The Wit and Humor of America, Volume II | Page 8

and thrust their thumbs and
forefingers in their waistcoat-pockets, and are called "talking men."
Some of them are literary, and affect the philosopher; have, perhaps,
written a book or two, and are a small species of lion to very young
ladies. Some are of the blasé kind; men who affect the extremest
elegance, and are reputed "so aristocratic," and who care for nothing in
particular, but wish they had not been born gentlemen, in which case
they might have escaped ennui. These gentlemen stand with hat in hand,

and their coats and trousers are unexceptionable. They are the "so
gentlemanly" persons of whom one hears a great deal, but which seems
to mean nothing but cleanliness. Vivian Grey and Pelham are the
models of their ambition, and they succeed in being Pendennis. They
enjoy the reputation of being "very clever," and "very talented fellows,"
and "smart chaps"; but they refrain from proving what is so generously
conceded. They are often men of a certain cultivation. They have
traveled, many of them--spending a year or two in Paris, and a month
or two in the rest of Europe. Consequently they endure society at home,
with a smile, and a shrug, and a graceful superciliousness, which is
very engaging. They 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 they criticize 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 equaled by
that of the masked balls at the French opera, and the balls at the Salle
Valentino, the Jardin Mabille, the Château Rôuge, 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 watched the
various toilettes of these bounding belles. They were