Love and philanderin',
Calm as a mandarin
Sipping his tea!
Under the art of you,
Parcel and part of you,
Here's to the heart of you,
Barney McGee!
You who were ever alert to befriend a man,
You who were ever the first to defend a man,
You who had always the money to lend a man,
Down on his luck and hard up for a V!
Sure, you'll be playing a harp in beatitude
(And a quare sight you will be in that attitude)--
Some day, where gratitude seems but a platitude,
You'll find your latitude, Barney McGee.
That's no flim-flam at all,
Frivol or sham at all,
Just the plain--Damn it all,
Have one with me!
Here's one and more to you!
Friends by the score to you,
True to the core to you,
Barney McGee!
THE OLD DEACON'S VERSION OF THE STORY OF THE RICH MAN AND LAZARUS
BY FRANK L. STANTON
I s'pose yo' know de story, O my brotherin', er de man
Dat wuz rich ez cream, en livin' on de fatness er de lan'?
How he sot dar eatin' 'possum, en when Laz'rus ax fer some,
He tell 'im: "Git erway, dar! fer you'll never git a crumb!"
De rich man wuz a feastin' f'um his chiny plate en cup,
Kaze he 'fraid his po' relations come en eat his wittles up;
I spec' he had _two_ 'possums on de table long en wide,
En a jimmyjohn er cane juice wuz a-settin' by his side.
En he say: "Dis heah des suits me, en I gwine ter eat my fill;
But I'll sic de dogs on Laz'rus, ef he waitin' roun' heah still."
En de dogs commence dey barkin', raise a racket high en low,
En when Laz'rus see 'em comin' he decide 'twuz time ter go.
So, he limp off on his crutches, en de rich man think it's fun,
But I reckon Laz'rus answer: "I'll git even wid you, son!"
De rich man so enjoy hisse'f he laugh hisse'f ter bed,
En, brotherin', when he wake up he wuz stiff, stone dead!
En den he raise a racket, en he holler out: "What dis?
De place is onfamiliar, en I wonder whar' I is?"
Den Satan, he mek answer: "I'm de man ter tell you dat:
You's in de fire department er de place I livin' at!"
Den de rich man say: "Whar' Laz'rus dat wuz beggin' at my gate?"
En Satan tell him: "Yander, wid a silver spoon en plate;
En he eatin' fit ter kill hisse'f! He spendin' er de day
Wid good ol' Mister Abra'm, but he mighty fur away!"
"Will you please, suh," say de rich man, "ax him bring a drink ter me,
Wid a li'l' ice ter cool it? Kaze I hot ez hot kin be!"
But Satan fall ter laughin', whilst he stir de fire roun':--
"De ice would melt, my brother, 'fo' it ever hit de groun'!"
Den he fill a cup wid brimstone--fill it steamin' ter de top;
But de rich man say he swear off, dat he never tech a drop!
But Satan grab his pitchfork whilst de rich man give a squall,
En in 'bout a half a second he had swallered cup en all!
Now, dat's erbout de story er de rich man at de feas',
What wouldn't pass de 'possum roun' when Laz'rus want a piece.
De 'possum means yo' pocketbook, de moral's plain ez day:
Shake de dollars in de basket 'fo' you go de rich man's way!
THE TWO SUITORS
BY CAROLYN WELLS
Once on a Time there was a Charming Young Maiden who had Two Suitors.
One of These, who was of a Persistent and Persevering Nature, managed to
be Continually in the Young Lady's Company.
He would pay her a visit in the Morning, Drop In to Tea in the
Afternoon, and Call on her Again in the Evening.
He took her Driving, and he Escorted her to the Theater. He would take
her to a Party, and then he would Dance, or Sit on the Stairs, or Flit
into the Conservatory with her.
The Young Lady admired this man but she Wearied of his never-ceasing
Presence, and she Said to Herself, "If he were not Always at my Elbow I
should Better Appreciate his Good Qualities."
The Other Suitor, who considered himself a Man of Deep and Penetrating
Cleverness, said to himself, "I will Go Away for a Time, and then my
Fair One will Realize my Worth and Call Me Back to Her."
With a sad Visage he made his Adieus, and he Exacted her Pledge to Write
to him Occasionally. But after he had Gone she Forgot her Promise, and
Soon she Forgot his Very Existence.
MORALS:
This Fable teaches that Absence Makes the Heart Grow Fonder, and that
Out of Sight is Out of Mind.
THE RECRUIT
BY ROBERT W. CHAMBERS
Sez Corporal Madden to Private McFadden:
"Bedad, yer a bad 'un!
Now turn out yer toes!
Yer belt is unhookit,
Yer cap is on crookit,
Ye may not be dhrunk,
But, be jabers, ye look it!
Wan--two!
Wan--two!
Ye monkey-faced divil, I'll jolly ye through!
Wan--two!
Time! Mark!
Ye march like the aigle in Cintheral Parrk!"
Sez Corporal Madden to Private McFadden:
"A saint it ud sadden
To dhrill such a mug!
Eyes front! ye baboon, ye!
Chin up! ye gossoon, ye!
Ye've jaws like a goat--
Halt! ye leather-lipped loon, ye!
Wan--two!
Wan--two!
Ye whiskered orang-outang, I'll fix you!
Wan--two!
Time! Mark!
Ye've eyes like a bat! can ye see in the dark?"
Sez Corporal Madden to Private McFadden:
"Yer figger wants padd'n--
Sure, man, ye've no shape!
Behind ye yer shoulders
Stick out like two bowlders;
Yer shins is as thin
As a pair of pen-holders!
Wan--two!
Wan--two!
Yer belly belongs on yer back, ye Jew!
Wan--two!
Time! Mark!
I'm dhry as a dog--I can't shpake but I bark!"
Sez Corporal Madden to Private McFadden:
"Me heart it ud gladden
To blacken yer eye.
Ye're gettin' too bold, ye
Compel me to scold ye--
'T is halt! that I say--
Will ye heed what I told ye?
Wan--two
Wan--two!
Be jabers, I'm dhryer than Brian Boru!
Wan--two!
Time! Mark!
What's wur-ruk for chickens is sport for the lark!"
Sez Corporal Madden to Private McFadden:
"I'll not stay a gadd'n
Wid dagoes like you!
I'll travel no farther,
I'm dyin' for--wather;
Come on, if ye like--
Can ye loan me a quarther?
Ya-as, you,
What--two?
And ye'll pay the potheen? Ye're a daisy!
Whurroo!
You'll do!
Whist! Mark!
The Rigiment's flatthered to own ye, me spark!"
THE BEECHER BEACHED
BY JOHN B. TABB
Were Harriet Beecher well aware
Of what was done in Delaware,
Of that unwholesome smell aware,
She'd make all heaven and hell aware,
And ask John Brown to tell her where
Henceforth she best might sell her ware.
OUR BEST SOCIETY
BY GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS
If gilt were only gold, or sugar-candy common sense, what a fine thing
our society would be! If to lavish money upon _objets de vertu_, to wear
the most costly dresses, and always to have them cut in the height of
the fashion; to build houses thirty feet broad, as if they were palaces;
to furnish them with all the luxurious devices of Parisian genius; to
give superb banquets, at which your guests laugh, and which make you
miserable; to drive a fine carriage and ape European liveries, and
crests, and coats-of-arms; to resent the friendly advances of your
baker's wife, and the lady of your butcher (you being yourself a
cobbler's daughter); to talk much of the "old families" and of your
aristocratic foreign friends; to despise labor; to prate of "good
society"; to travesty and parody, in every conceivable way, a society
which we know only in books and by the superficial observation of
foreign travel, which arises out of a social organization entirely
unknown to us, and which is opposed to our fundamental and essential
principles; if all this were fine, what a prodigiously fine society
would ours be!
This occurred to us upon lately receiving a card of invitation to a
brilliant ball. We were quietly ruminating over our evening fire, with
Disraeli's Wellington speech, "all tears," in our hands, with the
account of a great man's burial, and a little man's triumph across the
channel. So many great men gone, we mused, and such great crises
impending! This democratic movement in Europe; Kossuth and Mazzini
waiting for the moment to give the word; the Russian bear watchfully
sucking his paws; the Napoleonic empire redivivus; Cuba, and annexation,
and Slavery; California and Australia, and the consequent considerations
of political economy; dear me! exclaimed we, putting on a fresh hodful
of coal, we must look a little into the state of parties.
As we put down the coal-scuttle, there was a knock at the door. We said,
"come in," and in came a neat Alhambra-watered envelope, containing the
announcement that the queen of fashion was "at home" that evening week.
Later in the evening, came a friend to smoke a cigar. The card was lying
upon the table, and he read it with eagerness. "You'll go, of course,"
said he, "for you will meet all the 'best society.'"
Shall we, truly? Shall we really see the "best society of the city," the
picked flower of its genius, character and beauty? What makes the "best
society" of men and women? The noblest specimens of each, of course. The
men who mould the time, who refresh our faith in heroism and virtue, who
make Plato, and Zeno, and Shakespeare, and all Shakespeare's gentlemen,
possible again. The women, whose beauty, and sweetness, and dignity, and
high accomplishment, and grace, make us understand the Greek mythology,
and weaken our desire to have some glimpse of the most famous women of
history. The "best society" is that in which the virtues are most
shining, which is the most charitable, forgiving, long-suffering,
modest, and innocent. The "best society" is, by its very name, that in
which there is the least hypocrisy and insincerity of all kinds, which
recoils from, and blasts, artificiality, which is anxious to be all that
it is possible to be, and which sternly reprobates all shallow pretense,
all coxcombry and foppery, and insists upon simplicity as the
infallible characteristic of true worth. That is the "best society,"
which comprises the best men and women.
Had we recently arrived from the moon, we might, upon hearing that we
were to meet the "best society," have fancied that we were about to
enjoy an opportunity not to be overvalued. But unfortunately we were not
so freshly arrived. We had received other cards, and had perfected our
toilette many times, to meet this same society, so magnificently
described, and had found it the least "best" of all. Who compose it?
Whom shall we meet if we go to this ball? We shall meet three classes of
persons: first, those who are rich, and who have all that money can buy;
second, those who belong to what are technically called "the good old
families," because some ancestor was a man of mark in the state or
country, or was very rich, and has kept the fortune in the family; and,
thirdly, a swarm of youths who can dance dexterously, and who are
invited for that purpose. Now these are all arbitrary and factitious
distinctions upon which to found so profound a social difference as that
which exists in American, or, at least in New York, society. First, as a
general rule, the rich men of every community, who make their own money,
are not the most generally intelligent and cultivated. They have a
shrewd talent which secures a fortune, and which keeps them closely at
the work of amassing from their youngest years until they are old. They
are sturdy men, of simple tastes often. Sometimes, though rarely, very
generous, but necessarily with an altogether false and exaggerated idea
of the importance of money. They are a rather rough, unsympathetic, and,
perhaps, selfish class, who, themselves, despise purple and fine linen,
and still prefer a cot-bed and a bare room, although they may be worth
millions. But they are married to scheming, or ambitious, or
disappointed women, whose life is a prolonged pageant, and they are
dragged hither and thither in it, are bled of their golden blood, and
forced into a position they do not covet and which they despise. Then
there are the inheritors of wealth. How many of them inherit the valiant
genius and hard frugality which built up their fortunes; how many
acknowledge the stern and heavy responsibility of their opportunities
how many refuse to dream their lives away in a Sybarite luxury; how many
are smitten with the lofty ambition of achieving an enduring name by
works of a permanent value; how many do not dwindle into dainty
dilettanti, and dilute their manhood with factitious sentimentality
instead of a hearty, human sympathy; how many are not satisfied with
having the fastest horses and the "crackest" carriages, and an unlimited
wardrobe, and a weak affectation and puerile imitation of foreign life?
And who are these of our secondly, these "old families?" The spirit of
our time and of our country knows no such thing, but the habitue of
"society" hears constantly of "a good family." It means simply, the
collective mass of children, grand-children, nephews, nieces, and
descendants, of some man who deserved well of his country, and whom his
country honors. But sad is the heritage of a great name! The son of
Burke will inevitably be measured by Burke. The niece of Pope must show
some superiority to other women (so to speak), or her equality is
inferiority. The feeling of men attributes some magical charm to blood,
and we look to see the daughter of Helen as fair as her mother, and the
son of Shakespeare musical as his sire. If they are not so, if they are
merely names, and common persons--if there is no Burke, nor Shakespeare,
nor Washington, nor Bacon, in their words, or actions, or lives, then we
must pity them, and pass gently on, not upbraiding them, but regretting
that it is one of the laws of greatness that it dwindles all things in
its vicinity, which would otherwise show large enough. Nay, in our
regard for the great man, we may even admit to a compassionate honor, as
pensioners upon our charity, those who bear and transmit his name. But
if these heirs should presume upon that fame, and claim any precedence
of living men and women because their dead grandfather was a hero--they
must be shown the door directly. We should dread to be born a Percy, or
a Colonna, or a Bonaparte. We should not like to be the second Duke of
Wellington, nor Charles Dickens, Jr. It is a terrible thing, one would
say, to a mind of honorable feeling, to be pointed out as somebody's
son, or uncle, or granddaughter, as if the excellence were all derived.
It must be a little humiliating to reflect that if your great-uncle had
not been somebody, you would be nobody--that, in fact, you are only a
name, and that, if you should consent to change it for the sake of a
fortune, as is sometimes done, you would cease to be anything but a rich
man. "My father was President, or Governor of the State," some pompous
man may say. But, by Jupiter! king of gods and men, what are _you_? is
the instinctive response. Do you not see, our pompous friend, that you
are only pointing your own unimportance? If your father was Governor of
the State, what right have you to use that fact only to fatten your
self-conceit? Take care, good care; for whether you say it by your lips
or by your life, that withering response awaits you--"then what are
_you_?" If your ancestor was great, you are under bonds to greatness. If
you are small, make haste to learn it betimes, and, thanking heaven that
your name has been made illustrious, retire into a corner and keep it,
at least, untarnished.
Our thirdly, is a class made by sundry French tailors, bootmakers,
dancing-masters, and Mr. Brown. They are a corps-de-ballet, for use of
private entertainments. They are fostered by society for the use of
young debutantes, and hardier damsels, who have dared two or three years
of the "tight" polka. They are cultivated for their heels, not their
heads. Their life begins at ten o'clock in the evening, and lasts until
four in the morning. They go home and sleep until nine; then they reel,
sleepy, to counting-houses and offices, and doze on desks until
dinnertime. Or, unable to do that, they are actively at work all day,
and their cheeks grow pale, and their lips thin, and their eyes
bloodshot and hollow, and they drag themselves home at evening to catch
a nap until the ball begins, or to dine and smoke at their club, and the
very manly with punches and coarse stories; and then to rush into hot
and glittering rooms, and seize very _décolleté_ girls closely around
the waist, and dash with them around an area of stretched linen, saying
in the panting pauses, "How very hot it is!" "How very pretty Miss Podge
looks!" "What a good redowa!" "Are you going to Mrs. Potiphar's?"
Is this the assembled flower of manhood and womanhood, called "best
society," and to see which is so envied a privilege? If such are the
elements, can we be long in arriving at the present state, and necessary
future condition of parties?
_Vanity Fair_ is peculiarly a picture of modern society. It aims at
English follies, but its mark is universal, as the madness is. It is
called a satire, but, after much diligent reading, we can not discover
the satire. A state of society not at all superior to that of _Vanity
Fair_ is not unknown to our experience; and, unless truth-telling be
satire; unless the most tragically real portraiture be satire; unless
scalding tears of sorrow, and the bitter regret of a manly mind over the
miserable spectacle of artificiality, wasted powers, misdirected
energies, and lost opportunities, be satirical; we do not find satire in
that sad story. The reader closes it with a grief beyond tears. It
leaves a vague apprehension in the mind, as if we should suspect the air
to be poisoned. It suggests the terrible thought of the enfeebling of
moral power, and the deterioration of noble character, as a necessary
consequence of contact with "society." Every man looks suddenly and
sharply around him, and accosts himself and his neighbors, to ascertain
if they are all parties to this corruption. Sentimental youths and
maidens, upon velvet sofas, or in calf-bound libraries, resolve that it
is an insult to human nature--are sure that their velvet and calf-bound
friends are not like the _dramatis personæ_ of _Vanity Fair_, and that
the drama is therefore hideous and unreal. They should remember, what
they uniformly and universally forget, that we are not invited, upon the
rising of the curtain, to behold a cosmorama, or picture of the world,
but a representation of that part of it called Vanity Fair. What its
just limits are--how far its poisonous purlieus reach--how much of the
world's air is tainted by it, is a question which every thoughtful man
will ask himself, with a shudder, and look sadly around, to answer. If
the sentimental objectors rally again to the charge, and declare that,
if we wish to improve the world, its virtuous ambition must be piqued
and stimulated by making the shining heights of "the ideal" more
radiant; we reply, that none shall surpass us in honoring the men whose
creations of beauty inspire and instruct mankind. But if they benefit
the world, it is no less true that a vivid apprehension of the depths
into which we are sunken or may sink, nerves the soul's courage quite as
much as the alluring mirage of the happy heights we may attain. "To
hold the mirror up to Nature," is still the most potent method of
shaming sin and strengthening virtue.
If _Vanity Fair_ be a satire, what novel of society is not? Are _Vivian
Grey_, and _Pelham_, and the long catalogue of books illustrating
English, or the host of Balzacs, Sands, Sues, and Dumas, that paint
French society, less satires? Nay, if you should catch any dandy in
Broadway, or in Pall-Mall, or upon the Boulevards, this very morning,
and write a coldly true history of his life and actions, his doings and
undoings, would it not be the most scathing and tremendous satire?--if
by satire you mean the consuming melancholy of the conviction that the
life of that pendant to a mustache is an insult to the possible life of
a man.
We have read of a hypocrisy so thorough, that it was surprised you
should think it hypocritical: and we have bitterly thought of the
saying, when hearing one mother say of another mother's child, that she
had "made a good match," because the girl was betrothed to a stupid boy
whose father was rich. The remark was the key of our social feeling.
Let us look at it a little, and, first of all, let the reader consider
the criticism, and not the critic. We may like very well, in our
individual capacity, to partake of the delicacies prepared by our
hostess's _chef_, we may not be averse to _paté_ and myriad _objets de
goût_, and if you caught us in a corner at the next ball, putting away a
fair share of _dinde aux truffes_, we know you would have at us in a
tone of great moral indignation, and wish to know why we sneaked into
great houses, eating good suppers, and drinking choice wines, and then
went away with an indigestion, to write dyspeptic disgusts at society.
We might reply that it is necessary to know something of a subject
before writing about it, and that if a man wished to describe the habits
of South Sea Islanders, it is useless to go to Greenland; we might also
confess a partiality for _paté_, and a tenderness for _truffes_, and
acknowledge that, considering our single absence would not put down
extravagant, pompous parties, we were not strong enough to let the
morsels drop into unappreciating mouths; or we might say, that if a man
invited us to see his new house, it would not be ungracious nor
insulting to his hospitality, to point out whatever weak parts we might
detect in it, nor to declare our candid conviction, that it was built
upon wrong principles and could not stand. He might believe us, if we
had been in the house, but he certainly would not, if we had never seen
it. Nor would it be a very wise reply upon his part, that we might build
a better if we didn't like that. We are not fond of David's pictures,
but we certainly could never paint half so well; nor of Pope's poetry,
but posterity will never hear of our verses. Criticism is not
construction, it is observation. If we could surpass in its own way
everything which displeased us, we should make short work of it, and
instead of showing what fatal blemishes deform our present society, we
should present a specimen of perfection, directly.
We went to the brilliant ball. There was too much of everything. Too
much light, and eating, and drinking, and dancing, and flirting, and
dressing, and feigning, and smirking, and much too many people. Good
taste insists first upon fitness. But why had Mrs. Potiphar given this
ball? We inquired industriously, and learned it was because she did not
give one last year. Is it then essential to do this thing biennially?
inquired we with some trepidation. "Certainly," was the bland reply, "or
society will forget you." Everybody was unhappy at Mrs. Potiphar's,
save a few girls and boys, who danced violently all the evening. Those
who did not dance walked up and down the rooms as well as they could,
squeezing by non-dancing ladies, causing them to swear in their hearts
as the brusque broadcloth carried away the light outworks of gauze and
gossamer. The dowagers, ranged in solid phalanx, occupied all the chairs
and sofas against the wall, and fanned themselves until supper-time,
looking at each other's diamonds, and criticizing the toilettes of the
younger ladies, each narrowly watching her peculiar Polly Jane, that she
did not betray too much interest in any man who was not of a certain
fortune.--It is the cold, vulgar truth, madam, nor are we in the
slightest degree exaggerating.--Elderly gentlemen, twisting single
gloves in a very wretched manner, came up and bowed to the dowagers, and
smirked, and said it was a pleasant party, and a handsome house, and
then clutched their hands behind them, and walked miserably away,
looking as affable as possible. And the dowagers made a little fun of
the elderly gentlemen, among themselves, as they walked away.
Then came the younger non-dancing men--a class of the community who wear
black cravats and waistcoats, and thrust their thumbs and forefingers in
their waistcoat-pockets, and are called "talking men." Some of them are
literary, and affect the philosopher; have, perhaps, written a book or
two, and are a small species of lion to very young ladies. Some are of
the _blasé_ kind; men who affect the extremest elegance, and are reputed
"so aristocratic," and who care for nothing in particular, but wish they
had not been born gentlemen, in which case they might have escaped
ennui. These gentlemen stand with hat in hand, and their coats and
trousers are unexceptionable. They are the "so gentlemanly" persons of
whom one hears a great deal, but which seems to mean nothing but
cleanliness. Vivian Grey and Pelham are the models of their ambition,
and they succeed in being Pendennis. They enjoy the reputation of being
"very clever," and "very talented fellows," and "smart chaps"; but they
refrain from proving what is so generously conceded. They are often men
of a certain cultivation. They have traveled, many of them--spending a
year or two in Paris, and a month or two in the rest of Europe.
Consequently they endure society at home, with a smile, and a shrug, and
a graceful superciliousness, which is very engaging. They are perfectly
at home, and they rather despise Young America, which, in the next room,
is diligently earning its invitation. They prefer to hover about the
ladies who did not come out this season, but are a little used to the
world, with whom they are upon most friendly terms, and they criticize
together, very freely, all the great events in the great world of
fashion.
These elegant Pendennises we saw at Mrs. Potiphar's, but not without a
sadness which can hardly be explained. They had been boys once, all of
them, fresh and frank-hearted, and full of a noble ambition. They had
read and pondered the histories of great men; how they resolved, and
struggled, and achieved. In the pure portraiture of genius, they had
loved and honored noble women, and each young heart was sworn to truth
and the service of beauty. Those feelings were chivalric and fair. Those
boyish instincts clung to whatever was lovely, and rejected the specious
snare, however graceful and elegant. They sailed, new knights, upon that
old and endless crusade against hypocrisy and the devil, and they were
lost in the luxury of Corinth, nor longer seek the difficult shores
beyond. A present smile was worth a future laurel. The ease of the
moment was worth immortal tranquillity. They renounced the stern
worship of the unknown God, and acknowledged the deities of Athens. But
the seal of their shame is their own smile at their early dreams, and
the high hopes of their boyhood, their sneering infidelity of
simplicity, their skepticism of motives and of men. Youths, whose
younger years were fervid with the resolution to strike and win, to
deserve, at least, a gentle remembrance, if not a dazzling fame, are
content to eat, and drink, and sleep well; to go to the opera and all
the balls; to be known as "gentlemanly," and "aristocratic," and
"dangerous," and "elegant"; to cherish a luxurious and enervating
indolence, and to "succeed," upon the cheap reputation of having been
"fast" in Paris. The end of such men is evident enough from the
beginning. They are snuffed out by a "great match," and become an
appendage to a rich woman; or they dwindle off into old _roués_, men of
the world in sad earnest, and not with elegant affectation, _blasé_; and
as they began Arthur Pendennises, so they end the Major. But, believe
it, that old fossil heart is wrung sometimes by a mortal pang, as it
remembers those squandered opportunities and that lost life.
From these groups we passed into the dancing-room. We have seen dancing
in other countries, and dressing. We have certainly never seen gentlemen
dance so easily, gracefully, and well, as the American. But the _style_
of dancing, in its whirl, its rush, its fury, is only equaled by that of
the masked balls at the French opera, and the balls at the _Salle
Valentino_, the _Jardin Mabille_, the _Château Rôuge_, and other
favorite resorts of Parisian grisettes and lorettes. We saw a few young
men looking upon the dance very soberly, and, upon inquiry, learned that
they were engaged to certain ladies of the corps-de-ballet. Nor did we
wonder that the spectacle of a young woman whirling in a _décolleté_
state, and in the embrace of a warm youth, around a heated room, induced
a little sobriety upon her lover's face, if not a sadness in his heart.
Amusement, recreation, enjoyment! There are no more beautiful things.
But this proceeding falls under another head. We watched the various
toilettes of these bounding belles. They were rich and tasteful. But a
man at our elbow, of experience and shrewd observation, said, with a
sneer, for which we called him to account, "I observe that American
ladies are so rich in charms that they are not at all chary of them. It
is certainly generous to us miserable black coats. But, do you know, it
strikes me as a generosity of display that must necessarily leave the
donor poorer in maidenly feeling." We thought ourselves cynical, but
this was intolerable; and in a very crisp manner we demanded an apology.
"Why," responded our friend with more of sadness than of satire in his
tone, "why are you so exasperated? Look at this scene! Consider that
this is, really, the life of these girls. This is what they 'come out'
for. This is the end of their ambition. They think of it, dream of it,
long for it. Is it amusement? Yes, to a few, possibly. But listen and
gather, if you can, from their remarks (when they make any), that they
have any thought beyond this, and going to church very rigidly on
Sunday. The vigor of polkaing and church-going are proportioned; as is
the one so is the other. My young friend, I am no ascetic, and do not
suppose a man is damned because he dances. But life is not a ball
(more's the pity, truly, for these butterflies), nor is its sole duty
and delight dancing. When I consider this spectacle--when I remember
what a noble and beautiful woman is, what a manly man,--when I reel,
dazzled by this glare, drunken by these perfumes, confused by this
alluring music, and reflect upon the enormous sums wasted in a pompous
profusion that delights no one--when I look around upon all this rampant
vulgarity in tinsel and Brussels lace, and think how fortunes go, how
men struggle and lose the bloom of their honesty, how women hide in a
smiling pretense, and eye with caustic glances their neighbor's newer
house, diamonds or porcelain, and observe their daughters, such as
these--why, I tremble, and tremble, and this scene to-night, every
'crack' ball this winter, will be, not the pleasant society of men and
women, but--even in this young country--an orgie such as rotting Corinth
saw, a frenzied festival of Rome in its decadence."
There was a sober truth in this bitterness, and we turned away to escape
the sombre thought of the moment. Addressing one of the panting houris
who stood melting in a window, we spoke (and confess how absurdly) of
the Düsseldorf Gallery. It was merely to avoid saying how warm the room
was, and how pleasant the party was, facts upon which we had already
enlarged. "Yes, they are pretty pictures; but la! how long it must have
taken Mr. Düsseldorf to paint them all;" was the reply.
By the Farnesian Hercules! no Roman sylph in her city's decline would
ever have called the sun-god, Mr. Apollo. We hope that houri melted
entirely away in the window; but we certainly did not stay to see.
Passing out toward the supper-room we encountered two young men. "What,
Hal," said one, "_you_ at Mrs. Potiphar's?" It seems that Hal was a
sprig of one of the "old families." "Well, Joe," said Hal, a little
confused, "it _is_ a little strange. The fact is I didn't mean to be
here, but I concluded to compromise by coming, _and not being introduced
to the host_." Hal could come, eat Potiphar's supper, drink his wines,
spoil his carpets, laugh at his fashionable struggles, and affect the
puppyism of a foreign lord, because he disgraced the name of a man who
had done some service somewhere, while Potiphar was only an honest man
who made a fortune.
The supper-room was a pleasant place. The table was covered with a chaos
of supper. Everything sweet and rare, and hot and cold, solid and
liquid, was there. It was the very apotheosis of gilt gingerbread. There
was a universal rush and struggle. The charge of the guards at Waterloo
was nothing to it. Jellies, custard, oyster-soup, ice-cream, wine and
water, gushed in profuse cascades over transparent precipices of
_tulle_, muslin, gauze, silk and satin. Clumsy boys tumbled against
costly dresses and smeared them with preserves; when clean plates
failed, the contents of plates already used were quietly "chucked" under
the table--heel-taps of champagne were poured into the oyster tureens or
overflowed upon plates to clear the glasses--wine of all kinds flowed in
torrents, particularly down the throats of very young men, who evinced
their manhood by becoming noisy, troublesome, and disgusting, and were
finally either led, sick, into the hat room, or carried out of the way,
drunk. The supper over, the young people, attended by their matrons,
descended to the dancing-room for the "German." This is a dance
commencing usually at midnight or a little after, and continuing
indefinitely toward daybreak. The young people were attended by their
matrons, who were there to supervise the morals and manners of their
charges. To secure the performance of this duty, the young people took
good care to sit where the matrons could not see them, nor did they, by
any chance, look toward the quarter in which the matrons sat. In that
quarter, through all the varying mazes of the prolonged dance, to two
o'clock, to three, to four, sat the bediamonded dowagers, the mothers,
the matrons--against nature, against common sense. They babbled with
each other, they drowsed, they dozed. Their fans fell listless into
their laps. In the adjoining room, out of the waking sight, even, of the
then sleeping mamas, the daughters whirled in the close embrace of
partners who had brought down bottles of champagne from the supper-room,
and put them by the side of their chairs for occasional refreshment
during the dance. The dizzy hours staggered by--"Azalia, you _must_ come
now," had been already said a dozen times, but only as by the scribes.
Finally it was declared with authority. Azalia went--Amelia--Arabella.
The rest followed. There was prolonged cloaking, there were lingering
farewells. A few papas were in the supper-room, sitting among the
_débris_ of game. A few young non-dancing husbands sat beneath gas
unnaturally bright, reading whatever chance book was at hand, and
thinking of the young child at home waiting for mama who was dancing the
"German" below. A few exhausted matrons sat in the robing-room, tired,
sad, wishing Jane would come up; assailed at intervals by a vague
suspicion that it was not quite worth while; wondering how it was they
used to have such good times at balls; yawning, and looking at their
watches; while the regular beat of the music below, with sardonic
sadness, continued. At last Jane came up, had had the most glorious
time, and went down with mamma to the carriage, and so drove home. Even
the last Jane went--the last noisy youth was expelled--and Mr. and Mrs.
Potiphar, having duly performed their biennial social duty, dismissed
the music, ordered the servants to count the spoons, and an hour or two
after daylight went to bed. Enviable Mr. and Mrs. Potiphar!
We are now prepared for the great moral indignation of the friend who
saw us eating our _dinde aux truffes_ in that remarkable supper-room.
We are waiting to hear him say in the most moderate and "gentlemanly"
manner, that it is all very well to select flaws and present them as
specimens, and to learn from him, possibly with indignant publicity,
that the present condition of parties is not what we have intimated. Or,
in his quiet and pointed way, he may smile at our fiery assault upon
edged flounces, and nuga pyramids, and the kingdom of Lilliput in
general.
Yet, after all, and despite the youths who are led out, and carried
home, or who stumble through the "German," this is a sober matter. My
friend told us we should see the "best society." But he is a prodigious
wag. Who make this country? From whom is its character of unparalleled
enterprise, heroism, and success derived? Who have given it its place in
the respect and the fear of the world? Who, annually, recruit its
energies, confirm its progress, and secure its triumph? Who are its
characteristic children, the pith, the sinew, the bone, of its
prosperity? Who found, and direct, and continue its manifold
institutions of mercy and education? Who are, essentially, Americans?
Indignant friend, these classes, whoever they may be, are the "best
society," because they alone are the representatives of its character
and cultivation. They are the "best society" of New York, of Boston, of
Baltimore, of St. Louis, of New Orleans, whether they live upon six
hundred or sixty thousand dollars a year--whether they inhabit princely
houses in fashionable streets (which they often do), or not--whether
their sons have graduated at Celarius's and the _Jardin Mabille_, or
have never been out of their father's shops--whether they have "air" and
"style," and are "so gentlemanly" and "so aristocratic," or not. Your
shoemaker, your lawyer, your butcher, your clergyman--if they are
simple and steady, and, whether rich or poor, are unseduced by the
sirens of extravagance and ruinous display, help make up the "best
society." For that mystic communion is not composed of the rich, but of
the worthy; and is "best" by its virtues, and not by its vices. When
Johnson, Burke, Goldsmith, Garrick, Reynolds, and their friends, met at
supper in Goldsmith's rooms, where was the "best society" in England?
When George the Fourth outraged humanity in his treatment of Queen
Caroline, who was the first scoundrel in Europe?
Pause yet a moment, indignant friend. Whose habits and principles would
ruin this country as rapidly as it has been made? Who are enamored of a
puerile imitation of foreign splendors? Who strenuously endeavor to
graft the questionable points of Parisian society upon our own? Who pass
a few years in Europe and return skeptical of republicanism and human
improvement, longing and sighing for more sharply emphasized social
distinctions? Who squander, with profuse recklessness, the hard-earned
fortunes of their sires? Who diligently devote their time to nothing,
foolishly and wrongly supposing that a young English nobleman has
nothing to do? Who, in fine, evince by their collective conduct, that
they regard their Americanism as a misfortune, and are so the most
deadly enemies of their country? None but what our wag facetiously
termed "the best society."
If the reader doubts, let him consider its practical results in any
great emporiums of "best society." Marriage is there regarded as a
luxury, too expensive for any but the sons of rich men, or fortunate
young men. We once heard an eminent divine assert, and only half in
sport, that the rate of living was advancing so incredibly, that
weddings in his experience were perceptibly diminishing. The reasons
might have been many and various. But we all acknowledge the fact. On
the other hand, and about the same time, a lovely damsel (ah! Clorinda!)
whose father was not wealthy, who had no prospective means of support,
who could do nothing but polka to perfection, who literally knew almost
nothing, and who constantly shocked every fairly intelligent person by
the glaring ignorance betrayed in her remarks, informed a friend at one
of the Saratoga balls, whither he had made haste to meet "the best
society," that there were "not more than three good matches in society."
_La Dame aux Camélias_, Marie Duplessis, was to our fancy a much more
feminine, and admirable, and moral, and human person, than the adored
Clorinda. And yet what she said was the legitimate result of the state
of our fashionable society. It worships wealth, and the pomp which
wealth can purchase, more than virtue, genius or beauty. We may be told
that it has always been so in every country, and that the fine society
of all lands is as profuse and flashy as our own. We deny it, flatly.
Neither English, nor French, nor Italian, nor German society, is so
unspeakably barren as that which is technically called "society" here.
In London, and Paris, and Vienna, and Rome, all the really eminent men
and women help make up the mass of society. A party is not a mere ball,
but it is a congress of the wit, beauty, and fame of the capital. It is
worth while to dress, if you shall meet Macaulay, or Hallam, or Guizot,
or Thiers, or Landseer, or Delaroche--Mrs. Norton, the Misses Berry,
Madame Recamier, and all the brilliant women and famous foreigners. But
why should we desert the pleasant pages of those men, and the recorded
gossip of those women, to be squeezed flat against a wall, while young
Doughface pours oyster-gravy down our shirt-front, and Caroline
Pettitoes wonders at "Mr. Düsseldorf's" industry?