The Wit and Humor of America, Volume II | Page 5

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