The Potiphar Papers | Page 6

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 who criticise 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 equalled by
that of the masked balls at the French Opera, and the balls at the Salle
Valentino, the Jardin Mabille, the Chateau Rouge, 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 watch 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 blackcoats. 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 polking and church-going are proportioned; as is the one so is
the other. My young friend, I am no