The Potiphar Papers | Page 3

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?
[Illustration]
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 habitué of
society hears constantly of "a good family." It means simply, the
collective mass of children, grandchildren, 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 any
thing 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 the
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
dinner-time. 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