The Wit and Humor of America, Volume II | Page 7

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,