"Why," responded our friend with more of sadness than of satire in histone, "why are you so exasperated? Look at this scene! Consider thatthis 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 andgather, if you can, from their remarks (when they make any), that theyhave any thought beyond this, and going to church very rigidly onSunday. The vigor of polkaing and church-going are proportioned; as isthe one so is the other. My young friend, I am no ascetic, and do notsuppose 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 dutyand delight dancing. When I consider this spectacle--when I rememberwhat a noble and beautiful woman is, what a manly man,--when I reel,dazzled by this glare, drunken by these perfumes, confused by thisalluring music, and reflect upon the enormous sums wasted in a pompousprofusion that delights no one--when I look around upon all this rampantvulgarity in tinsel and Brussels lace, and think how fortunes go, howmen struggle and lose the bloom of their honesty, how women hide in asmiling pretense, and eye with caustic glances their neighbor's newerhouse, diamonds or porcelain, and observe their daughters, such asthese--why, I tremble, and tremble, and this scene to-night, every'crack' ball this winter, will be, not the pleasant society of men andwomen, but--even in this young country--an orgie such as rotting Corinthsaw, a frenzied festival of Rome in its decadence."
There was a sober truth in this bitterness, and we turned away to escapethe sombre thought of the moment. Addressing one of the panting houriswho stood melting in a window, we spoke (and confess how absurdly) ofthe Duesseldorf Gallery. It was merely to avoid saying how warm the roomwas, and how pleasant the party was, facts upon which we had alreadyenlarged. "Yes, they are pretty pictures; but la! how long it must havetaken Mr. Duesseldorf to paint them all;" was the reply.
By the Farnesian Hercules! no Roman sylph in her city's decline wouldever have called the sun-god, Mr. Apollo. We hope that houri meltedentirely 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 asprig of one of the "old families." "Well, Joe," said Hal, a littleconfused, "it _is_ a little strange. The fact is I didn't mean to behere, but I concluded to compromise by coming, _and not being introducedto the host_." Hal could come, eat Potiphar's supper, drink his wines,spoil his carpets, laugh at his fashionable struggles, and affect thepuppyism of a foreign lord, because he disgraced the name of a man whohad done some service somewhere, while Potiphar was only an honest manwho made a fortune.
The supper-room was a pleasant place. The table was covered with a chaosof supper. Everything sweet and rare, and hot and cold, solid andliquid, was there. It was the very apotheosis of gilt gingerbread. Therewas a universal rush and struggle. The charge of the guards at Waterloowas nothing to it. Jellies, custard, oyster-soup, ice-cream, wine andwater, gushed in profuse cascades over transparent precipices of_tulle_, muslin, gauze, silk and satin. Clumsy boys tumbled againstcostly dresses and smeared them with preserves; when clean platesfailed, the contents of plates already used were quietly "chucked" underthe table--heel-taps of champagne were poured into the oyster tureens oroverflowed upon plates to clear the glasses--wine of all kinds flowed intorrents, particularly down the throats of very young men, who evincedtheir manhood by becoming noisy, troublesome, and disgusting, and werefinally 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 dancecommencing usually at midnight or a little after, and continuingindefinitely toward daybreak. The young people were attended by theirmatrons, who were there to supervise the morals and manners of theircharges. To secure the performance of this duty, the young people tookgood care to sit where the matrons could not see them, nor did they, byany chance, look toward the quarter in which the matrons sat. In thatquarter, through all the varying mazes of the prolonged dance, to twoo'clock, to three, to four, sat the bediamonded dowagers, the mothers,the matrons--against nature, against common sense. They babbled witheach other, they drowsed, they dozed. Their fans fell listless intotheir laps. In the adjoining room, out of the waking sight, even, of thethen sleeping mamas, the daughters whirled in the close embrace ofpartners who had brought down bottles of champagne from the supper-room,and put them by the side of their chairs for occasional refreshmentduring the dance. The dizzy hours staggered by--"Azalia, you _must_ comenow," 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 lingeringfarewells. A few papas were in the supper-room, sitting among the_debris_ of game. A few young non-dancing husbands sat beneath gasunnaturally bright, reading whatever chance book was at hand, andthinking 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 vaguesuspicion that it was not quite worth while; wondering how it was theyused to have such good times at balls; yawning, and looking at theirwatches; while the regular beat of the music below, with sardonicsadness, continued. At last Jane came up, had had the most glorioustime, and went down with mamma to the carriage, and so drove home. Eventhe last Jane went--the last noisy youth was expelled--and Mr. and Mrs.Potiphar, having duly performed their biennial social duty, dismissedthe music, ordered the servants to count the spoons, and an hour or twoafter daylight went to bed. Enviable Mr. and Mrs. Potiphar!
We are now prepared for the great moral indignation of the friend whosaw 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 asspecimens, 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 uponedged flounces, and nuga pyramids, and the kingdom of Lilliput ingeneral.
Yet, after all, and despite the youths who are led out, and carriedhome, or who stumble through the "German," this is a sober matter. Myfriend told us we should see the "best society." But he is a prodigiouswag. Who make this country? From whom is its character of unparalleledenterprise, heroism, and success derived? Who have given it its place inthe respect and the fear of the world? Who, annually, recruit itsenergies, confirm its progress, and secure its triumph? Who are itscharacteristic children, the pith, the sinew, the bone, of itsprosperity? Who found, and direct, and continue its manifoldinstitutions of mercy and education? Who are, essentially, Americans?Indignant friend, these classes, whoever they may be, are the "bestsociety," because they alone are the representatives of its characterand cultivation. They are the "best society" of New York, of Boston, ofBaltimore, of St. Louis, of New Orleans, whether they live upon sixhundred or sixty thousand dollars a year--whether they inhabit princelyhouses in fashionable streets (which they often do), or not--whethertheir sons have graduated at Celarius's and the _Jardin Mabille_, orhave never been out of their father's shops--whether they have "air" and"style," and are "so gentlemanly" and "so aristocratic," or not. Yourshoemaker, your lawyer, your butcher, your clergyman--if they aresimple and steady, and, whether rich or poor, are unseduced by thesirens of extravagance and ruinous display, help make up the "bestsociety." For that mystic communion is not composed of the rich, but ofthe worthy; and is "best" by its virtues, and not by its vices. WhenJohnson, Burke, Goldsmith, Garrick, Reynolds, and their friends, met atsupper in Goldsmith's rooms, where was the "best society" in England?When George the Fourth outraged humanity in his treatment of QueenCaroline, who was the first scoundrel in Europe?
Pause yet a moment, indignant friend. Whose habits and principles wouldruin this count
ry as rapidly as it has been made? Who are enamored of apuerile imitation of foreign splendors? Who strenuously endeavor tograft the questionable points of Parisian society upon our own? Who passa few years in Europe and return skeptical of republicanism and humanimprovement, longing and sighing for more sharply emphasized socialdistinctions? Who squander, with profuse recklessness, the hard-earnedfortunes of their sires? Who diligently devote their time to nothing,foolishly and wrongly supposing that a young English nobleman hasnothing to do? Who, in fine, evince by their collective conduct, thatthey regard their Americanism as a misfortune, and are so the mostdeadly enemies of their country? None but what our wag facetiouslytermed "the best society."
If the reader doubts, let him consider its practical results in anygreat emporiums of "best society." Marriage is there regarded as aluxury, too expensive for any but the sons of rich men, or fortunateyoung men. We once heard an eminent divine assert, and only half insport, that the rate of living was advancing so incredibly, thatweddings in his experience were perceptibly diminishing. The reasonsmight have been many and various. But we all acknowledge the fact. Onthe 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 almostnothing, and who constantly shocked every fairly intelligent person bythe glaring ignorance betrayed in her remarks, informed a friend at oneof the Saratoga balls, whither he had made haste to meet "the bestsociety," that there were "not more than three good matches in society."_La Dame aux Camelias_, Marie Duplessis, was to our fancy a much morefeminine, and admirable, and moral, and human person, than the adoredClorinda. And yet what she said was the legitimate result of the stateof our fashionable society. It worships wealth, and the pomp whichwealth can purchase, more than virtue, genius or beauty. We may be toldthat it has always been so in every country, and that the fine societyof all lands is as profuse and flashy as our own. We deny it, flatly.Neither English, nor French, nor Italian, nor German society, is sounspeakably barren as that which is technically called "society" here.In London, and Paris, and Vienna, and Rome, all the really eminent menand 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 isworth 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. Butwhy should we desert the pleasant pages of those men, and the recordedgossip of those women, to be squeezed flat against a wall, while youngDoughface pours oyster-gravy down our shirt-front, and CarolinePettitoes wonders at "Mr. Duesseldorf's" industry?
If intelligent people decline to go, you justly remark, it is their ownfault. Yes, but if they stay away, it is very certainly their greatgain. The elderly people are always neglected with us, and nothingsurprises intelligent strangers more than the tyrannical supremacy ofYoung America. But we are not surprised at this neglect. How can we be,if we have our eyes open? When Caroline Pettitoes retreats from thefloor to the sofa, and, instead of a "polker," figures at parties as amatron, do you suppose that "tough old Joes" like ourselves are going todesert the young Caroline upon the floor, for Madame Pettitoes upon thesofa? If the pretty young Caroline, with youth, health, freshness, afine, budding form, and wreathed in a semi-transparent haze of flouncedand flowered gauze, is so vapid that we prefer to accost her with oureyes alone, and not with our tongues, is the same Caroline married intoa Madame Pettitoes, and fanning herself upon a sofa--no longerparticularly fresh, nor young, nor pretty, and no longer budding, butvery fully blown--likely to be fascinating in conversation? We can notwonder that the whole connection of Pettitoes, when advanced to thematron state, is entirely neglected. Proper homage to age we can all payat home, to our parents and grandparents. Proper respect for somepersons is best preserved by avoiding their neighborhood.
And what, think you, is the influence of this extravagant expense andsenseless show upon these same young men and women? We can easilydiscover. It saps their noble ambition, assails their health, lowerstheir estimate of men, and their reverence for women, cherishes an eagerand aimless rivalry, weakens true feeling, wipes away the bloom of truemodesty, and induces an ennui, a satiety, and a kind of dilettantemisanthropy, which is only the more monstrous because it is undoubtedlyreal. You shall hear young men of intelligence and cultivation, to whomthe unprecedented circumstances of this country offer opportunities of agreat and beneficent career, complaining that they were born within thisblighted circle; regretting that they were not bakers andtallow-chandlers, and under no obligation to keep up appearances;deliberately surrendering all the golden possibilities of that futurewhich this country, beyond all others, holds before them; sighing thatthey are not rich enough to marry the girls they love, and bitterlyupbraiding fortune that they are not millionaires; suffering the vigorof their years to exhale in idle wishes and pointless regrets;disgracing their manhood by lying in wait behind their "so gentlemanly"and "aristocratic" manners, until they can pounce upon a "fortune" andensnare an heiress into matrimony: and so, having dragged theirgifts--their horses of the sun--into a service which shames all theirnative pride and power, they sink in the mire; and their peers andemulators exclaim that they have "made a good thing of it."
Are these the processes by which a noble race is made and perpetuated?At Mrs. Potiphar's we heard several Pendennises longing for a similarluxury, and announcing their firm purpose never to have wives nor housesuntil they could have them as splendid as jewelled Mrs. Potiphar, andher palace, thirty feet front. Where were their heads, and their hearts,and their arms? How looks this craven despondency, before the sternvirtues of the ages we call dark? When a man is so voluntarily imbecileas to regret he is not rich, if that is what he wants, before he hasstruck a blow for wealth; or so dastardly as to renounce the prospect oflove, because, sitting sighing, in velvet dressing-gown and slippers, hedoes not see his way clear to ten thousand a year: when young womencoiffed _a merveille_, of unexceptionable "style," who, with or withouta prospective penny, secretly look down upon honest women who strugglefor a livelihood, like noble and Christian beings, and, as such, arerewarded; in whose society a man must forget that he has ever read,thought, or felt; who destroy in the mind the fair ideal of woman, whichthe genius of art, and poetry, and love, their inspirer has created;then, it seems to us, it is high time that the subject should beregarded, not as a matter of breaking butterflies upon the wheel, but asa sad and sober question, in whose solution, all fathers and mothers,and the state itself, are interested. When keen observers, and men ofthe world, from Europe, are amazed and appalled at the giddy whirl andfrenzied rush of our society--a society singular in history for theexaggerated prominence it assigns to wealth, irrespective of the talentsthat amassed it, they and their possessor being usually hustled out ofsight--is it not quite time to ponder a little upon the Court of LouisXIV, and the "merrie days" of King Charles II? Is it not clear that, ifwhat our good wag, with caustic irony, called "best society," werereally such, every thoughtful man would read upon Mrs. Potiphar'ssoftly-tinted walls the terrible "mene, mene" of an imminentdestruction?
Venice in her purple prime of luxury, when the famous law was passedmaking all gondolas black, that the nobles should not squander fortunesupon them, was not more luxurious than New York to-day. Our hotels havea superficial splendor, derived from a profusion of gilt and paint, woodand damask. Yet, in not one of them can the traveler be so quietlycomfortable as in an English inn, and nowhere in New York can thestranger procure a dinner, at once so neat and elegant, and economical,as at scores of cafes in Paris. The fever of display has consumedcomfort. A gondola plated with gold was no easier than a black woodenone. We could well spare a little gilt upon the walls, for morecleanliness upon the public table; nor is it worth while to cover thewalls with mirrors to reflect a want of comfort. One prefers a woodenbench to a greasy velvet cushion, and a sanded floor to a so
iled andthreadbare carpet. An insipid uniformity is the Procrustes-bed, uponwhich "society" is stretched. Every new house is the counterpart ofevery other, with the exception of more gilt, if the owner can affordit. The interior arrangement, instead of being characteristic, insteadof revealing something of the tastes and feelings of the owner, isrigorously conformed to every other interior. The same hollow and tamecomplaisance rules in the intercourse of society. Who dares sayprecisely what he thinks upon a great topic? What youth ventures to saysharp things, of slavery, for instance, at a polite dinner-table? Whatgirl dares wear curls, when Martelle prescribes puffs or bandeaux? Whatspecimen of Young America dares have his trousers loose or wear strapsto them? We want individuality, heroism, and, if necessary, anuncompromising persistence in difference.
This is the present state of parties. They are wildly extravagant, fullof senseless display; they are avoided by the pleasant and intelligent,and swarm with reckless regiments of "Brown's men." The ends of theearth contribute their choicest products to the supper, and there iseverything that wealth can purchase, and all the spacious splendor thatthirty feet front can afford. They are hot, and crowded, and glaring.There is a little weak scandal, venomous, not witty, and a stream ofweary platitude, mortifying to every sensible person. Will any of ourPendennis friends intermit their indignation for a moment, and considerhow many good things they have said or heard during the season? If Mr.Potiphar's eyes should chance to fall here, will he reckon the amount ofsatisfaction and enjoyment he derived from Mrs. Potiphar's ball, andwill that lady candidly confess what she gained from it beside wearinessand disgust? What eloquent sermons we remember to have heard in whichthe sins and the sinners of Babylon, Jericho and Gomorrah were scathedwith holy indignation. The cloth is very hard upon Cain, and completelyrouts the erring kings of Judah. The Spanish Inquisition, too, getsfrightful knocks, and there is much eloquent exhortation to preach thegospel in the interior of Siam. Let it be preached there and God speedthe Word. But also let us have a text or two in Broadway and the Avenue.
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